Chapter 3
Of course, in his book, it was Elliot (Or Luke, as he called himself…) who said the now-famous “ It’s you” line first, not me / Evie.
And it wasn’t just a stupid slip of the tongue, either, like it was when I said it in real life.
No, in Elliot’s book, it really was love at first sight between the two main characters; and when Luke Saunders looks into Evie Snow’s eyes and says, “It’s you,” he means it’s her — the one he’s spent his entire life searching for.
What a crock of shit, right?
That’s just one of the ways Elliot re-wrote our story, though.
Another is the fact that he set that first meeting in the bookstore, rather than at the Christmas market; one tiny change, which was to completely alter the course of our little shop’s history, and force us to start stocking shelves full of snow globes, just like the store in the book.
But I’m not thinking about Elliot this morning; by which I mean I’m very deliberately not thinking about him, as I leave the little cottage I bought a few years ago, when the bookstore’s success finally meant there was money to spare, and walk to The Brew to pick up a coffee before I start work.
I’m not thinking about Elliot Sinclair at all.
And I’m definitely not buying my coffee from here just because that’s where we went on our first ‘date’.
No, I always get my coffee from The Brew — because the stuff Levi serves at the bookstore tastes like boiled socks, let’s be honest — and I’m not going to let the ghost of Elliot Sinclair stand between me and my routine.
Routine is important. It’s one of the few things that stands between me and utter chaos, and so I cling onto it, like Rose clinging to that door in Titanic.
The Christmas market is already in full swing, even though it’s still early.
There’s no snow this year (It hasn’t snowed properly in Bramblebury for ten years now, to the eternal disappointment of the tourists, who come here expecting it to look like it does in the movie …) but the village is still looking chocolate-box pretty, with fairy lights strung across the square, and a brass band playing Christmas carols off to one side.
It is, as Levi will later observe in the caption of his next TikTok video, “Festive AF”.
It’s just a shame the same can’t be said about me.
“Drink up Holly; you look like you could be doing with some color in those cheeks of yours.”
Maisie Poole, Bramblebury’s chief librarian and gossip monger, appears as if by magic and slides into the seat opposite mine without waiting for an invitation.
This is the very last thing I need right now.
“Ooh, she does look a bit peaky, doesn’t she?” says her sister, Elsie, joining us, as if to prove that, no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse. “I said you’re looking a bit peaky, Holly,” she repeats loudly for my benefit. “I hope you’re not coming down with something?”
“No, it’s just the time of year, isn’t it?
” replies Maisie on my behalf. “Always a hard one for her. And she spends so much time in that bookshop she’s even starting to smell like books.
Maybe you should give her one of those cake pop thingummys you ordered, Elsie?
The young ones love those. They’re all the rage, trust me. ”
The Poole sisters aren’t twins, but they look like they could be; both of them small and bird-like, with ‘harmless little old lady’ vibes about them which totally belie the fact that they have two of the sharpest tongues in town.
They’re well past retirement age, but they’ve both been lying about their ages for as long as I can remember, while insisting they’re very much ‘down with the kids’, so their actual age is anyone’s guess.
“Holly might love the cake pops, but the cake pops certainly don’t love a lady’s figure, do they?
” says Elise, smiling sweetly as she covers the confectionery on her tray with both hands, as if I might pounce on it without warning.
“And she has to be careful, Maisie. She’s not really a ‘young one’ anymore, is she?
Not everyone has a metabolism like ours, remember? ”
“No. And she’s lost one man already this year,” agrees Maisie, speaking about me as if I’m not there. “You’re right, Elsie. Best not.”
I glance down at my figure, currently clad in my favorite dress, which Paris once described as “dark academia, with a twist”. She didn’t say what the ‘twist’ was, but now I’m worried it’s that it makes me look like Jane Eyre; who she’s also compared me to lately.
“I didn’t ‘lose’ Martin,” I point out, deciding to address the blatant body-shaming another time. “We broke up. It was mutual. He just… wasn’t the right man for me. And I like the smell of books. It’s comforting. What could be better than the smell of books?”
“If you say so,” shrugs Maisie, looking slightly put-out. “What are you writing, dear?” she goes on, perking up at the sight of my notebook lying open on the table. “Christmas shopping list, is it? I’ve had mine done since the start of November. You’ve left it a bit late, Holly, I must say.”
She purses her lips disapprovingly, and I bravely resist the impulse to point out that there’s still over a week until Christmas, and I only have Dad and Ed the cat to buy for; one of the upsides of leaving your long-term relationship before the festive season kicks in, I guess.
“It’s just some notes for my latest ghostwriting project, Maisie,” I tell her instead. “Remember I told you I was doing some freelancing?”
“Ghostwriting?” Elsie’s pink cat-eye glasses slide down her nose as she frowns. “Is that books about ghosts, then?”
“Don’t be silly, Elsie,” says Maisie sharply. “Don’t you think Holly has enough ghosts to deal with? I’m talking about the ghosts of the past, dear,” she continues, leaning forward and lowering her voice dramatically. “Like your poor mother. And that Elliot —”
“Ghostwriting is when you write something for someone else,” I interject quickly, wanting to head this line of conversation off at the pass.
“Like when a celebrity claims to have written a book, but it’s really someone else who wrote it for them.
Only I don’t write for celebrities: it’s just regular people who have an idea for a book, but don’t know how to put it into words.
So they hire a ghostwriter to do it for them. ”
“So, you do all the work and they take the credit?” says Elsie, scandalized. “Well, I never. I don’t think that seems fair, do you, Maisie? Why not just write the books yourself, Holly? Cut out the middle-man, so to speak. That’s what I’d do.”
Her eyes narrow thoughtfully, as if she’s thinking of trying her hand at it herself; the Poole sisters never miss a business opportunity if they can help it.
“I don’t have any ideas,” I admit reluctantly. “It’s like… I can write a book just fine, as long as someone else has come up with the plot. But I don’t have any stories of my own. I really wish I did.”
This is a hard thing for me to admit, even after all this time. It’s one of my greatest failings in life; that and my inability to drive on the motorway at night, or maintain a romantic relationship for longer than ten months.
“Anyway, that’s why ghostwriting is perfect for me,” I go on, shaking off the melancholy mood that always descends when I start listing my failings.
“I get some writing experience, but I don’t have to come up with the idea for the book, or figure out how to market it.
And I don’t really care about not getting credit for it.
It’s not like I’m writing great works of literature, you know?
They’re self-help books for people who don’t know how to use Google.
So it’s fine that I don’t get my name on the cover. ”
“Well, it’s nice to have a hobby, I suppose,” says Elsie doubtfully. “You should ask that Elliot Sinclair for advice, though, Holly. He’s a proper author. He writes real books. He’d be able to tell you how to come up with a story.”
“He wrote one book a decade ago,” I point out, churlishly. “Which makes him a one-hit wonder, if anything. He only had one story in him; and it wasn’t even his.”
This is pretty rich — and also kind of mean, really — coming from me, the girl who has so far failed to find any stories in her at all. That’s why I’m a ghostwriter, not a famous author, like Elliot.
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Elsie. “I’m sure someone told me there was a rumor he was writing another one. Now, who was it who told me that? Was it you, Maisie?”
She looks at her sister thoughtfully, then snaps her fingers as the answer comes to her.
“I remember now!” she says, pleased. “It was young Jimmy, who drives the van. He heard it from Nora, in the florists, and she heard it from Matteo, from that new restaurant. You know the one on Bridge Street?”
“No, Matteo’s restaurant is on Castle Walk, Elsie,” replies Maisie. “You’re thinking of young Mason. His people have the tapas bar. You know, the one with the red and white awning on the front? Not the one with the blue door; that belongs to the Smiths. Or is it the Powells?”
The sisters eagerly launch into a quick who’s who of Bramblebury, and I do my best to tune out.
These rumors about Elliot and a new book start doing the rounds at least once a year, and so far, the ‘new book’ he’s allegedly working on has failed to materialize.
I’m at least 74% sure it’s just his publisher’s way of drumming up more publicity for The Snow Globe by allowing people to hope there might one day be a sequel to it, but that doesn’t stop my heart doing a fast-paced anxiety dance every time someone mentions it.
The Snow Globe itself was bad enough; I’m not sure I’d cope with a sequel. Not that there would be any chance of me being in it, obviously, seeing as I haven’t seen Elliot since before it was published.