Page 71 of The Christmas Letter

‘But why did it make you collapse?’ Holly pressed.

‘It’s just making me tired, that’s all.’

‘That’s all? Emma, we need to talk about this. You can’t keep pretending it isn’t happening . . . This is—’

But she didn’t finish. Because the door to Emma’s room was opening again. Emma, facing the door, reacted before Holly did. So Holly saw it: the slight frown that played across her forehead; the way that froze in place for just a moment. Then the whoosh of breath, her turquoise eyes blinking rapidly, as if they were checking what was in front of them. And then she felt Emma draw her hand from hers slowly.

So Holly knew, before she turned. But she still felt her own heartbeat flare as she stood and faced Jack.

They were quiet. Jack and Emma were looking at each other, Emma now struggling to try and sit up, Jack very pale. Holly’s body was tense as her gaze flicked between the two of them. She didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t thought this far ahead. She’d just wanted Jack here, and even then, she hadn’t dared to believe he would come.

It was Jack who broke the silence. ‘Hi, Memma.’ His voice was small, quiet. His hands were shoved into his pockets and his shoulders were hunched, uncertain.

Holly heard Emma let out a sob, felt her own eyes filling in response, the strain of the whole damn day getting to her.

‘Jack?’ Emma was still struggling to get upright, and then she let out a half huff, half sob. ‘For God’s sake, Holly, give me a hand, will you?’ And Holly let out a sound between a laugh and a cry as she bent to rearrange Emma’s pillows and help her into a sitting position.

‘I’ll leave you to . . .’ She gestured between them, keeping her eyes downcast, not wanting to look at Jack in case he was regretting coming, and not wanting to have to answer any of Emma’s questions.

She stumbled over her own feet as she walked too quickly to the door – of course she bloody did. But as she reached it, she felt Jack’s hand grab her wrist. Felt her pulse thrum in response – even now, in a situation like this. He moved his hand to clasp hers, fingers twining together briefly. Then he squeezed gently – whether to offer her reassurance or comfort or because he needed reassurance or comfort, she wasn’t sure.

She looked up. For a moment their gazes met, held. She squeezed his hand back, before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

It was after seven p.m. by the time Jack and Holly left the hospital together, a small rucksack slung over Jack’s shoulder. They’d been allowed to stay outside of normal visiting hours, but only for today, the doctor had told them – tomorrow, they had to come in the morning if they wanted to see Emma, and they were recommending she stayed in the hospital for the next two days. Which meant they’d probably miss their flights, Holly realised – they had been due to fly back to London the day after tomorrow, giving her a few days to get ready for the start of term. Later, she told herself. She’d figure that out later.

Holly blinked as they came out onto the street outside the hospital. It was quieter here than around St Mark’s Square, but there were still plenty of people milling about – on their way to dinner, or making their way to look at some of the architecture after the heat of the day had died down.

‘Are you hungry?’ Jack asked.

Holly looked up at him, and fought a sudden, inappropriate urge to laugh. Jack was here, in Venice. It was all so weird.

‘Yeah.’ She blew out a breath. ‘God, yeah, I really am.’

They wandered for a while, taking random lefts and rights, perhaps the way you only can in Venice, and found themselves on one of the quieter streets, one where you could pretend that the city was home to you and only a handful of other people. There were tables outside a little restaurant, candles on each one, low music coming from inside an arched stone entrance. It was much less busy than the restaurants Holly had been to so far – only five small tables outside, three of which were already taken, all by parties of two. Jack came to a stop and raised his eyebrows to Holly in question, and she nodded.

A waiter came out, smiled at them. ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing towards one of the two free tables.

Holly and Jack sat opposite each other, the candlelight flickering between them in the dimming evening light. The waiter gave them each a menu, which was all in Italian – no pictures or English translation like the restaurants she and Emma had eaten at. Holly stared at the menu blankly, not even turning the pages.

The waiter came back almost right away with water and a basket of bread and breadsticks, which Holly immediately latched on to. God, she was so hungry – she hadn’t eaten since the fruit at breakfast, which now felt like a very long time ago.

‘To drink?’

Jack and Holly glanced at each other. ‘Wine?’ Jack asked, and Holly nodded, glad he’d suggested it. She could really do with a glass, after that day. ‘Red?’ She nodded again.

He looked up at the waiter. ‘Ah . . .’

‘Red wine?’ the waiter repeated, his English laced with a strong Italian accent, but better than Holly’s Italian by far. ‘The house, it’s good.’

‘The house red sounds great,’ Jack said.

‘And to eat?’

Jack gestured at Holly, who shook her head helplessly.

‘You need more time?’ the waiter asked.

‘No,’ Holly said quickly. She didn’t need time, she needed food. She stared down at the menu again, but all of the words seemed to blur together. She looked up at Jack, and he must have seen the slight panic there, because he lurched into action, picking up his menu and pointing, ordering a few things, reading out the Italian. The waiter nodded and took the menus away.