Christmas Is All Around

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

This was, Charlotte decided fifteen minutes later, the most absurd thing that had happened in a day that had already involved being accosted by a Christmas, Truly fan and witnessing a man stripping out of a reindeer suit in front of her.

“… certain they didn’t really leave you,” the erstwhile Mrs. Cratchit was saying, after having rattled off the Wi-Fi password to Charlotte, who had returned to the house after confirming that both Ava and Kit’s car and the one belonging to the Adeoyes were nowhere in sight; she’d gone on one last desperate loop around the ground floor of the house before conceding that she’d been abandoned. Now able to communicate with the outside world again, she pulled up WhatsApp and called her sister.

Ava answered on the second ring. “Hi, Charlotte. What’s up?”

Charlotte inhaled slowly. “Is that all you have to say to me right now?”

“Um,” Ava said slowly, sounding wary. “Yes? Is there something else I should be saying?”

“Did you forget something before leaving?” Charlotte asked, barely keeping a leash on her temper.

A lengthy pause. “I have Alice’s diaper bag—”

“Ava!” Charlotte snapped. “Why am I still standing at Eden Priory while the rest of you are nowhere in sight?”

There was a muffled curse, then a slight pause. Ava’s voice came back now, a bit tinny, and Charlotte was fairly certain she’d been put on speaker. “Oh no, my text never went through. Simone and I were going to change Alice’s diaper and find you and head out, but Alice had a complete meltdown, so I texted Kit asking if he could find you instead and you could ride home with him—”

“And the text didn’t send, because the cell service at this house is absolute shit,” Charlotte said with a sigh. Just as the handsome, bespectacled reindeer man had said.

“Let me call Kit now, and he and John can turn around and come get you—”

“Or I can just get a cab to the station and catch the next train back to London,” Charlotte said, not relishing the prospect. Hampshire wasn’t that far, but she doubted there was a direct train from a village this small, and it was dark and growing cold and she was tired. A flicker at the corner of her eye caught her attention. The costumed brunette was waving her hand to catch Charlotte’s attention.

“Hold on a sec, Ava,” Charlotte said into the phone, and then lowered it.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the brunette said, in the sort of refined, BBC English accent that most Americans thought all inhabitants of the British Isles possessed. “I couldn’t help overhearing—you don’t need a lift back to London by any chance, do you? My brother and I are headed in that direction in just a bit, and we could take you.”

“I do,” Charlotte said, not particularly relishing a drive back to the city in the company of complete strangers, but practical enough to realize it was a tidy solution. The harried brunette didn’t seem like a serial killer—though the best serial killers probably didn’t seem like serial killers, either, she reflected. “It might be out of your way, though,” she hedged, wondering if she should take Ava up on her offer to call Kit instead. “I’m heading to Chiswick.”

The brunette waved a hand. “Graham’s in Chiswick, too, so it’s no trouble! I’m sure he’d be more than happy to help—Graham! Graham! ”

She waved her hand wildly in the direction of someone past Charlotte’s shoulder, and she turned slowly, only to be faced with the handsome, bespectacled reindeer man. Who was the harried brunette’s brother. And neither of them seemed to be costumed performers, hired for the night; rather, they knew the Wi-Fi password, spoke with some authority about the house—the harried brunette was even now murmuring instructions to the mulled-wine vendor. It was almost as if…

Almost as if this was their event. And, therefore, their house.

And now Charlotte was even more certain that these people weren’t serial killers—because, clearly, they were Calloways.

“Ava,” Charlotte said slowly, “I think I’ve got it figured out—no need for anyone to come get me.”

“Great!” Ava said, half-cheerful, half-distracted, and the line abruptly went dead.

“Hello,” the former reindeer said warily, approaching them slowly. He had his phone in one hand again, and was frowning down at it.

“Graham!” the brunette said brightly, turning back to Charlotte. “This is—oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

“Charlotte.”

“Charlotte,” she repeated, eyeing her with a bit more interest, which made Charlotte uneasy. Surely this woman didn’t recognize her, too? “I’m Eloise!” she introduced, before adding, “Eloise Calloway,” as an afterthought, confirming Charlotte’s suspicion.

“Calloway,” she repeated. “Meaning that this house… belongs to you?”

Eloise laughed. “My parents, really, but yes.” She paused, and something dark flickered across her face, but quickly vanished. “Anyway!” she continued. “Graham—we can give Charlotte a lift back to Chiswick, can’t we? She’s been left behind.”

“Has she?” he asked his sister, but keeping his eyes locked on Charlotte. He raised a single eyebrow at her, looking some cross between smug and amused, and she frowned at him.

“You weren’t kidding about the cell signal here,” she informed him, and a dimple had the audacity to appear in one cheek as he suppressed a smile.

“Where’s Mum?” Eloise asked her brother now, hopping out of the way when a man carrying a large tuba came barreling past.

“In the red drawing room. The roof’s leaking,” Graham said to his sister, the set of his mouth grim. “Again.”

Eloise sighed. “Does she need any help?”

“I’ve set up the usual buckets,” he said, with the weary air of someone who had lots of experience with the travails of owning a very old house. “I’ll ring the roofers tomorrow.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, slightly dislodging his glasses in the process. There was a red mark on his skin where they rested, almost as if he’d been pressing his hands to them at some point that day.

“All right,” Eloise said, biting her lip. “Does she know we’re leaving?”

“I’ll let her know,” he said, a bit shortly, and turned and began weaving his way through the dispersing musicians and mulled-wine sellers.

“We’ll meet you at the car!” Eloise called brightly after his retreating back. “Come along, Charlotte!”

And Charlotte, feeling as though she’d just been taken captive by the world’s most charming and determined kidnapper, felt that she had little option but to follow.

The car was a Mini Cooper in racing green, and Charlotte was more charmed by this than she wanted to be. The notion of owning a car while living in a major city was a novelty to her; she hadn’t driven in years.

The car itself looked as though it had seen better days; there was a dent in one door, and it had the mud crawling up its tires and sides that was the hallmark of any vehicle that had driven down a country lane.

“This car,” Eloise muttered, kicking it in an affectionate sort of way. “Do you know it already had the dent when he bought it used? He thinks it gives it character.”

“Have you considered punching him in the nose to see if he thinks it gives his face character?” Charlotte asked, and Eloise cackled. Just then, there was the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps crunching on gravel; Graham was jogging toward them, a wool coat flung over one arm and a messenger bag over the opposite shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said, slightly breathless. “I should have given you the keys.”

“I was contemplating breaking a window,” Eloise informed him. “It might have improved the looks of this car.”

“For that, you can sit in the back seat,” he said lightly. He turned to Charlotte and opened the passenger door. “After you.”

Within ten minutes, they’d made their way down the winding gravel drive, up the narrow country lane that led to the house (Charlotte closing her eyes and hoping fervently, as she had on the journey down that afternoon, that they did not meet any oncoming traffic, because in no universe was this road wide enough for two cars), and onto the A road that would lead them north. Eloise had been largely responsible for maintaining the flow of conversation thus far, chattering away about her job doing educational outreach at Kew Gardens, their younger sister Lizzie, who was a fashion design student at Central Saint Martins, and the full program of Christmas festivities that would be on offer at Eden Priory that season. Charlotte had mostly directed her attention out the window, though it did her little good—it was fully dark, and she could see nothing other than dark lumps that she thought were hedges, and the occasional welcoming lights of farmhouses or far-off villages.

Eventually, however, Eloise fell silent, and then, belatedly seeming to think that she had been remiss in her hostess duties, she asked, “Charlotte, what do you do?”

“I’m an artist,” Charlotte said absently, still staring out the window. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Graham’s head turn in her direction, lightning-fast, before turning back to the road ahead.

“Oh! What kind of art?” Eloise asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Watercolors, mainly,” Charlotte said, shifting in her seat. “I do some acrylics, too, depending on the project. I run a shop through my website where I sell prints—lots of florals and citrus fruits and patterns like that—and then I also accept commissions, and have done some brand collaborations—limited-edition stationery lines, that sort of thing. People often commission me to paint their vacation cottage, or childhood home, or something—they’ll send me a photo to work off.”

“And the occasional interior?” Graham asked casually, and Charlotte’s head turned slowly toward his. In profile, his attention still fixed on the road, she could see the fine cut of his jaw— not helpful, brain, thank you —but also the amused curve of his mouth.

“Occasionally,” she agreed.

“Am I missing something?” Eloise asked, leaning forward.

Graham’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror to look at his sister. “We met earlier this evening—she was hiding in the nook behind the stairs.”

“Ha! Graham’s spot!” Eloise said, laughing gleefully. “Was he absolutely awful to you?” she asked Charlotte. “He’s so possessive of that goddamn bench.”

“No, he just started stripping.”

“Graham, what the hell?” Eloise braced her arms on the back of his seat. “Do you want to get arrested?”

“My reindeer costume,” he clarified.

“Well, you should be arrested for that, too,” Eloise said darkly, leaning back against her seat. “You did not appreciate my creative vision.”

“Were the costumes your idea?” Charlotte asked warily.

“They were!” Eloise said brightly, looking extremely pleased with herself. She dusted at the apron she was still wearing. “Graham’s planned most of the events at the house lately, but I thought a Christmas lights switch-on is a bit dull , you know?”

Charlotte remained diplomatically silent, which was fine since Eloise didn’t seem to actually be looking for a response.

“—so if the whole family channeled the spirit of beloved Christmas characters of the past, it would liven things up a bit! I wanted to write us an entire skit, but Graham said we should just let people take photos with us instead.”

Charlotte turned to Graham inquiringly. “Do tell. Which specific reindeer were you? I assume you fully studied the character’s background so that you could properly channel its spirit.”

“Dasher,” he said, not missing a beat, his eyes still on the road. “I like to run. Seems like the deer and I could relate to each other.”

“Does Dasher refer to his running speed or his flying speed, though?” Charlotte asked thoughtfully.

“I promise you, I do not give a fuck.”

“ This is why you always ruin things,” Eloise said, pouting. “You need to give more fucks, Graham. I wanted those people to believe that you were Dasher.”

“Seems like a big ask from a bunch of felt,” he said, but he flashed a grin at his sister in the rearview mirror, quick and fleeting.

“ Anyway ,” Eloise said. “There was still no reason to strip out of your deer suit in front of a guest!”

“Don’t worry, she made her feelings on the matter very clear to me,” he said dryly, and Charlotte smiled smugly.

“I might have told him to go find a bathroom,” Charlotte admitted, not feeling terribly repentant. “I was trying to sketch the Christmas tree and the fireplace, and wasn’t thrilled when a guy showed up and randomly started removing a reindeer suit.”

“Which is how you know that she draws interiors, too,” Eloise said to her brother. She punched him in the shoulder.

“Have you lost your mind?” Graham inquired mildly. “Last I checked, physically assaulting the person driving the vehicle you’re riding in was a bad idea.” Despite his complaint, his hands hadn’t budged from their spot on the steering wheel, and the Mini Cooper remained firmly in its lane.

“Sorry, sorry,” Eloise said, making a show of remorse. “It’s a famous Christmas tree and fireplace, you know!”

Charlotte stilled. “Is it?” she asked coolly.

“It was in that Christmas film,” Eloise said cheerfully, apparently not noticing anything strange about Charlotte’s tone. “ Christmas, Truly —have you seen it? I’m sure you have.”

“I’m not a big Christmas movie fan,” Charlotte said carefully, which was both truthful and not really an answer to Eloise’s question. “Not a big Christmas fan, period.”

“Ha! You wouldn’t last long around Eden Priory!” Eloise said, laughing as she took her phone out of her apron pocket. “We get loads of visitors because of the film—we’re going to host a screening of it on Christmas Eve. ‘Watch Christmas, Truly in the room where it was filmed’—that sort of thing. And Graham’s decided that capitalizing on Christmas in general is how we’re going to make enough money to get a new roof and not have to live like tragic Dickens characters surrounded by buckets and eating porridge.”

“At least you’ll already have an outfit ready, if it comes to that,” Charlotte pointed out innocently, and next to her, Graham laughed quietly under his breath.

“You know,” Eloise said, sounding thoughtful now as she tapped away at her phone, “if you’re open to commissions, Charlotte, that might actually be a brilliant idea—a print we could sell in the gift shop, showing that scene from the film.”

Charlotte’s unease grew. “I don’t know—”

“I’m sure you’re busy,” Eloise said, still texting away on her phone, only half paying attention; next to Charlotte, however, she could somehow sense that Graham was listening carefully. “That isn’t a bad idea, though—Graham, maybe we should look into having someone else do it? If we can find an artist who’s local? Maybe we’d expand it to other Christmas films, too—not just Christmas, Truly .”

“Maybe,” he agreed neutrally, his eyes still on the road, and Charlotte snuck a glance at him.

“Has your house ever been used to film anything else?” she asked curiously. “It’s got great vibes—that turret alone…”

“No,” Graham said—not curt exactly, but not in a tone that invited any future questions. “Just the one.”

“It’s a shame, too,” Eloise said blithely, “since god knows we could use a nice fat check right about now—”

“We have a plan,” Graham said, his tone firm. “We don’t need a film crew overrunning the house—we’ve plenty of Christmas activities planned to keep us busy.”

“Mmm,” Eloise said, with a slight twist of her mouth, which Charlotte didn’t think was quite meant to express her agreement. “Well,” she said, more briskly, “Charlotte, now that you’ve visited the house, you should watch Christmas, Truly sometime—just to catch a glimpse of the spot you were drawing!”

“I’ll… consider it,” Charlotte said diplomatically.

“Liar,” Graham muttered under his breath, quiet enough that Eloise, in the back seat, couldn’t hear, and Charlotte flipped him off without missing a beat.

And tried not to notice how much she liked it when, once again, he let out that low, dark laugh.

By the time she was deposited at the flat, fussed over tearfully by Ava, apologized profusely to by Kit, subjected to a lengthy lecture by Simone on the tragedy of modern society’s overreliance on technology in order to communicate, and fed exceedingly large quantities of soup by John, Charlotte was ready for nothing more than a glass of wine and a long bath. Both of these things were arranged, although the relaxing, wine-fueled soak was somewhat less zen of an experience than she’d anticipated, interrupted as it was by what she genuinely, momentarily thought was the sound of someone being murdered. (It was actually just Alice staging a protest about being put to bed.)

She eventually crawled out of the tub, happily pruny and a bit lightheaded from the hot water, put on her favorite pin-striped pajama set, and retreated to bed with a hot water bottle, a thick nonfiction book she’d stolen from Kit’s bookshelf, and a vague plan for the work she planned to get done that week, and how she might use it as an excuse to avoid any further planned holiday outings, considering how this one had gone.

She hadn’t checked Instagram all day, and she reached for her phone on the nightstand, opening the app and publishing one of her draft posts—this one a carefully staged photo that her assistant had taken of a framed set of her prints decorating a wall to the left of a tabletop Christmas tree, with a reminder about deadlines for holiday shipping. A quick scroll through her DMs confirmed that, while the hysterical Christmas, Truly messages were still rolling in—a number of them from burner accounts that seemed to have been created solely for this purpose, which was honestly insane—they were at least starting to decrease slightly in number. Her last thought as she fired off a few quick replies to messages of the non– Christmas, Truly variety, set her phone aside, and reached for her book was that, if this trend continued, then before too long things would die down entirely, and she wouldn’t have to think about Christmas, Truly at all.