Page 17 of Christmas Is All Around
“So,” Charlotte said, breaking off the end of the slice of thick, brown bread that had come with her soup, “you’re trying to convert your family home into some sort of shrine to a Christmas movie?” She avoided mentioningChristmas, Trulyby name, for reasons that were probably weird and illogical, telling herself that if she didn’t name it directly, it wouldn’t seem strange if (when) he eventually found out her personal connection to the movie.
Across the table from her, Graham sighed, then ate a spoonful of soup before setting his spoon down with a clatter and saying, very bluntly, “No.” Seeing Charlotte’s confused look, he added, “My mum and sisters want to, though.”
“But you don’t?”
He rubbed at his nose, dislodging his glasses slightly. “The house survived for decades before that goddamn film came out, so I don’t think we need to go all in onChristmas, Trulynow.”
“But you want to see how other houses are dealing with their connection to Christmas movies…” she prompted, still a bit confused.
“To see if there’s a way to work it in without turning the whole house into some sort of nightmarish tourist trap,” he said, lifting his spoon to his mouth again. “The print series for the gift shop isfine—it’s a nice way to capitalize on the film, I think, but not over-the-top—but this screening ofChristmas, Trulythat Eloise has planned is the least of her ideas for the house, and I don’t want us to get too far away from focusing on my great-great-grandfather’s legacy.”
Charlotte ate her soup in silence for a moment, contemplating. “Is it only recently that there have been money issues?” she asked, realizing that this was probably a rude question only after the words had already slipped out.
His mouth was set in a grim line. “Owning an old house is expensive, and always has been—my dad worked in corporate law, nearly killed himself with long hours for as long as I can remember, in part so that we could afford the upkeep on the house, since we’ve never made enough from tours and events to entirely pay for the maintenance. Turns out, even that wasn’t enough—but I didn’t realize it until recently.” There was a closed-off note to his voice as he relayed this information that told her that this was a sensitive subject for him; considering this was the third time they’d ever met, she didn’t feel comfortable prying, but the way he spoke of his dad made her wonder, so…
“Your dad,” she said carefully. “Is he—”
“Dead.” His tone was short. Final. “Two years ago.”
She swallowed. “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded, and returned his attention to his soup, leaving Charlotte to slowly tear a piece of bread into smaller and smaller pieces while trying to figure out how to make this a bit less uncomfortable a conversation. Her usual bluntness didn’t seem like quite the right fit for a delicate moment like this, and she definitely didn’t think that any further questions on this topic would be welcomed.
“You said you live in New York?” he asked, glancing up at her after another couple of moments, and she latched onto this questiongratefully. She had a higher tolerance than most for an awkward silence, but something about Graham made her feel uncomfortable in her own skin.
“Yes,” she said. “Born and raised. I moved away for school, and then moved back as soon as I graduated.”
“Seems like an expensive place to live, as an artist.”
“It is,” she confirmed with a grimace. “But my best friend moved there after college, and my parents were there for a long time—not anymore, though—and it’s just… home. There’s nowhere else that I like as much, so I never really considered leaving.” Even if some of the things—the people—who had made it feel like home were no longer there. She didn’t voice this thought, instead asking, “Do you like living in London?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t think too much about it—it was always a given, you know? I wasn’t going to stay in Hampshire—there was no way I could find a job in the village, not the sort I’d need, if I was going to support Eden Priory someday. So I moved to London for uni and studied accounting, and I’ve been there ever since.”
His phone buzzed on the table and he glanced down at the screen, a frown creasing his forehead. He set down his spoon and quickly began to type. Charlotte ate her soup in a thoughtful silence, casting surreptitious glances at him between spoonfuls. “Sorry,” he said, glancing back up at her after a couple of minutes, “but I need to get back into town—I’ve a call I need to take.”
“Sure thing,” she said, scraping her spoon along the bottom of her bowl. She crumbled up her paper napkin and tossed it into her empty bowl, then rose to her feet. And then—maybe because of the frown that had left deep lines in his forehead, or the tense note in his voice when he spoke of his dad, or maybe just because something ineffable about him made her want to talk to him, made her care what he had to say in return—she said, “I’ll probably go to thenext filming location later this week—it’s in Primrose Hill, right?” He nodded; she paused, and then added, “You could join me, if you wanted.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then raised that goddamn eyebrow and said, “All right.”
And she tried not to be too happy about his answer.
CHAPTER SIX
Two days later, Charlotte was trying her very hardest not to be charmed.
“Why is this so cute?” she demanded as they walked up Regent’s Park Road and into the neighborhood of Primrose Hill; the street was dotted with small shops and restaurants, there were terraced houses painted in various shades of pastels, and the entire vibe was like what an American’s dream of a charming London street would look like. There were Christmas decorations everywhere—sparkling lights, greenery, cheerful wreaths, even windows with snowflakes painted on them. Charlotte sternly reminded herself that she was not the sort of idiot that would be taken in by a bit of festive cheer.
“Because it’s where posh people live,” Graham replied.
“Says the man whose family owns a house with aname.”
“Touché.” She glanced sideways at him in time to catch a fleeting dimple in his cheek as he bit back a smile. She personally thought men shouldn’t be allowed to have dimples. He was wearing a navy-blue wool coat over a pair of jeans, and a plaid scarf was knotted around his neck. His dark hair was mussed slightly by the wind, andthere was a day’s worth of stubble on his face. None of this was at all interesting to her, obviously.
“Where is this square, exactly?” she asked.
He nodded at a street up ahead. “We’ll turn right there, and it’s just round the corner.”
Their destination was Chalcot Square, in which a Christmas party in an early aughts rom-com had taken place. Charlotte had never seen the movie in question—it wasn’t, strictly speaking, a Christmas movie, rather a movie with an iconic Christmas scene—but from what she gathered from being a human on the internet, its heroine was a magazine editor (like the heroines of approximately 50 percent of the rom-coms in existence) who lived in an improbably fabulous flat and had many romantic travails while trying to plan her best friend’s New Year’s Eve bachelorette party. (Why on earth anyone in their right mind would have a bachelorette party on New Year’s Eve was not ever addressed, as far as Charlotte could tell.) Charlotte had taken a quick YouTube journey through some of its highlights the night before, and had found it extremely annoying, with two potential love interests who had the charisma of a bowl of oatmeal.
