Page 58 of Christmas Is All Around
“And I think that’s it,” Sarah said, looking down at the list on her iPad that she was consulting. “I’ll keep monitoring the customer service email for the website and let you know if anything comes up over the weekend, but we’ve mainly been getting questions about Christmas shipping, so I’ve been referring them to the printing service that handles fulfillment, and I’ve added a banner that says that anything ordered after Monday won’t be shipped until after the new year. Oh…” She frowned down at her iPad. “I forgot—we got an inquiry from someone named Jamie Dyer—claims he knows your mom? He wants to commission invitations for an event. The lead time isn’t nearlyenough, given how long your wait list is, but since there was a family connection, I thought I should check with you. Want me to forward you the email?”
Charlotte sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah, send it to me and I’ll take a look.” She was mildly surprised that her mom had had the follow-through to relay her message to Dyer in a timely manner. It felt almost… considerate. As though she were actually trying to help.
Huh.
“Okay,” Sarah said, making a note on the iPad and setting it aside. “Then I think that’s all I have for today.”
“Perfect,” Charlotte said, stretching; she was in leggings and a cashmere pullover, hunched over her laptop on her bed at Ava’s like a weird troll. She’d barely ventured out of her room all morning, except to fetch coffee and a banana, and she was now feeling the vague sense that it might be nice to approximate something of a normal human existence for the rest of the day.
Sarah smiled at her. “How’s London? All the pictures I see online make it look like a Christmas wonderland.”
“It is,” Charlotte said darkly. “Please understand I don’t consider that a compliment.”
“Because you’re an emotionally deficient Grinch who refuses to embrace the magic of the season,” Sarah said, without the slightest hint of awareness that Charlotte was, you know, the person who paid her.
“Sarah. You’re Jewish,” Charlotte pointed out.
“But I can still appreciate some nice Christmas decorations, because I’m not a holiday movie villain,” Sarah said cheerfully. “Good luck avoiding doing anything that would make your heart grow three sizes.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said dryly. “I’ll talk to you on Monday to wrap up any loose ends, all right?”
She waited for Sarah to wave goodbye before disconnecting the call, then closed her laptop. She might not like Christmas, but shedidlike the knowledge that her workload would be considerably lighter for the next couple of weeks, particularly once they closed the shop on Monday night. She wouldn’t be fully relaxing—she needed to finish her sample materials for her meeting with Perfect Paper—but at least she wouldn’t have other deadlines to worry about. (And, crucially, could step back from Instagram a bit, which would offer a nice respite from the slowing-but-still-active trickle of DMs from people accusing her of hating all forms of joy.) Once this meeting was behind her, whatever the outcome, she planned to spend January working on a new set of prints to unveil, though she hadn’t decided what the theme was going to be—she liked to release small collections all centered on a given theme and hadn’t picked her next one yet. Usually, by this time, she had it all in mind, had been sketching away as ideas struck her, but she was feeling a bit flat this year. Though, considering how much she’d had going on lately—avoiding deranged teenagers in Central Park; cohabitating with demon-possessed babies; having sex with emotionally repressed British men—she thought it was understandable that she was a bit off her game.
She pondered this further as she showered, blew her hair dry, and put on a green wool dress that she was very sure made her legs look incredible—not that there was anyone around at the moment to appreciate them. Ava, John, and Simone had strapped a protesting Alice into her stroller and gone to watch Kit don a Santa suit and run a 5K, surrounded by a bunch of other people in Santa suits, which was one of those events that Charlotte wouldloveto watch someone attempt to explain to an alien visiting the planet.
Now, she found herself alone, with an entire afternoon to fill stretching before her. This felt strangely luxurious. She thought for a moment of texting Graham, but something gave her pause. She’dspent most nights this week at his flat: he’d cook her dinner, if she arrived early enough; they’d watch TV together; in the mornings, he’d wake her up with a mug of coffee and a kiss. She told herself that she was there for the sex—and the sex was undeniably fantastic—but something within her worried that this was more than that. The sight of him, first thing in the morning, with bedhead and a crease from the pillow on his cheek, did weird things to her chest, and she didn’t trust it—didn’t trust this feeling. On the mornings she wasn’t at his flat, he was the first person she wanted to text upon awakening—and for this reason, she didn’t let herself text him now. She had a free afternoon, and she was going to spend it alone—shelikedbeing alone. She shouldn’t have had to remind herself of that fact.
She pulled on her coat, shoved her phone and a credit card into her smallest purse, and set off on foot. She stopped into a café for a sandwich, then browsed in a bookshop, relishing the feeling of being alone, with an afternoon free, no deadlines weighing on her mind. Eventually she hopped on a bus and made her way to the Victoria and Albert Museum. She loved the V&A and made a point of visiting each time she came to see Ava, but hadn’t yet popped in on this trip. It was crowded, but everywhere in London was crowded and nauseatingly festive at the moment, so at least being surrounded by artwork made the preponderance of plaid and Christmas sweaters a bit easier to ignore. She lingered for a while at the fashion exhibit, which was always one of her favorites—they were currently displaying a Regency-era waistcoat in a yellow paisley pattern that was quite honestly one of the ugliest articles of clothing she’d ever seen—and then spent a while on the Islamic art, reading every single placard and suddenly gripped with a strong desire to buy new pottery for her apartment in New York.
It was only later, as she was browsing in the gift shop on the wayout, that she spotted it: a stylish-looking biography, the cover art showcasing a famous pattern she recognized all too well.
Christian Calloway: An Intimate Biography.
She hesitated for only a split second before taking it to the till.
And then took it home and, while she was enjoying an afternoon glass of brandy-laced apple cider, began to read.
And read.
And read.
And by the time she was done, she was feeling remarkablyangry.
Which was why it was now December 22, at 6 p.m., and she found herself on Graham’s front steps, clutching a book, a bottle of wine, and the shreds of her righteous indignation.
“Hi,” he said as he opened the door. He’d been down at Eden Priory all day Saturday and half of today, and this was the first time she’d seen him since Friday morning, when she’d left his flat. She had at least texted to make sure he was home and free tonight, and he’d responded right away, inviting her for dinner.
“Hello,” she said, sweeping past him into his flat, her moral outrage withering somewhat under the smell of something absolutelyincrediblecoming from the kitchen. “I hope you’re prepared for an evening of cinema.”
“I—what?” He trailed after her as she made her way to the kitchen, setting down the bottle of wine on the counter and reaching for the corkscrew she knew he kept in a particular drawer.
“I’ve been doing some reading, you see,” she said, nodding at the biography she’d tossed imperiously onto the kitchen island. “And I have alotof thoughts.”
Graham picked up the book, frowning down at the cover. “I remember this one,” he said slowly, flipping it over so he could read the back jacket copy. “I think my dad was interviewed by the author.”
“He was,” Charlotte confirmed. “He’s quoted several times.”
“Did youreadthis?” he asked, glancing up from the book to raise an eyebrow at her.
