Page 20 of Christmas Is All Around
“I’m guessing my dad softened the blow a bit when he passed it on. I kind of forgot about it, until there was aVarietyarticle a couple of weeks ago full of quotes from an ‘anonymous source’ about how the entire cast was on board for the reboot… except me.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“My thoughts exactly,” she agreed. “The reporter did some digging—it’s not hard to figure out who I am; I’ve done some interviews in the past to promote my work that mentioned that I’mtheCharlie Rose Lane, which is… I mean, it’s fine. It’s whatever. If it helps my art sell, I’m not above cashing in on this incredibly dumb and specific bit of fame. But whoever this ‘source’ was claimed that I thought my art was more important thanChristmas, Truly—which I can’t even be mad about, because, uh, I do?”
By this point, Graham was laughing—actually laughing, not just chuckling—and she felt something unclench within her at the sound.
“As you might expect, since it’s the internet, a bunch of rabidChristmas, Trulyfans—”
“I was unaware such a thing existed.”
“Come on!” Charlotte protested, laughing now as well. “It’s on TVevery year. It’s a modern Christmas classic!”
“I’ve never seen it,” he admitted with a smug smile, and she rolled her eyes.
“Of course you haven’t,” she said. “A gentleman with his own manor house would never deign to do something as low as watch aholiday rom-com, even if itwasfilmed there.”
“Coming from the woman who is, by her own admission, a holiday-romance-hater? Who has seen none of the films Eloise wants her to paint scenes from?”
“Because,” she said, leaning toward him conspiratorially, “they’re allreally bad.”
He huffed out another laugh at that, low and intimate this time, entirely different from the way he’d been laughing a moment before.
“What I wassayingwas,” she said, determined to actually finish this godforsaken story, “the derangedChristmas, Trulycorner of the internet found me—apparently it’s really taken off with Gen Z, god only knows why—and my DMs have been full of a mix of death threats and genuinely funny burns. Someone told me that my art looked like the paint by numbers their grandmother worked on in the nursing home. I figured it would all die down, but then this, um, extremely passionate teenager accosted me when I was running in Central Park, and I thought it might be time to get out of New York for a bit.”
“So, just to be clear, you were scared out of town by a child who can’t even drive?”
“It’s New York City—Ican barely drive,” Charlotte said, in the interest of fairness. “But essentially, yes. I always come to see Ava for the holidays—or I have, ever since she and Kit got married, because my parents are exhausting and usually in the stages of either separating or reconciling, and I just want somewhere quiet I can sleep for a week after the holiday rush—so after I was verbally assaulted by a sixteen-year-old, I decided to come earlier this year. But when we were at Eden Priory on Saturday, someone there recognized me—a big fan of the movie.”
“I wishI’drun into this person,” he muttered. “Could’ve asked them how to lure them and their fellowChristmas, Trulyenthusiasts to the house without staging a reenactment of the entire film.” Catching sight of Charlotte’s raised eyebrows, he added dryly, “A genuine suggestion of Eloise’s.”
“I amnotreprising my role,” she warned, and he grinned at her. “But anyway—given recent events, running into this fan of the movie was a bit much for me, which is why I went and hid.”
“And then I interrupted you,” he said, comprehension dawning.
“And startedremoving clothing,” she reminded him.
“A reindeer suit! Afeltreindeer suit.”
“How was I supposed to know what you had on underneath? I thought it might be like Scottish people and their kilts. I will admit that I might have been abitshort with you, though.”
A smile curved at his lips. “A bit. I’m not overly vain, but abject horror is notusuallythe reaction women have to my arrival.”
At this, Charlotte snapped shut her sketchbook—long abandoned, in any case—and, without the slightest hesitation, used it to whack him in the head.
“Jesus Christ! I knew Americans were blood-crazed lunatics, but I hadn’t heard that they were so creative in their choice of weapons.”
“Shut up, you’re fine,” Charlotte said, slipping the sketchbook in her bag and pulling her phone out of her coat pocket. She glanced down to see a couple of texts from Ava, including photos of a furious-looking Alice in front of a series of elaborate holiday-themed LEGO creations, and said a prayer of thanks to the heavens that she was not going to be present for what she suspected would be an absolutely epic meltdown.
“My ears are ringing,” he said.
“You’re just angry because I messed up your hair,” she said, snapping several photos of the house. This, combined with her sketch, would be sufficient for her final painting. She returned her phone to her bag, eyed him speculatively, and said, on a whim, “Where can we get a drink around here?”
“I don’t understand how it is that you’re the one who assaulted me, yet I’m the one who paid for the drinks,” Graham said twenty minutes later, sliding into the booth opposite her and slipping a glass mug of mulled wine across the table toward her.
“You’rethe one who said you’d get the drinks,” Charlotte said, exasperated. “What’s your Venmo handle? PoshTwat07?”
He waved her off. “Nice use of the native dialect, though.” He took a sip of mulled wine, surveying her thoughtfully. “Why do you dislike Christmas so much? Beyond the film, I mean?”
