‘Well, thank you so much for talking with us today, Devon. Good luck with your movie and we hope you can enjoy some of the magic Springhollow has to offer, for old time’s sake, during your stay.’
What was that? Do people now just bow down to Devon’s every whim? He didn’t answer all our questions and I know for a fact his parents brought him up better than that. How rude. People rustle over, unclipping microphones and praising Devon for his answers.
‘You did great.’
‘Perfect, warm, charming – the village will eat it up.’
I’m gobsmacked.
The minute I’m relieved of my tiny microphone I jump out of my chair. The lady with the clipboard pulls Hope aside with nothing but compliments and I move away quickly from the spotlight. As I bend down to pick up my beanie from where Hope threw it, a shadow looms over me.
‘You’re wearing a dress,’ Devon says softly.
His words catch me off guard and for all the frustration, confusion, and heat coursing through my body, I freeze. I turn around, coming face to chest. I forget that now I have raise my gaze to the heavens if I want to look Devon in the eye.
‘No sh…’ I go to say but Devon is waving his hands over his suit and there’s something different in his smile that wasn’t there in front of the cameras. Then my brain clicks. He remembered.
‘And you’re wearing a suit,’ I reply, stammering over my words. He’s wearing slim grey trousers and a grey blazer over a white shirt. It’s fitted and shows he has filled out. Something flutters in my belly and I hurriedly look away as someone shouts to Devon before bustling over and tugging at his arm to try and take him away, taking no notice or bother of me or the fact that we might have been talking. I’m reminded of my irritation and the fact that Devon is no longer the boy I once knew.
‘I’m not a fan of suits,’ I say quickly and quietly and turn to secure my bag. I rush to the door, exit the party room and wait for Hope at the bar. The air in the pub feels a lot less stuffy than in the back room and my shoulders instantly uncurl.
‘Just like old times, huh?’ I look up from staring at my feet and see Ryan leaning on the bar, a rag over his shoulder and a grin on his clean-shaven boyish face. Ryan went to the same primary school and high school as Devon and me. His family own this pub so he always knew he would take over one day, having helped here since he was old enough. He’s the kind of cool guy who got on with everyone back in school. He was even nice to me and Devon, though we had nothing in common and the other popular kids liked to tease us. He didn’t exactly stand up for us, but he never joined in.
‘Something like that,’ I mumble.
‘I have to admit I used to think you guys were a little geeky, but I give credit where credit’s due – your man’s made a name for himself,’ Ryan says, with a cool chuckle and a contemplative tilt of his head. ‘Who would have thought? Hollywood,’ he adds, shaking his head in disbelief.
I’m about to argue that Devon is not my boy, my dude nor my friend and certainly not my man, when Hope bursts from the room, looking like a Christmas angel, her eyes starry, happiness radiating off her and like she has an aura of white light surrounding her. I blink. ‘What took you so long?’ I ask, agitated. She turns to wave at Ryan and links my arm, finally guiding us out of the pub and into the refreshing air.
‘Devon just wanted to thank me again and ask a few questions of his own,’ she says like Christmas has come early. I feared she was going to be mad at me for my outbursts and butting in but she’s walking with such a giddy spring in her step that I’m struggling to keep up. ‘I have to go and tell Jess everything,’ she exclaims when her road comes up. She lives on the street before the bakery while I live on the street after it.
‘OK, have fun,’ I say, as she hugs and kisses me quickly and dashes down her street, making me think I got away with my high-brow interview input.
‘We’ll talk on Monday about your interview etiquette,’ she shouts as I watch her run up her path. Shoot, maybe not.
‘Sounds good,’ I shout back before walking the short distance to my house, feeling grateful that goldfish can’t talk because I have a giant headache.
5
I pull my duvet off my head, grateful that it’s Saturday and I have nowhere to be. The sky outside is a hazy light blue with a grey tinge and I cross my fingers for snow. It’s been years since we had a white Christmas. I glance at my alarm clock: six-thirty. I mustn’t stay in bed for too long as today I have to bake. What I’m planning is shaping up to be quite the task and, so far, I’ve only made a small dent. I wriggle and do a happy horizontal dance at the thought of filling my house with the smell of gingerbread and spending the day in my winter wonderland with nothing but Christmas on my mind. The bitter taste that yesterday left on my tongue shall be washed away with a homemade iced peppermint latte and some Christmas tunes.
A hammering on my front door startles me, disrupting my leisurely state as I shoot upright and my heart rate spikes. Who on earth is making such a racket this early on a Saturday? The hammering is growing louder and incessant and fear floods my whole body. Has something happened to Hope or Jess? Oh God, my parents, when did they say they were they flying home? Planes make me nervous.
I clamber out of my cosy king bed and cross my bedroom in two strides. My bedroom is my favourite room in my house. It consists of my giant bed and that’s pretty much it – well that and potted cacti plants in each corner and hundreds of hand-sewn and stitched cushions and pillows, a few throws and a couple of candles adorning my window ledge. It’s my safe place, my haven, and I adore it, but the knocking is throwing off its usual calming ambience.
I bolt down the stairs to the door as fast as I can, my cool wooden floorboards chilling my feet with every step.
The knocking isn’t relenting so I shout, ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ before opening the door mid-sentence, ‘Hope, is everything al…’ My voice trails off when I clock that it’s not Hope or Jess stood at my door but all six foot four inches of Devon Wood, new Hollywood heartthrob, celebrity, superhero and my former best friend.
I tense from my shoulders down to my toes. My eyes simply cannot get used to seeing Devon dressed in tailored trousers, which are a deep grey and black gingham this morning, and a fitted blazer to match. He fills my doorframe. I know for sure I am doing a fine impression of a howler monkey. I can’t close my mouth. What’s wrong with me?
‘Sup?’ Devon says, in a dorky, awkward way, his shoulders hunching a little as he breaks the silence.
I snap my mouth shut and shake my head. I used to hear those words every day from a nerdy, hoodie-wearing boy, with wavy hair and enough energy for the both of us. The words don’t match the mature, cool man in front of me.
‘What are you doing here?’ I manage, as the wind whips around me and chills my lungs.
‘Hope gave me your address and I had to see you,’ Devon replies, with a touch less chill and sophistication in his tone than he had yesterday. He crosses his arms over his chest making his blazer strain against his biceps. I had been praying for snow this morning. He looks cold and my legs feel as though they have turned to icicles with the door wide open.