Page 42 of Christmas at the Movies

He went to file copies of the paperwork in the office, before remembering that Sarah was in there. The door to the office was open a crack, and he could see her and Noa sitting on the sofa, their heads practically touching.

‘We shouldn’t do this,’ murmured Sarah. ‘Not here. Not now.’

‘No, I’ve waited too long to tell you how I feel,’ said Noa. ‘I’ve tried to fight my feelings, but it’s no use. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m in love with you.’

‘I love you, too,’ said Sarah.

‘Then we owe it to ourselves to give this thing between us another chance. Before it’s too late—’

James grimaced. He knew they were just reading the script, but he hated hearing his wife declaring her love to another man. Who had she been thinking about when she’d written those words?

‘That’s working really well now,’ said Noa.

‘It was a team effort,’ replied Sarah.

‘By the way, I read The Ghost Writer last night. Your script has got such potential. You really should finish it so I can direct it.’

Sarah laughed. ‘I’ve been trying to finish it for years. Somehow life always gets in the way.’

‘That’s why I’ve never had a family,’ remarked Noa. ‘It’s hard to be an artist with the distraction of family life.’

Is that what I am, thought James, feeling a stab of guilt. A distraction?

‘That’s why I usually only get involved with other people in the industry,’ continued Noa. ‘They’re the only ones who get it. Who understand that you need to be a bit selfish in order to make art.’

‘I’m starting to see that,’ said Sarah quietly.

‘You should come and work for me in LA,’ urged Noa. ‘I want you to edit the script for my passion project. You’re wasted here in this little nothing town.’

James felt like he’d just been sucker punched.

There was a long pause on the other side of the door.

‘Oh, that’s very flattering,’ said Sarah.

‘It’s not flattery,’ replied Noa. ‘You’re very good at this.’

‘I … I’d need to think about it.’

‘Don’t sell yourself short, Sarah,’ said Noa. ‘You deserve more than this. You shouldn’t be stuck here in this cinema, showing other people’s movies. You should be writing your own.’

Reeling from what he had just overheard, James staggered outside to get some air. The worst thing about what the director had said was that it was right – Sarah did deserve more than this. More than him.

Looking out at the film set being constructed in the village square, James rued the day Noa Drakos had ever set foot in the cinema. What had seemed like a blessing was starting to feel like a curse.

8th August 2017

James rode his bicycle over slick cobblestones on the way back from the nearest bakery, keeping the bag of croissants and pains au chocolat under his windbreaker to stop the pastries from getting wet.

Despite the raindrops pelting his face, there was something exhilarating about being on a bike again – for the first time since he was a kid.

Maybe I’ll get a bike of my own to cycle to the cinema, he thought.

He turned down a path leading to a half-timbered cottage with a thatched roof.

The cottage garden bloomed with an abundance of roses, foxgloves and sunflowers – evidence of its owners’ green fingers.

James had no idea how sunflowers thrived here, since they hadn’t seen the sun emerge from behind the clouds since driving out of the tunnel at Calais.

He leant the bike against the cottage and went inside.

‘I’m back!’ James called, setting the pastries on the table. He took off his wet jacket and hung it on a hook beside the door.

‘I made coffee,’ said Sarah, who was working on her laptop at the kitchen table.

‘Thanks.’ James kissed her on the cheek then he poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver press. It smelled like heaven. ‘Did you get much done?’ he asked her. Sarah was trying to use this holiday to get back to The Ghost Writer, the screenplay she’d been writing off and on for years.

‘Not really,’ replied Sarah. ‘It’s slow-going – I’m so out of the habit of writing.’

They were staying in Roger and Omar’s cottage just outside Honfleur.

With its cobbled streets, picturesque harbour and access to sandy beaches, it was easy to see why Impressionist painters had fallen in love with the pretty port.

Monet had painted it in all different lights.

Unfortunately, they had only seen it in one light – grey.

It had rained every single day they’d been here.

The children came down the steps from the loft, where they slept in twin beds.

Nick was still in his Pokémon pyjamas with the label cut out of them because he hated the feel of anything scratchy against his skin.

Holly, ever the optimist, was wearing shorts over her neon-pink-and-green bathing suit and loudly singing ‘Let it Go’ from Frozen.

‘I had a dream that I was best friends with a mermaid,’ announced Nick, yawning. ‘She took me to her underwater kingdom.’

‘Come have breakfast.’ Sarah spread apricot jam on a croissant. She took a big bite and sighed happily.

‘I’m sick of croissants,’ whined Holly. ‘I want Frosties.’

‘Have a pain au chocolat then,’ said Sarah. ‘Daddy went out in the rain specially to get breakfast.’

Holly picked up a pastry and took an unenthusiastic bite.

‘So what should we do today?’ asked James, sipping his coffee.

‘We could visit the cathedral in Rouen,’ suggested Sarah. ‘That’s only about an hour’s drive.’

‘I want to go swimming,’ said Nick. ‘I might meet a mermaid.’

‘You said we could go to the beach on this holiday,’ said Holly mutinously. Only nine and a half, she was already showing the early signs of adolescent moodiness. God help them when she was an actual teenager.

The children rarely agreed on anything. Four years was a big age gap and they had very different personalities – Nick quiet and sensitive; Holly a born performer.

Occasionally, Nick agreed to play a supporting role in one of Holly’s plays (she was always lead actor, director, costume designer and choreographer of the productions she staged in the living room).

Likewise, Holly sometimes helped Nick with his LEGO creations, acting out stories with the minifigures.

So it was annoying that they couldn’t capitalise on this rare moment of unity.

‘It’s raining again today,’ explained Sarah. ‘We just have to hope the sun comes out before we go back to England.’

They had gone for walks on the beach in the rain, to collect shells and look for crabs in the rock pools.

They’d all had fun, despite the weather, until Nick had slipped on a seaweed-covered rock and skinned his knee.

He had howled and howled. In the end, James had had to carry him back to the cottage.

Somehow, Nick always seemed to feel pain more intensely than others. No, scrap that, he felt everything more intensely. James worried that life was going to be difficult for his son unless he toughened up a bit.

Nick’s first few years of primary school had been challenging.

Not in terms of the academics – Nick was a very clever child, reading way above his age level.

He was also a gifted mathematician, easily grasping concepts such as fractions when most kids his age could barely cope with subtraction.

Socially, though, he had struggled. When Holly had been Nick’s age, their weekends had been dominated by play dates and birthday parties.

Nick wasn’t invited to many parties and when he was, James or Sarah usually had to collect him early because he was crying.

Nick just seemed to find everything overwhelming.

‘We could go to a museum,’ said Sarah, flipping through a guidebook. ‘There’s a lace-making museum in—’

‘No!’ shouted Nick, Holly and James. They had been to more than their fair share of museums this week.

The holiday had started promisingly on Monday, with a trip to the aquarium in St Malo.

They’d all enjoyed that. Holly had loved the sharks, and Nick had been transfixed by the jellyfish, their amorphous, translucent shapes floating in their tank, delicate tentacles streaming behind them.

When James had finally told him they had to move on, he’d realised that his son had been crying.

‘What’s wrong, buddy?’ he’d asked.

‘The jellyfish are so beautiful,’ Nick said, his eyes shining with wonder.

On Tuesday, they visited the Bayeux Tapestry.

The museum was packed with tourists, all trying to escape from the rain.

Nick hated crowds, and fussed so much that they left without seeing the famous scene of the arrow piercing King Harold’s eye.

By that point, James had such a bad headache, it felt like an arrow was piercing his eye.

On the way home, they stopped at a winery.

‘I think we’re going to need this,’ Sarah muttered, as they loaded a case of pinot gris into the boot of the car.

On Wednesday, they on a tour of a goat farm. Holly enjoyed petting the goats. Nick, however, hated the smell. To avoid another scene, they left before the cheese tasting. Later, they gone to dinner at a brasserie on the harbour.

‘It’s too noisy!’ Nick said, covering his ears in distress.

‘What do you mean?’ James asked. There was some background noise – the clatter and clank of cutlery on china, the burble of conversation, the popping of corks – but nothing too loud.

In the end, they had to leave before they finished their steak frites.

‘You said I could have chocolate mousse for dessert,’ Holly complained.

To appease her, went for ice cream and ate their cones watching the sun set over the harbour.

‘Nick ruins everything.’ Holly fumed, licking her salted-caramel-flavoured cone.

To his shame, James shared her frustration. His son was adorable, affectionate, creative and bright, but he was also incredibly awkward. James didn’t love him any less because of it. Sometimes, though, he wished they could go on outings like normal families without triggering a meltdown.