Page 31 of Christmas Is All Around
“It’s part of my evil plan to make you realize that this holiday is a nightmare invented by capitalism.”
“Might need to check with some religious scholars on that one, Lane,” he said dryly, and as she turned her attention back to her sketch, she couldn’t prevent the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“So this is what hell looks like.”
“That’s the spirit. Very charming. Have I mentioned what a radiant font of holiday joy you are?”
“I’m sorry that not all of us were born with some sort of deranged need to charm the pants off every person we meet.”
“Have I charmedyourpants off?”
“I do seem to be wearing them, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I think you’ve forgotten that ‘pants’ means something different in Britain than it does in America.”
“If you discuss my underwear again, I am going to shove you into that fountain.”
“Noted.”
They were in Trafalgar Square, which was a truly harrowing placethis time of year, particularly for someone who had not the slightest desire to elbow her way through the teeming hordes of tourists solely to get a photo of a Christmas tree.
They’d wandered this way once she’d finished her sketches and taken enough photos of the mansion block that she felt confident she could re-create it in detail later on; Graham, meanwhile, had vanished into the hotel, pausing to chat with the doorman for a couple of minutes on the way in. He’d returned about ten minutes later, looking exceedingly grim, and reported that the hotel seemed to “have no concerns for their dignity,” because there was a photo opportunity by one of the lobby Christmas trees, in which visitors could take photos with cardboard cutouts of the movie characters. This had made Charlotte laugh for about a minute straight, while Graham had sat next to her on the bench, looking pained.
“Donotmention this to Eloise; I don’t want to give her any ideas,” he said darkly.
“Youaretrying to figure out how to capitalize on yourChristmas, Trulyfame,” she said, once she’d stopped laughing. “This could be the way!”
“I’m trying to work out how to do it in anon-horrifyingway, if you recall,” he said repressively. “And I don’t think you’ll be laughing ifyouend up as one of the cardboard cutouts,” he added, which was enough to shut Charlotte up in a hurry.
By the time they’d arrived in Trafalgar Square after nearly forty-five minutes of walking, she had to admit that Graham was right, and the notion of running that route in heeled boots was, frankly, insane.
“Please remove me from this terrifying nightmare,” she said, eyeing the ridiculous lines of people at the various food stalls at the Christmas market that had been erected in the square. Even Graham was looking a bit harried by this point, so they took refuge in the National Gallery. “At least it’s warm in here,” she said as they left theircoats at coat check and set off at a slow, meandering pace. Compared to the crowds outside, taking selfies in front of the Christmas tree and browsing the stalls at the pop-up market, the museum, crowded as it was, felt like something of an oasis of calm.
“Do you have anything you wanted to see?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not particularly—if you don’t mind just wandering? I haven’t been here in a few years.”
“I don’t think I have, either,” he confessed as they set off. “When I was at my previous job, I never had time.”
“Financial accounting,” she said vaguely, recalling their previous conversation and trying not to sound too bored at the thought. Charlotte had never had a proper desk job—had left school and immediately used her savings (thank you,Christmas, Truly) to launch her business and keep herself afloat those first few years—but she was pretty confident that there were lots (and lots) of traditional nine-to-five jobs that would be more interesting than whatever Graham had done, until recently, for work.
“Yeah, with a consulting firm in the City. Long hours, late nights, pretty much what you’d expect. And on the weekends, my girlfriend never wanted to come back into central London—not when we spent so much time here during the week already.” He paused, then cleared his throat. “Myex-girlfriend,” he added quietly, and something within Charlotte loosened.
“Did you… like it?” she asked, in part because she didn’t want to address the ex-girlfriend question head-on, in part because she was actually curious.
“It was fine.” He sighed, running a hand through his neatly combed hair. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, as if he’d had several late nights recently. She wondered precisely how serious the financial situation at Eden Priory was, for him to look like this.
Unless—the thought suddenly occurred to her—the late nightsthat his face offered proof of were not from work or worry at all, but from something more fun. He might have spent a couple of days with Charlotte, but she had no idea how he was spending his nights—and his comment about his ex-girlfriend really hadn’t done anything to clarify that question.
And it was definitely, definitely none of her business.
“I was always good at maths, so it wasn’t as though I wasn’t suited to the work—I wanted a career that would allow me to save enough to serve as a cushion for Eden Priory, like my dad did; we’d be in a lot worse trouble right now if he’d not worked in corporate law. And I—well. I didn’t want my sisters to have to worry about that, when it came time for them to decide what to study. I wanted them to be able to do something they loved.”
She hesitated, then asked, “If you could do any job, what would it be? If you didn’t have the house—if you didn’t need to worry.”
He was silent for long enough that she wondered if he was going to reply at all; they passed a large group of French tourists and found themselves before a Turner painting of a ship listing in a turbulent sea. Turner had never been her favorite, personally—too many ships; too many ocean scenes in general—but pretty much anything seemed impressive when you slapped a large gilt frame on it and hung it in a setting as spectacular as this one.
“I’d like to work for… a nonprofit, some sort of charity,” he said softly, at last. “I’m good at what I do, but it would be nice to use those skills for something that felt a bit more worthwhile.” He hesitated, and Charlotte remained silent, hoping that, if she didn’t say anything, he wouldn’t realize she was there, gaining this rare insight into his head—his heart. “A friend of mine from uni works at a firm that specializes in nonprofit accounting,” he said quietly. “He tried to recruit me, a couple of years ago—right around the time when my dad got sick. But it would have been a pretty big pay cut, and with my dadhaving to step back from his job around that time… it felt irresponsible.”
