Chapter 7 #2
I hold it aloft to show him, regretting this morning’s decision to wear the high-heeled leather boots which looked fabulous in the mirror, but which just seem frivolous and silly now they’ve quite literally been my downfall.
You can’t even see my ankle underneath them, obviously, but Martin makes some appropriately concerned noises, before straightening up and offering me his arm, which is reassuringly steady.
Leaning on it feels a bit like pulling on a favorite old sweater, and makes me feel briefly guilty for having spent the last few weeks desperately trying to avoid him.
He might not be the most exciting man I’ve ever dated, but at least he’s always been there when I needed him. And he’s never tried to write a book about me, either.
There’s that, too.
“Come on,” he says, clearly relishing the opportunity to take charge of a situation.
Martin is very good at taking charge of situations.
. “Let’s get you home. I left the car parked just around the corner.
You know that place on Morrison Street? It was the closest I could get it; I can’t believe how many people turned out to see the lights. ”
I squeeze his arm gently to get him to stop talking; the difficulty of finding a parking space in Bramblebury at Christmas time is one of Martin’s favorite topics, and once he gets started on it, we could be here all night.
“Well, nice seeing you again,” he says politely, turning to Elliot, who hasn’t spoken since Martin arrived on the scene, like a churro-weilding knight in a shining puffer coat. “We’d, er, best be getting off home, then.”
He says this in a way that strongly implies that the ‘home’ we’re going to belongs to both of us, and I don’t bother to correct him.
Why shouldn’t Elliot think I’ve moved on?
I mean, I have, haven’t I? And, okay, it’s not actually with Martin — right now it’s not with anyone — but that doesn’t mean I’m some kind of modern-day Miss Havisham, still sitting among the ruins of my youth, in my Dad’s dusty old bookshop, does it?
There have been other men since Elliot. I’ve done things with my life.
I’ve even written books; and, okay, they might not be bestsellers, like his book, but at least they’re true.
(Well, most of them are. I still have doubts about the usefulness of How to Manifest Your Dreams Using Your Moon Sign, but that doesn’t mean the information in it wasn’t meticulously researched, to the best of my ability.)
“What’s he doing here, then?” Martin asks, as I hobble on his arm towards the street he’s parked his car in (“A real gift of a space, Holly; I couldn’t believe it when I saw it was empty!”). “It’s not something to do with this book he’s supposed to be writing, is it?”
I glance up at him, surprised. Martin is one of the few non-bookish people in my life.
In fact, other than Lord of the Rings (Which is a given, really), and A Game of Thrones (Which he claims to have read, having only seen the TV show), I’m not sure he’s finished an entire book in his life.
He’s the last person in the world to have his finger on the pulse of the publishing industry; which means he’s either been talking to the Poole sisters, or this rumor about Elliot and a new book really has grown legs.
“Where did you hear about that?” I ask casually. “Did Elsie tell you?”
“No, Levi did,” Martin replies, holding onto me a little tighter than is necessary. “When I popped into the bookstore earlier, looking for you. He was all excited about it — more than usual, I mean. Said he’d seen something about it on TikTok, so he was sure it must be really happening this time.”
“Oh. Right.”
We walk on — or hop on, in my case — and I try to ignore the creeping sensation of doom that’s prickling the back of my neck.
I often feel a sensation of doom. It’s one of my defining characteristics; the way I always anticipate the worst, as if expecting bad things to happen will somehow rob them of their power to hurt me.
But this is different. This feeling of doom is very real; and I’m 100% sure it’s connected to Elliot Sinclair. Well, who else has the ability to make me feel like my world’s been turned upside down with just a few short-sentences? Not Martin, that’s for sure. Not anyone, actually.
Only Elliot.
“So, is he?” says Martin, blissfully unaware of my uncharitable thoughts about him. “Is he here to write another book? Is that what you were talking about just now? Or did he want to talk about something else?”
His hand tightens on my elbow, and I feel a flicker of sympathy for him.
It can’t have been much fun for him, either, living in the shadow of The Snow Globe, and constantly having to field questions about a decade-ago relationship his girlfriend had with someone else.
And I may be his ex-girlfriend now, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care how he feels.
“No,” I tell him truthfully. “No, he didn’t mention a new book. We didn’t really talk much at all, really. I just tripped right in front of him, and he stopped to help me. That was it.”
And that was it. Someone tripped. Someone else caught them. End of story. Not even Elliot Sinclair could turn that briefest of interactions into the opening scenes of his sequel.
But what if he does?
Or tries to, at least?
The thought rolls around my head all the way back to the car (Which is, as Martin promised, parked in a really great space).
And, by the time we pull up outside the gate of my house, and Martin finally accepts my assurances that no, I don’t need him to come in and ‘look after me’, the bouncing thought is creating so much noise in there that the only way to silence it is to pull out my phone and open up the email from the agency.
“Hi Harper,” I type, collapsing onto the sofa and propping my foot up on the coffee table in front of me. “Hope you’re well. Just wanted to thank you again for the ghostwriting offer, and let you know that I’m happy to accept. Let me know when you’d like me to start!”
Then I hit send.
If Elliot can write a book, then so can I. But if he thinks he can use me as material for his plot this time… well, let’s just say he has another think coming.