Chapter 5
I arrive at the bookstore just in time to intercept Dad, who’s attempting to force a large box filled with books through the door, his glasses steamed up with the effort.
“Here, let me take that,” I tell him, glad of the distraction as I grab one corner of the box and help him carry it inside. “What are these, anyway? Not more copies of The Snow Globe?”
I pull a face, but Dad’s too busy moping his brow with the handkerchief he keeps in his jacket pocket to notice.
“No,” he says, turning back to the box. “No, it’s the latest Vivienne Faulkner, Holly. Here, take a look.”
He pulls a hardback out of the box and hands it to me.
It’s called A Season for Second Chances, and the picture on the front shows a couple walking hand in hand down a snowy street, both wrapped up in gigantic scarves and beaming at each other, presumably delighted by their ‘second chance’.
On the back cover, Vivienne Faulkner herself flashes an unnaturally white smile as she sits on a chair that looks like a throne, wearing a sharp, Barbie-pink trouser suit, and looking like she’s about to try to sell us something from the Avon catalog.
“Looks like the same old tripe she always churns out,” says Dad, cheerfully. “Should sell well, though; she always does. Let’s try to clear some space near the front of the shop for these, shall we?”
I nod, although I’m secretly planning to read the new book as soon as I get a chance; because Vivienne Faulkner may be the queen of trashy romance, but every single one of her books comes with a guaranteed happy ever after — and normally a dashing billionaire, who falls for a really quite ordinary girl, into the bargain — and she writes so many of them that you have to admire her, really; even though admitting that would be a bit like saying you’d rather have a Big Mac than a nice, juicy steak.
Sometimes you just want a Big Mac, though.
Don’t you?
I’ve just finished unpacking the books, determinedly keeping my back to the window as I do it, so there’s no opportunity to imagine any ex-boyfriends looking through it, when my phone pings with a message alert.
I swipe to open it, expecting it to be either confirmation of my last book order for the store, or possibly some foreign prince who desperately needs to temporarily transfer several million dollars to my account as a favor — because those are the only two types of email I seem to get these days, and even I know the second one is just spam.
For once, though, it’s neither.
It’s a message from the ghostwriting agency I do all of my work through, and the contents of it do absolutely nothing to reassure me that I’m not either going mad or imagining things.
“Everything okay?” says Dad, seeing me sit down suddenly on one of the squishy sofas in front of the fire. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No,” I reply, feeling the blood rush to my head as I look up from the screen in amazement. “Well, I mean, yes, I think I have. But it’s me, Dad. I’m the ghost. Or I will be, anyway. I’ve just been offered a fiction-writing job.”
The commotion that breaks out following my latest job offer lasts all day, and is still raging as we prepare to close the store for the night.
“Look, it’s fine,” I tell the room at large, during a brief gap in customers. “I haven’t said I’ll take it yet; I don’t even know anything about this project, other than that it’s a novel, rather than a self-help book, and it’s urgent, apparently.”
“But why would someone ask you to write a novel for them, Holly?” says Dad, puzzled. “I thought it was just non-fiction you’d been writing for this ‘agency’?”
He says the word ‘agency’ as if he fully suspects there is no ‘agency’, and it’s all just an elaborate cover for something far more nefarious.
“I think the person they’d originally hired for it must have dropped out at the last minute or something,” I tell him.
“That’s the only reason I can think of that they’d ask me to do it instead.
It’s not like I have any novel-writing experience that might have won them over.
Everything I’ve done for them so far has been non-fiction.
So, you know, it might not go anywhere.”
“Probably not,” agrees Levi, cheering up. “Are you sure it’s not just another one of those phishing emails? You do get a lot of those, Holly.”
“Shut up, Levi,” says Paris firmly. “Of course Holly can write fiction. She won that creative writing contest, didn’t she?”
I smile at her gratefully, even though I know she’s just saying this because she wants my job. And also because she’d say anything to contradict Levi.
“That was in high school,” I admit. “It was before…”
It was before Mum died, is what I’m about to say, but don’t, stopping myself at the last second because I don’t want to upset Dad any more than I have already.
Before Mum died, I still planned to go to university; to study creative writing, and to maybe one day be a writer myself.
Before Mum died, I planned to travel the world, live somewhere hot and sunny, and fall in love.
Before Mum died, I planned to do a lot of things.
But then everything fell apart; me and Dad most of all.
There was no way I could leave him after that; no possible way I could leave home — not for college, not for love, not for anything.
So, instead, I stayed; to help with the bookstore and everything else.
I didn’t go to university. I didn’t see the world.
And okay, I technically did end up with a writing career of sorts; but titles like Unfollow Anxiety: Breaking Up With Your Fears, and Hashtag Hustle: Turning Your Passion into Your Paycheck aren’t exactly the kind of thing I was thinking of when I said I wanted to be an author.
But this latest project could be. And, okay, I won’t get to have my name on the cover of whatever novel I end up writing, but, even so, it’s a start. And wasn’t I just thinking about how much I needed a change? A ‘glow-up’ as the Poole sisters called it?
I was. And now here’s the very opportunity I was looking for, arriving with absolutely impeccable timing.
All I have to do is say yes to it; which is exactly what I’m going to do.
Before I can change my mind, I hurry into my office, where I pull out my phone, and call Harper Grant, the woman whose name is on the bottom of the email from the agency, with a signature explaining that she’s a commissioning editor, responsible for connecting ghostwriters with clients.
“No, it’s right enough; the job’s yours if you want it,” Harper confirms, once I’ve sheepishly explained that I think she might have messaged the wrong person by mistake.
She has a soft, maternal-sounding voice, which is immediately reassuring, and makes me picture her sitting at a desk covered with family photos, with a purring cat on her lap.
“Really?” I know from my research for my last writing project — ‘Glow Up: the Guide to Faking It Til You’re Making It’ — that I should be trying to project my ‘best self’ here, in order to convince this woman I know my own worth, and am a fully competent adult who she can trust to do the job.
It’s just… well, I don’t really feel like a fully competent adult who she can trust to do the job.
Or even an averagely competent one, if we’re being brutally honest.
“Yup, really.” Harper sounds amused by my surprise. “The client’s seen some of your previous work, and they really liked it. They’re offering more than your usual rate, too, seeing as it’s such short notice.”
She names a figure that’s almost twice what I’ve been making for my self-help stuff, and makes me wonder again if I’m imagining all of this.
“That’s… that’s amazing,” I say croakily. “Really… amazing.”
“Look, I’ll get all the details over to you along with the contract and the non-disclosure,” Harper goes on, kindly pretending not to notice I’ve apparently lost the power of speech. “I don’t have everything to hand right now, but I can tell you it’s a fiction project; a Christmas romance.”
“Oh.”
My excitement at being picked for this project goes down a notch.
The whole time I’ve been thinking about this job, it never once occurred to me that the book they’d ask me to write might be a romance — and a Christmas one, at that.
And as much as I love reading romance, I haven’t exactly been living it; not even when Martin and I were still together.
No, with the exception of the books I squirrel away to read in secret, my life is a romance-free zone.
And a Christmas-free zone, too. All of which makes me the least-qualified person on the agency’s books — and maybe even in the entire world — to attempt to write a Christmas-themed romance novel.
It’s like asking a snowman to write a book about saunas. Or a vampire to write a cookbook.
What if you make a complete mess of it, and it all goes tits up? says Levi’s voice from the back of my mind.
He’s right, though, isn’t he? Harsh … but right. Me writing a Christmas romance would be a recipe for total disaster. It would almost definitely all go “tits up”. I should say no. I’m going to say no.
“Holly? Are you still there?” Harper sounds worried. “Is there a problem?”
“Um, no, no problem,” I reply, not wanting to let this nice-sounding woman down. “It’s just… can I think about it? Just for a bit?”
There’s a short pause, during which I cross my fingers tightly, willing her not to hate me for my indecisiveness.
“Sure,” she says, her voice reassuringly warm. “I can give you until tomorrow morning. Will that be long enough?”
“Of course,” I say quickly, not at all sure it will be. “That’ll be just fine.”
“I can’t do it. I absolutely cannot write a Christmas romance. I’m going to have to say no.”