Page 36 of All About Christmas

One year later

“Good, is everything fully prepared?” I ask Pippin, who was supposed to arrange for the candidates to be picked up at the ice rink before the filming.

“Yes, Holly,” sighs Pippin. “Really, everything is taken care of.”

“The hot chocolate, mulled wine, and ice skates?”

“When I say ‘everything,’ I really mean ‘everything.’ Except the gingerbread.”

“What?”

“Jeez. Just kidding, Holly. You’re so easy to upset.” Pippin turns around, chuckling. “It’s going to be a great broadcast anyway. You did a fantastic job in your first year as editor-in-chief, so have a little faith that this one will be good, too.”

“Yes. Okay.” I let out a deep sigh. “Good point.”

After Olivier resigned last year, Norbert automatically assumed that I would still be willing to take on José’s job.

At first, he was horribly wrong. I was not comfortable working for someone who had treated me that way.

I was still determined to find something else.

But I soon found out that the foot photography business was very shady, and that despite everything, I actually really loved my job.

So, I made a deal with Norbert: I would be promoted three rungs higher than the original plan and get a jar of chocolate wreaths on my desk all year long.

He had eagerly agreed and reminded me that before John Wolfs got involved, he had planned to choose me.

After everything was over, Olivier told his father that he wanted to achieve things without his eternal interference.

That’s why he made a drastic decision: he quit the television world.

He had never been open to another field because it had been instilled in him from a young age.

Which is why he’s now trying his hand at publishing, to see if the book world suits him better.

“Hey, Holly, good luck tonight!” says Noor as she walks toward the exit. “You’ll do great!”

“Thank you!” I call after her. “Have fun in Austria! Give my regards to your family.”

“I will!”

I take the lid off the jar of chocolate wafers and put one in my mouth. The chocolate melts on my tongue.

I’m a lot more nervous about this broadcast than usual. That’s because tonight looks different to me than usual. I heave a deep sigh, fish three more wafers out of the jar, and put them all in my mouth at the same time.

My silver sequin-studded dress is tight around my torso and runs in a beautiful A-line down to my thighs.

I have Christmas ornaments in my ears and my pink hair is neatly pinned up.

The makeup artist has applied a thick layer of makeup where every little pimple has been carefully polished away with a brush of foundation.

“You’re almost good to go,” says Pippin. “Are you ready?”

From backstage, I hear Gabriel make his introduction to the audience. “Yes, dear friends, last year a very special clip from our show went viral. It has now been viewed more than thirty million times. Thirty million! Let that sink in for a moment.”

I chuckle. I should have known. My landing in the snow that night became a meme. And a GIF. And a common sticker on WhatsApp. And everything else you can think of and find in the caverns of the Internet.

I nod and straighten some more sequins. Those damn things are always crooked.

“Good, then you can go on in three, two...”

“I’m talking, of course, about our own Holly and Olivier!” exclaims Gabriel. He stands up and spreads his arms as he turns around. “Come on in, lovely people!”

Amidst loud applause, I step inside and look around me.

Studio 21 is full of people standing up and clapping their hands loudly, cheering and whistling.

From the doorway on the other side of the room, Olivier steps inside.

His grin grows wide. He’s wearing his signature blue tailored suit, and on his bow tie I detect some illustrations of holly leaves.

Probably the only Christmassy thing the makeup artist could impose on him.

We walk toward each other, and our hands are drawn together like two magnets.

His fingers weave into mine, and he presses a quick kiss to my mouth, causing even more cheering.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey,” I say back.

This morning, he pulled me close to him in bed while the snow stuck to the windows of our apartment.

Our own home, where last names and origin are not important.

A side effect of all this is that Olivier cannot escape from our family game nights and has become a permanent layer in the Holly Jolly Jelly-sandwich.

Although even dogs would decline it, when there are five of us, my fathers build a sandwich with not only a layer of Holly Jolly Jelly and PeterButter, but also a layer of Aiolivier.

Because, they reasoned, aioli is a delicious addition, as is Olivier himself.

They didn’t care that that flavour combination would lead Gordon Ramsay to call us an idiot sandwich.

I could have sunk through the floor when they first did that last summer, but luckily Olivier was able to laugh about it. We’re still together, so I guess it didn’t put him off too much.

And now here we are. On the live broadcast of All About Christmas .

“Come sit with us!” Gabriel gestures to the red couches. We walk to the centre of the room and plop down. Our presenter looks at us, beaming. “From this I can safely conclude that you are still together,” he says, although of course he knew that before the show. “So, tell us: how are you doing?”

I turn my head to Olivier, and he looks at me with a gaze that causes the eternal butterflies to flutter again.

“I’m doing well, Gabriel,” Olivier replies, without averting his stare from me.

“Very well indeed.” He chuckles and turns again to the man who shares his name with one of the angels from the Bible.

He places his hand on my thigh and squeezes it gently.

Then the words roll from his lips that a year ago I could in no way have imagined I would ever hear from his mouth: “Everything indeed revolves around love.”