Chapter 27 #2
“A geek,” I reply, my voice croaky. “Because he always said there was nothing he didn’t know about tech. And, well, also because he loves Star Wars so much.”
“There’s nothing wrong with loving Star Wars,” comes Levi’s voice from the other side of the door. “Enough with the geek-shaming.”
For once, though, I don’t have the energy to resent the intrusion; or even to tell him off for eavesdropping.
I’m too busy watching Elliot’s expression change from the guarded mistrust he started this conversation with, through the dawning realization that we’ve been played: and by Martin Baxter, of all people.
Finally, we’re on the same page.
Elliot didn’t rewrite our story when he used it in his book. There were just two sides of it all along; and now we’re finally getting to read both of them — just a little too late.
My heart does a weird little duh-DUM that feels a bit like a jump scare.
“Elliot? Oh, there you are.”
With the worst possible timing, the door into the hall opens to reveal Elliot’s publicist, plus a sheepish-looking Levi, who starts backing away slowly as soon as I make eye contact with him.
“Everyone’s waiting for you,” the publicist says, looking from Elliot to me and then back again. “If you’re ready?”
No, I want to tell her. No, he’s not ready.
Because he’s in the middle of a very important conversation — one it’s taken us an entire decade to get around to — and interrupting it now would feel like deciding to leave the theater right before the end of the movie, and before you get to find out whodunnit.
(Although, in this case, I think we all know whodunnit; and he’s currently standing at the Hart Books table, wearing an ‘ironic’ Christmas jumper, and a self-satisfied expression which I’m planning to remove as soon as I get the chance…)
“I can’t stall the crowd much longer,” Publicist Woman adds, as if she’s read my mind. “They’re all so excited for your big announcement.”
Elliot hesitates, his eyes flickering over to me as if he’s trying to make his mind up about something.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I have to do this.”
“Sure. I understand,” I reply quickly. Then I remember something.
“Elliot,” I call, as he turns to follow the woman into the hall. “Your dad. I wanted to ask. Did he …?”
The ghost of a smile flickers around the corners of his lips as he pauses in the doorway, Levi hovering excitedly behind him with his eyes like saucers.
“He pulled through,” he says. “Eventually. But it was touch and go for a while there. We were basically living in the hospital. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. Sorry, Harper,” he adds, looking over his shoulder. “I’m just coming.”
He gives a small, apologetic shrug, before walking away, and I frown to myself thoughtfully as I watch him go.
Harper? His publicist has the same name as the one I’ve been assigned to at the ghostwriting agency? What are the odds of that?
I shake off the thought as Levi comes bounding over to grab my hand and tow me back into the hall, babbling something about Martin, and how romantic it is that he would go to such lengths to see off his rival and win the hand of the woman he loves.
It’s obvious that Levi and I have very different ideas about ‘romance’.
The room in front of me is now at least twice as busy as it was when I left it, with people crammed into every available space, all of them facing the stage, where the man I saw earlier, talking to Elliot’s publicist — Harper — is sitting on one of the chairs in front of the microphone.
Levi and I squeeze our way through the crowd and back to the Hart Books stall, where I notice Martin has made himself at home in my absence, and is sitting next to Dad, chatting away like they’re old pals.
Well, we’ll see about that.
I grit my teeth as I approach them, my head pounding with rage as I think about what Martin did — what I’m absolutely sure he did — to split up me and Elliot ten years ago.
Before I can confront him, though, and create my second scene of the day, there’s a shrill screech of feedback from the microphone, and I look around to see Elliot standing next to it, looking handsome and self-possessed, with absolutely no trace of the fact that he’s had his world rocked by the knowledge that his ex-girlfriend’s neighbor-turned-boyfriend deliberately sabotaged their relationship.
From the other side of the stall, Martin grins across at me, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to reach over and shake him.
I’ll have to save that for later.
At the microphone, the woman Elliot addressed as Harper starts talking to the crowd, introducing Elliot — as if he needs introducing in this town — and explaining that he’ll make a brief announcement, before going into a question-and-answer session with the man in the suit, who’s now accompanied by a cameraman, and someone carrying one of those huge furry microphones.
At the front of the stage, a small crowd of photographers jostle for space, while, just behind them, the people in the front row all hold their phones in the air, ready to hit record, as if they’re at a rock concert rather than a book festival.
Levi gives me an apologetic look before rushing off to join them.
After a second, Paris goes too, only without the apology.
Now it’s just me, Dad, Martin, and my burning sense of outrage, which is now so huge I imagine it taking physical shape and floating in the air above me, like a demon. Oh, and a few hundred other people in the audience, who are the only reason I’m not letting that rage-demon loose.
At least, not yet.
“Please welcome the award-winning author of The Snow Globe: Elliot Sinclair,” says Publicist Woman, forcing me to look back up at the stage, where Elliot is stepping in front of the microphone, raising his hand to acknowledge the thunderous applause from the crowd.
He hasn’t said a word, and he’s already a hit.
“Thank you,” he says, his eyes roving across the rows of heads in front of him. “Thank you all for coming.”
“Thank you,” yells someone who I’m pretty sure is Levi. Elliot smiles, looking totally at ease.
“My publishers asked me to come here this morning to talk to you about the sequel to my book,” he says, to another flurry of applause. “But I’m not going to do that.”
The crowd falls instantly silent. From his position in the front row, Levi twists his head around and shoots me an accusing look.
“Instead,” says Elliot calmly, “I’d like to tell you a story, if I may. I’d like to tell you the true story of The Snow Globe.”