Chapter 5 #2
It’s a few hours later, and I’m standing in the main room of the village hall, watching my Aunt Lorraine issue directions to a group of volunteers who’re all busily hanging up Christmas decorations.
The hall is festooned with fairy lights, like most of the other buildings in town at this time of year, but the interior hasn’t changed in decades, and the magnolia walls and faint ‘gym hall’ scent are the only clues I’m not living in a simulation here in Bramblebury, which was looking almost sickeningly festive on the way here.
“Don’t be silly, Holly, of course you can write a whatever-it-is,” says Lorraine, looking at me sternly over the top of her glasses. “You can write anything you like. You can do anything you like. Never forget that, okay?”
Lorraine is Mum’s sister, and while Mum was soft and nurturing, like a hug in human form, Lorraine is what would probably be best described as a ‘force of nature’; which is why she’s the perfect person to head up the village community association — the reason we’re here on this cold December night.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I tell her, as she hands me a large cardboard box filled with what I’m assuming are more decorations. “It’s just … a Christmas book? It’s not me, Lorraine. I’m not…”
“You’re not a Christmas person,” Lorraine finishes for me, in the tone of someone who’s heard all of this before. Which she has, to be fair. “But maybe you should be. Have you ever thought about that?”
“What, opening up my cold, hard heart to the wonder of the season?” I say, going for sarcasm as my first line of defense, as usual.
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” says Lorraine, who, true enough, isn’t exactly known for her way with words. “But it was your mum’s favorite time of year, Holly. You know that. She’d hate to think she’d ruined it for you.”
“She didn’t ruin it for me,” I reply shortly. “It’s not like she died on purpose. And anyway, it’s not just Mum. It’s everything. This place, and its weird obsession with Christmas. Its obsession with—”
“Elliot?” suggests Lorraine shrewdly. “Is that what this is about? Elliot and his book? Still?”
I shrug, feeling like a sulky teenager again as I put the box of decorations on the floor at my feet. As I straighten back up, I notice I’m standing right next to a small brass plaque that’s set into the wooden floor.
“This is the exact spot where Evie kissed Luke for the first time in The Snow Globe”, it says, in swirly letters. I close my eyes in an attempt to fend off the memory the sight of the plaque always triggers, but it slams into me anyway, almost knocking me off my feet with the force of it.
This place.
Seriously.
“I thought I saw him earlier,” I confess, shaking off the memory like a dog shaking the rain out of its fur. “Elliot. At The Brew. And yesterday, too, outside the shop. I thought I was going mad for a second.”
I glance around the hall, suddenly worried I might see him again. If his ghost was planning to appear anywhere, it would be here; right on this exact spot, in fact, to quote the writing on the floor.
But the room is reassuringly ordinary.
It’s just me who’s haunted.
“Do you think I’m going mad?” I ask Lorraine, knowing I sound stupid, but feeling the need to put the possibility out there, anyway. My aunt frowns.
“I think this is just a difficult time of year for you,” she says, unconsciously echoing Maisie’s words from earlier. “And all of this probably isn’t helping, is it?”
She indicates the box at my feet.
“What, Christmas decorations? Well, no, I guess not. I’m pretty used to them by now, though. I—”
I pause, noticing that one corner of the box is torn, with something that doesn’t look much like a Christmas decoration peeking through the gap.
“Wait. What is this stuff, anyway?”
I bend down and pull the lid off the box, somehow knowing already what I’m going to find.
And yup: there it is. Approximately 20 copies of The Snow Globe, all staring up at me smugly, as if to say “I told you so”.
“What are these doing here?” I ask, straightening up and turning back to Lorraine, who has the grace to look sheepish. “I thought I was here to help you set up for the Over 60s Christmas Dance?”
“Oh, you are,” she assures me, not quite meeting me in the eye. “But … that’s not until next week. First, it’s the book festival. Remember?”
I groan, slapping my hand across my forehead in frustration.
The book festival — or ‘fayre’ as I believe it’s styled here in good ol’ Bramblebury.
How could I have forgotten about the book festival?
It’s not like Paris and Levi haven’t been talking about it every day for the last month.
I’m pretty sure Dad’s even booked a table at it for the shop, actually; didn’t he mention something about that just the other day?
“I’ve been so busy trying to finish my latest ghostwriting commission before Christmas,” I tell Lorraine, in an attempt at an explanation. “It completely slipped my mind.”
“Is that the book about learning how to communicate with your cat?” asks Lorraine, who’s the only person who even feigns interest in the books I produce for the agency.
“No,” I reply gloomily. “They said there wasn’t enough of a demand for that one. It’s the one about side hustles.”
Which brings us neatly back to the subject of my own side hustle: and the Christmas romance novel I’ve just been asked to write for it.
“I just don’t think I can say yes to this one, Lorraine,” I say, perching on the end of one of the trestle tables. “What do I know about romance? I’m 34 and single. My last serious relationship ended with me threatening to report him for stalking.”
“That reminds me,” says Lorraine. “Martin was in here earlier, looking for you. Had a face like a wet weekend on him.”
“See?” I reply. “That’s not romance, Lorraine; it’s just plain creepy, the way he follows me around. And Martin was the longest relationship I’ve ever had. What does that say about me?”
“Oh, come on, Holly,” says Lorraine. “So you’ve had a bit of bad luck with men. It doesn’t mean you can’t write about romance. Here.”
She stoops down and rummages through the box on the floor, before holding up one of the books inside it, as if she’s proving a point.
“This,” she says, prodding the front cover with a neon pink nail. “This is one of the greatest romances of all time. Or so everyone says, anyway. And it’s literally about you. You’re Evie Snow. So I’d say you probably know a bit more about romance than you think you do.”
“The Snow Globe isn’t a romance book,” I reply, sounding a lot like Paris.
“Romance has to have a happy ending. This doesn’t.
We didn’t. You could call it a love story — if you were being generous — but you can’t call it a romance.
And, anyway, it’s not even true. Well, hardly any of it’s true.
And the bits that are … they’re just Elliot’s side of the story, aren’t they? ”
“So maybe it’s time to tell your side of it?” Lorraine says, shrugging. “Why not? Write your own book. Take control of the narrative for once. At least it would stop everyone asking how it ended all the time.”
She picks up the box of books and starts laying them out on the table, and I stand there for a moment watching her, my mind whirring.
It’s true to say that, ever since The Snow Globe came out, with its cliffhanger ending, readers have been clamoring for a sequel.
It’s also true to say, however, that I can’t be the one to write it.
Not just because there is no ‘part two’ to the story — Elliot and I just ended, and that was that — but because publicly associating myself with The Snow Globe is the very last thing I’d want.
It’s bad enough that everyone here in town knows that Evie Snow was based on me; I don’t think I’d cope if everyone else in the book’s fandom knew too.
Maybe I could do it anonymously, though? Like, under a pen-name, say.
Or as a ghostwriter.
“Thanks, Lorraine,” I say, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as I get ready to leave. “I’ll let you know what I decide to do about the romance book.”
I leave the hall, and step straight into what appears to be some kind of festive theme park that’s been set up in the village square.
There are fairy lights. There are lanterns. There’s food trucks and Christmas music, and a surprisingly large crowd of people, all gathered around the Christmas tree, with rosy cheeks and giant churros in their hands.
Of course; the tree. They’re all here for the annual spectacle that is the switching on of the lights. I completely forget that was tonight.
I’m just passing the tree itself — which I see has been hung with dozens of miniature snow globes this year — when the countdown starts.
“Three!” yells the crowd. “Two!”
I quicken my step in a bid to get out of the way, but the crowd is so large and excitable that I end up stumbling; the heel of my boot sticking on one of those infernal cobblestones, and sending me over on my ankle .
For just a second, my hands clutch at thin air, looking for something to grab onto, and then, just as I’m about to lose my balance, an arm appears on my elbow, holding me steady as I wrench my foot free and stand up straight.
“ONE!” yells the crowd.
Fireworks explode above the square as the Christmas tree lights flash on, shimmering against the dark sky.
“Thanks,” I say gratefully, turning to look up into the eyes of the man who’s still holding me upright; dark blue eyes that twinkle with the reflection of Christmas lights and fireworks, and a hundred and one memories.
Eyes I would know anywhere. Eyes that are definitely not those of a ghost, or a mirage, or even the product of my over-active imagination, but the familiar blue eyes of the man I once thought was the love of my life. It’s Elliot Sinclair.