Page 66 of The Christmas Letter

‘How’s she doing? Wedding’s in about six weeks, that right?’

‘Yep.’ And thank God Emma had agreed to come as her plus one. Fine, maybe it was unconventional to have an eighty-year-old woman as your date to a wedding, but it would make her feel better about being single.

‘This is glorious,’ Emma said, leaning back contentedly against her chair. She sounded so sincere, it made Holly feel a bit better. And despite having been worrying about Emma, Holly felt relaxed in herself. Next week, the summer holidays would be over and she’d be back at work with new classes. But right now, she felt all loose and content. And by the looks of things, maybe Emma felt the same after all – which had been the whole point of this. Pam had been right – it had been a good thing, for them to come together.

Holly slipped her phone back into her handbag – a little green one she’d found in the RSPCA charity shop in Windsor. Her fingers brushed over a mask as she did so, and she brought it out, setting it on the table to look at it.

Emma smirked. ‘You didn’t even want to make one, if I remember rightly.’

‘Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I?’

The Venetian masks were traditional here, ranging from the ones for tourists that you could take home for presents – Holly had already bought one for Abi – and the beautiful, delicate ones escalating in price. Emma had arranged a session at the back of a small shop for them to make their own – and Holly was sure it was to make a point, to get her using her artistic skills again, in some small way. But she had loved it. And she was so proud of it. She’d gone for bold blues and silver around the eyes, capping it all off with three long feathers.

‘Think you’ll ever find an excuse to wear it?’ Emma asked, nodding at the mask.

‘Well, a girl can dream of a masked ball, can’t she?’

Emma smiled. ‘It was nice, to see you like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like an artist. I’ve not really seen it before, but I knew you had talent – you can tell just by looking at you.’

Holly rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t tell that just by looking at someone.’

‘You might not be able to, but I can. It’s not an appearance,’ she continued, raising her voice over Holly’s attempt at a protest. ‘Not a physical trait – not what someone wears or how they do their hair or anything. It’s an expression. That hunger – the need to create, to do something. You either have that, or you don’t.’

‘Do you?’ Holly asked, genuinely curious. ‘I mean, I know you find art and you can spot talent in other people, or so you say, but do you have that . . . need?’

Emma was quiet for a moment. ‘I used to want to paint,’ she said, softy. ‘But I could never find the time. A lousy excuse, I know. And then everything happened and, well, it felt wrong of me, to still want to have that for myself.’

Holly nodded. She could say that it hadn’t been wrong, but she knew that feeling all too well. They both went quiet, listening to the chatter of tourists. A police boat went past on the waterway, complete with siren and everything, sending waves lapping over the edges of the canal.

‘I wonder what Lily would have made of it here,’ Holly mused, looking out at the water. Though she realised as she said it that she wouldn’t necessarily know if Lily had been here – she might have come with Steve sometime in the last three years. She hadn’t seen any evidence of it on social media, but then Lily was slightly sporadic with that.

‘You talk to her recently?’ Emma asked and Holly shook her head. ‘You still writing to her?’

Holly gave a non-committal shrug. She sort of wished she hadn’t told Emma about the letters. There was no judgement from Emma, but still, it was something deeply personal, something that had felt silly to admit out loud.

She’d once written a letter to Lily when they were little. She’d taken one of Lily’s dolls, claiming that Lily didn’t play with it anymore, and painted the doll’s face. Lily had gone mental when she’d found out, and had refused to let Holly into her room. So Holly had written Lily a letter to say sorry and slipped it under the door.

Lily had scowled when she’d opened the door, the letter clutched in her hand. ‘Why can’t you just apologise face to face like a normal person?’

Holly’s lips had trembled, but she’d held herself steady. ‘I didn’t mean to ruin her.’ She’d meant to make her better, but she wasn’t sure she should say that to Lily. ‘I thought she’d like having face paint on. And it will wash off.’

Lily wrinkled her nose. ‘I suppose so.’

Holly had given Lily a sly look. ‘Want to paint the others’ faces too?’

Lily scowled again. ‘No.’ Then she huffed, looked down at her feet. ‘I can’t do it as well as you.’

‘Yes, you can!’

‘No, I can’t. I’m older, and I can’t do it as well as you.’

Holly had thought about that for a moment. ‘Well, maybe. But you’re better at most things. Like maths, and French, and . . .’ She searched in her mind, thinking of what Lily loved. ‘And making all the dresses and the food and everything. You’re better at taking care of them.’ It had been a punt, but it had worked. Slowly, Lily nodded.

‘I am better at that.’