Page 43 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)

Holiday

“ W hat d’you think of this?”

Spinning around, I find Clemmie standing in front of the mirror, wearing a full-length, strapless black-and-white gown. She has one hand holding her hair up and away from her neck, and the other is deep in a pocket—a detail I’m a huge fan of.

She looks stunning.

I walk slowly around her—examining the structure, the weight of the material, the cut—with the meticulous eye I’ve refined over years of being dressed by professionals.

“I love it.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Yes. Absolutely. It’s beautiful. So are you.”

She glances at me through the reflection in the mirror. “Would you wear it?”

“Definitely.”

She twirls. The heavy asymmetrical hem billows around her, and she looks every inch an English lady, tall and regal with perfect cheekbones and a nose I know plenty of women would beg their surgeon for. She’s made for the red carpet .

“I’m going to take it. I’ll have a masquerade mask made to match.” She splutters with a giggle. “Can’t say that five times in a hurry.”

“You should. It really suits you.” I smile my best smile at her, teeth and everything, trying to make it reach my eyes because she really does look incredible. “And who doesn’t love a dress with pockets?”

“I know. It’s what swings it for me,” she replies, stepping back into the dressing room.

I turn back to the rack of sweaters I was flicking through.

It won’t be long before the calls begin, requests to dress me ahead of awards season, and that’s without knowing whether I’ve been nominated again.

If I have, the calls triple. My stylist will manage everything.

She’ll whittle it down to five designers and five designs per ceremony for me to choose from.

We’ve worked together long enough now that she knows what I like and what suits me, and I trust her.

But looking at the gown Clemmie’s wearing, I’m picturing myself in it, and Lando next to me in his tux, looking handsome as all get-out.

He wouldn’t look anything else, my English duke.

He’d turn heads, and he’d cause whispers on the carpet.

Everyone would want to know who the hot guy holding my hand is.

Part of me doesn’t want to stay for the Fall Ball because I don’t want to see how good he looks. Then I’ll know exactly what I’m missing out on when I walk the carpets alone.

Because as much as Lando professed he wanted to be my date, I saw in his eyes that they were only words meant to make me feel better. I did the math. I’ll barely have time to come up for air during the next year. And we both know it.

So Lando won’t be next to me on the carpets. I won’t get to take his arm, walk side by side as reporters clamor for my attention, and I won’t feel his hand on my thigh when we take our seats .

The Fall Ball is in a week. I’ll smile, and twirl and do what needs to be done, then fly out to New York before midnight. Lando will become a fond memory, and I’ll be the same to him. Just a fond memory.

It makes sense. We should cut our losses before someone gets seriously hurt. It will be painful enough as it is. Better to rip off the Band-Aid now.

“I need help,” Clemmie squeaks from the confines of the dressing room as she walks out backward. “I’m stuck.”

I rush over to her, tugging on the zipper until it comes loose and Clemmie can slip out of it.

“Have you decided what you’re wearing?” she puffs out from the other side of the dressing room door.

I shrug. “Ashley shipped over a couple of dresses for me.”

“Cool, so we can have a trying-on session for those too?”

“Sure. If you’d like,” I say, happy that she can’t see my face because I’m sure it’s clear I’d rather do anything but.

I couldn’t bear the thought of going shopping for the Fall Ball. It felt like I was buying a dress for a funeral. I knew I had enough at my place in Los Angeles that could work instead, so I asked Ashley to ship over a couple that would be suitable.

It makes me feel better about what I’m planning to do.

I don’t deserve a new dress when it’s only going to be worn for breaking a heart. Two hearts, if you include mine, though I’m beginning to wonder if I don’t have one.

The door of the changing room swings open.

Clemmie’s back in her jeans and sweater and has the ballgown draped over her arm.

She takes it to the register and holds it high on its hanger so it can be rung up.

I go back to flicking aimlessly through the piles of sweaters and cozy fall clothes.

Normally, I’d be stockpiling them and burning a hole in my AMEX, but I can’t even find it in myself to look at them properly or with any enthusiasm .

And when my phone pings with a message, I welcome the distraction and open it.

MARCY: First L’Oreal shoot scheduled for New York, January fifteenth after the Golden Globes. You good with this?

I ’m tempted to reply that I’m not. They should make the shoot in London, or Paris, or Valentine Nook, but what’s the point?

HOLIDAY: Yes, fine.

MARCY: Good. Also, I have the final proofs back from the test shoot. You look good. Perhaps my favorite shots of you, ever. Image 4 is *heart eyes* emoji.

I open the file she sent in her message, and a dozen images of my face stare back at me. Each is different. Close-up and full body, smiling and not smiling. Or in the case of Marcy’s favorite, caught unaware and laughing my ass off.

She’s correct. I do look good. I look happy.

Lando was sitting out of shot, and I know I’m laughing because he’d fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted from a night of French-style lovemaking. The makeup artist had whispered to me in her thick accent that he was a sexy older guy, but I’d called him a lightweight.

He hadn’t been asleep at all, just faking it. He’d overheard the entire conversation and promised to show me the meaning of the word later. The rosy cheeks I’m sporting in the picture aren’t from blush, that’s for sure.

The memory is a stark contrast to the way we’ve drifted through the past two weeks, painfully aware our ending date is near. There’s been an unspoken intensity between us—clinging to each other every night, making love, lingering goodbye kisses every morning.

But I know we’re only prolonging the inevitable.

The heartbreak has already begun.

“What’s that?” Clemmie asks from over my shoulder when she’s done paying.

I turn the screen to her. “My test shots from Paris.”

She snatches my phone away and peers hard at each image. “Holy moly, you look incredible. So natural. You’re glowing. Wow. Send me the list of those products they used on you. I want to look that good.”

I’m not going to tell her the reason I was glowing had nothing to do with L’Oreal products and everything to do with her brother.

Instead, I force a laugh and change the subject. “Where are your bags?”

“They’re sending them to Burlington,” she replies, then notices my empty hands. “You’re not buying anything?”

“No, not in the mood.”

Clemmie sucks in her cheek and I feel her studying me.

She hasn’t asked me why I’m not as chirpy as usual, but she knows.

She sees Lando almost more than I do, and I know he’s gone back to being as short-tempered as he was when I arrived.

I heard him shouting at Miles after he left my place yesterday morning.

“Are you in the mood for a drink?”

I bark a laugh. I’m so grateful for our friendship. I have to work on not letting my throat constrict too much, or the tears will flow. I can’t have that because if I start, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.

“I’m always in the mood for a drink.”

She loops her arm through mine. “Then let’s go.”

The air is crisp as we walk down Valentine High Street.

Halloween decorations are being strung up from the lampposts, and pumpkins large and small are scattered around each store entrance.

The wisteria has died off into gnarled ropes climbing up the walls, fitting well with the spooky vibe, and some stores have entwined it with witches and ghost silhouettes.

I’m so busy trying to commit all the details to memory that I don’t notice Mrs. Winston walking toward us until I almost bump into her. She’s holding an enormous bunch of carrots.

“Oh, Holiday dear, excuse me.”

I take hold of her arm before she falls. “Sorry, Mrs. Winston, my fault, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Not to worry. I’m glad I bumped into you girls,” she says, her head bobbing between Clemmie and me. “I’ve just made a lovely batch of blackcurrant jam. I’ll drop some over to your cottage. Or better yet, you must come over for tea to try it. I’ll make scones.”

“We’d love to,” Clemmie replies for both of us.

“Good, good. I’ll be in touch. Next week perhaps.” She smiles, offering a little wave of the carrots as she does. “Anyway, must dash, need to get these to Churchill. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You don’t want to take that goat with you, do you?” mumbles Clemmie, before Mrs. Winston is out of earshot. “I think this might be the year he meets his demise if he’s caught in the apple orchard again.”

My laugh dissolves into a sob, and I’m wiping my face.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to cry,” she continues, wrapping her arms around me. “I’m sure it won’t come to that. Churchill will live forever.”

I see what she’s doing, and I’m grateful. I know she’ll listen if I want to talk about Lando, but I truthfully don’t know what to say.

When we start walking again, I notice a crowd waiting outside Agatha Chase’s Love Emporium. Way more than usual, and there’s always a lot because it’s easily the most popular store in Valentine Nook.

I guess broken hearts are big business.

“Wow, Agatha’s busy today.”

“It’s some special full moon, and Halloween’s coming up. It’s her second busiest time after Valentine’s Day.” Clemmie shrugs, slowing her stride, but with no intention of stopping.

After Clemmie pulled us away from her on my first trip around the village, and Lando practically sprinted in the opposite direction, I decided maybe it was best if I didn’t investigate. But now I’m tempted, so I stop.

It’s the big pink neon signs for love potions, spells, and rituals that pull me in. Giant amethysts have been placed in the window next to times and openings for tarot readings, and crystal baths promising to heal your female energy.

“I want to go in.”

“Okay, but take it with a pinch of salt. She’s kind of intense.” Clemmie sighs and walks toward the door.

I thumb to the back of the crowd, consisting of mostly teenage girls. “Don’t we need to get in line?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “They’re here for readings.”

I follow her into the store, and I’m immediately hit with the scent in the air—sweet and thick from the burning incense—and it makes me feel lightheaded.

It’s surprisingly spacious inside, set out like an apothecary, with shelves of drawers filled with herbs you can scoop out yourself, and bottles of colored liquid labeled with names such as “Love No. 1,” “Full Moon Protection Spray,” and a dozen different “potions.” It’s gimmicky, but it’s cute, and I kind of wish I hadn’t waited so long to come in.

A couple of women are being kept busy behind the counter, while another restocks shelves.

I’m wondering where Agatha is when I hear a jangle of bracelets behind me.

When I turn around, she’s standing in front of me.

Up close, she’s much younger than I thought, maybe in her fifties, with flawless skin and piercing green eyes.

It’s her long, pale gray hair that gives the impression she’s closer to one hundred.

“Hey, Agatha,” Clemmie says.

“Hello, Clementine, my dear, your heart’s still brooding, I see. It won’t for much longer.”

“Thanks, but I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t need to,” Agatha replies haughtily.

My head snaps to Clemmie because I haven’t known her to brood over anything. She’s never mentioned a guy to me, and I’m so distracted that I don’t notice Agatha reaching for my hand before it’s too late.

“You must be Holiday.”

I nod eventually. “Yes.”

As she stares at me, her eyes lose focus. “I’ve been waiting for you to come and see me?—”

I snatch my hand away and turn to Clemmie, whose mouth is pursed tight.

She wasn’t kidding when she said Agatha was intense.

I’ve been in here a minute, and I already know I can’t bear the idea of her telling me that things happen for a reason, or I’m doing the right thing, or love will find me again.

It feels like that’s exactly what she’s going to do.

In the end, she says, “Perhaps Orlando will see sense soon.” I have no fucking clue what that means.

Clemmie tugs on my arm. “Good to see you, Agatha. We’re going to look around.”

“As you wish. I just took delivery of some new crystals you might like. They’re in the corner.”

“Thanks.”

As much as Agatha might be a little kooky, the store is beautiful. We spend far longer than I expected to in here, but there’s so much stuff. In the end, I buy a pink tourmaline and rose gold pendant, which promises to connect to my heart and help me receive love and joy. God knows I need it.

I also buy one for Clemmie because I’m going to miss her just as much.

As I’m paying, Agatha drops in a bottle of Full Moon Protection Spray along with a twisted posy of sage and palo santo, and tells me she’ll see me soon. I don’t have the energy to correct her.

We leave as a group of girls enters the store, and it only takes one to ask, “Are you Holiday Simpson?” before they’re all requesting selfies.

I agree on one condition—that Clemmie is also in the photos.

I don’t know why I did it, but I do know these pictures are going up on social media because this is my real life. Where I’m famous enough that people want any tiny piece of me they can get, so they can then brag about it.

And somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain, I think that if Clemmie’s in them with me, it means there’s evidence that for a little while, my life here was real, too.