Page 4 of Christmas Is All Around
“I’m sure it will blow over soon, dear,” Simone said, rising and making her way toward the doorway leading to the kitchen; Kit had been alarmingly silent for several minutes now, which Charlotte hoped meant that he was preparing a simple meal with no great drama, and not that he was dead. Simone leaned down and offered Charlotte a comforting pat on the shoulder in passing.
Simone was probably right, Charlotte knew objectively—the internet had a collective attention span of approximately twelve seconds, and no doubt someone would creepily live-tweet innocent interactions between strangers on an airplane or make a TikTok about a kid who liked a vegetable any day now, and Charlotte could retreat into peaceful anonymity. However, the entire experience of the past week had thrown her for a loop, and she was feeling a bit rattled at the moment.
The problem, in short, was this:
Twenty years earlier, Charlotte had appeared in a movie.
This wasn’t as surprising as it sounded—her father was an ac-claimed director of critically beloved, commercially underperform-ing art-house films, but his closest friend directed commercial hits, and he’d been looking to cast a precocious, well-spoken, extremely adorable kid in his ensemble holiday rom-com. It had taken nothing more than a look at Charlotte—quietly working on her math homework at the kitchen table—for the wheels to be set into motion. She had not particularly enjoyed the experience—the number of people who stared at you every time you had to recite a line was not something she’d been warned about, and she’d found it mildly terrifying—but it had been easy enough to put the whole thing behind her. Her parents had been—continued to be—disappointed that she’d had no further interest in an acting career, but sheshouldhave been able to move on and never think about it again.
Except for one problem: the movie in question—Christmas, Truly, which Charlotte continued to believe was the stupidest title for any movie made this century—had been a hit.
A big, big hit.
The sort of hit that appeared on television multiple times every holiday season, that people quoted from, that was the subject of endless memes on the internet. That sparked countless think pieces onwhether the various plotlines were sexist, fatphobic, deeply problematic on every level. (To which Charlotte could have easily replied: yes, yes, and yes. It was made in 2004! It was not a good time for The Culture!)
All of this ultimately didn’t affect Charlotte’s life much, particularly once she grew older, cut her long mane of blonde hair to her shoulders, and got contacts. She’d changed her look just enough, and been just young enough at the time of filming, that she got recognized far less frequently these days than she had in middle school and high school, which was just how she liked it. She’d completely ignored her parents’ dreams for her future, studied at RISD, and then, after graduation, used the padding in her savings account provided by the residuals she’d earned from the movie to set up her own business as an artist. She hadn’t been above using her minor fame at times in the past when it was convenient for her—a splashy profile in an online magazine about “Tallulah fromChristmas, Truly’s adorable new stationery line” had caused a bump in much-needed sales as she was starting out, to be honest—but, for the most part, her brief career as a precocious child star hadn’t had much of an impact on her life as an adult.
Until now.
UntilVarietyhad published a piece absolutely bursting with quotes from an “anonymous source” who was “well-placed at the studio” that revealed that the entire cast ofChristmas, Trulyhad been convinced to sign on for a reboot of the original.
Except for one Charlotte Lane. (Or, as she’d been credited in the original movie, in horrifyingly cutesy fashion, “Charlie Rose Lane.”)
And since a large part of the vision for said reboot involved Charlotte’s character, Tallulah, marrying the other former child star from the original movie, this had cast a huge wrench into these plans. Charlotte didn’t see why they couldn’t just write around her—orrecast her, for god’s sake; it’s not as though there wasn’t a bountiful supply of blonde actresses in Hollywood who’d be delighted to land this job—but the entire article had been written in such a way as to cast blame on her for the reboot’s failure to get off the ground
Charlotte hadn’t predicted this level of hysteria. The people had already been appeased with aMean Girlsreboot—how much more tepid revisiting of early aughts pop culture was necessary? But her Instagram—which had a sizable following, since she used it to promote her artwork—had been flooded with messages ranging from disappointed to distraught to hostile to extremely disturbing. Charlotte had utilized the block button with cheerful abandon and told herself that the entire thing would blow over soon enough.
Until the encounter with the wildly indignant child (fine, teenager) in Central Park, which had been the last straw; before she’d even arrived home that afternoon, Charlotte had been on the phone with Ava, confirming that it would, in fact, be all right if her weeklong visit at Christmas turned into a six-week vacation instead.
And here she was.
And all she could do—aside from hoping to god that Kit and Ava had been exaggerating the extent of Alice’s current sleep regression, because Charlotte did not function well on anything less than eight hours of uninterrupted slumber per night—was hope that it would blow over soon enough.
She was in London, not New York. Surely no one here cared. Surely she could have a peaceful English respite, get ahead on work, and return to New York in the new year feeling refreshed and—crucially—no longer fearing for her safety at the hands of rogue sixteen-year-olds.
Surely.
CHAPTER TWO
Please don’t complain,” Ava began, which was an absurd thing to be asked by a woman who had once gone into hysterics when her favorite eye cream had been discontinued.
Charlotte blinked up at her from her coffee mug. The tiny guest room in Kit and Ava’s flat was directly next to the nursery. This was hardly surprising, the realities of the London real estate market being what they were, but it did make for a less-than-ideal night’s sleep. She spared a passing, longing thought for her cozy apartment in Brooklyn, with the blue bedroom she’d painted herself, and the alcove nook she’d converted into a desk and studio space. It was the first place she’d ever lived alone, the refuge she’d created for herself after her last, terrible breakup. Until recently, Padma and her new husband, Andrew, had lived a couple of blocks away, their proximity more of a comfort than she’d fully realized, until they were gone. It was, admittedly, eye-wateringly expensive, but it washers,and her bed was exactly the right firmness and her next-door neighbor was a divorced jewelry designer who threw fabulous dinner parties but, blessedly, had zero children.
“But Simone wants to go to visit some stately home out in thecountryside this afternoon for their Christmas lights switch-on,” Ava continued.
Charlotte resisted the urge to groan by taking another large sip of coffee. It was Saturday, only three days after her arrival, and she’d already been subjected to a series of breathless monologues from Simone on the subject of the Christmas merriment that awaited them over the next month. Charlotte, who liked Kit’s parents but generally attempted to tone down her bluntness in their company, had done her best to nod politely and make noises of vague encouragement that went some way toward disguising her actual feelings on the matter.
She knew from previous visits to see Ava at the holidays that London was extremely enthusiastic about Christmas. But she lived in New York! All of Midtown Manhattan was a terrifying, glistening, Christmassy nightmare from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Eve, so it wasn’t as though she wasn’t used to it.
One thing that the English were inescapably, dementedly fond of, however, was the ceremonial switching-on of Christmas lights—and these festivities had been in full swing this week. Charlotte didn’t know if she had it in her to attend another such event, and was just beginning to attempt to formulate an excuse that she could offer for staying home instead, when Ava added this tantalizing detail:
“It’s at the house that belonged to Christian Calloway.”
Charlotte’s head shot up. “TheChristian Calloway?” Calloway was a Victorian-era artist who had been involved in the Arts and Crafts movement, and had been famous for his intricate prints, used on textiles and wallpapers.
“I don’t know how many others there are.” Ava winced at the sound of a squawk from the direction of the nursery. “Kit!” she hollered at a pitch that Charlotte personally thought should be illegal at eight fifteen on a Saturday morning. “Your offspring is awake!”
There was a thump, followed by some mumbled cursing from the living room, where Kit was attempting to wrestle a Christmas tree into a stand, Ava having awoken that morning determined that the tree move indoors from its spot in the back garden, where it had languished for two days since being acquired, no one being able to face the task of decorating with a maniacal baby.
