A Daddy for Christmas 3: Rowan (Daddy for Christmas 3 is a multi-author)

Chapter 1 Damon

DAMON

It takes me far too long to realise that the repetitive drone of my ringtone is not part of my dream.

The scene of me, lounging on a sunbed, drenched in tropical sunshine, sipping a very fruity, very alcoholic cocktail, slowly transforms into a hazy view of my bedroom.

My phone is still ringing —or ringing again; I can’t be sure.

The sound cuts off. It’s dark outside, which means very little, as today’s the shortest day of the year.

It could be three in the morning or eight.

Who knows? I certainly don’t care. My bed is warm and cosy.

With a grunt, I roll over and squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t find my way back into my dream.

Like all ephemeral things, it’s gone, never to be experienced again.

My phone rings. I grab a spare pillow and press it over my head to drown out the noise.

It stops after a dozen rings and then starts again moments later.

Who the fuck is trying to get hold of me at whatever time it is? I don’t need to be anywhere today.

I push the pillow aside and reach for my phone. It stops ringing. I have six missed calls from my older brother, Nigel. Before I can press to call him, he rings again. I answer, roll onto my back, put the phone on speaker, and rest it on my chest.

“What?” I demand.

“Someone’s grumpy this morning.”

I grunt a response.

“I need you to hold down the fort.”

“What fort?”

“At Elevated.”

I wipe the sleep dust from my eyes. “I’m on holiday.”

“Not anymore, you’re not. I need you to make sure everything runs smoothly. Oh, and you’ll need to go to the charity ball.”

“You’re the boss.”

“For the next few days, you are.”

I can’t be properly awake. Is this a nightmare? “Why? You’re the boss.”

“I’m going on holiday.”

“No, I’m on holiday.”

“No, you’re bumming around in your apartment, doing nothing, and going nowhere.”

Exactly. I’m on holiday.

“I’m saving you from your grumpy self by sending you into the office, to be me for a few days, while I go and enjoy a tropical Christmas.”

I sit up and check the clock. It’s seven. I realise there’s a lot of noise in the background of the call. “Where are you?”

“At the airport. I got a great last-minute deal. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

I clench my teeth. “I do mind.”

“Aww, don’t be like that. Anyway, I’ve got to go. My flight is boarding. I know I can count on you.” He hangs up.

Well, fuck. He always does this to me. I can’t exactly say ‘no’ when he’s about to step on a plane.

Well, I can, but someone’s got to be in charge.

I hate this time of year, when customers suddenly realise they haven’t got a gift and place a last-minute order that they’re relying on us to get to them before Christmas, despite the chaos of the postal system at this time of year.

Not to mention Nigel has the design team hard at work on packaging and advertising for the new line he wants to release in the New Year.

Initially, it was February, but he decided a week ago that a New Year’s Day announcement would be better.

My brother is the king of last-minute decisions and goalpost changes.

None of this was supposed to be my problem. I booked time off around Christmas to avoid the stress and festive songs on loop. Now, not only will I have to suffer the far too cheerful jingly jangly songs, but I’ll also be the one whose fault it is if anything goes wrong. Fan-fucking-tastic.

My phone beeps, telling me I have a text message.

Nigel: Don’t forget your costume!

Damon: What costume?

Nigel: For the charity ball. Have fun.

I’d reply, but there’s no point. The cabin crew will be telling everyone to turn their phones off any moment now.

I check the work calendar. The charity ball is tomorrow night in the arse end of nowhere.

The costume theme is A Christmas Carol. At least I know who I’m going to dress up as.

Scrooge. But where the hell am I going to get a costume at such short notice?

If only I had a PA who could do that shit for me, but Nigel decided we didn’t need a PA.

A driver, yes. A PA? Waste of money. Fuck Nigel.

So much for lying in this morning. I drag myself out of bed and through the shower, then make the mistake of putting the radio on to listen to the news over breakfast. I’m assaulted by ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham, which would have thrown me straight into Whamhalla if I played that game.

I don’t, Nigel does, as do half the staff who work at Elevated.

As a result, it’s banned from the Christmas mix that Nigel insists on playing throughout December.

He jokingly refers to Elevated as a ‘safe zone’.

The first thing I’m going to do when I get to the office this morning is change the damn music.

Eventually, the news does come on. First national, and then local. Train delays and rain. What a fabulous combination. Why did my brother decide to locate Elevated in central London? It would be far cheaper to have premises in the commuter belt.

My waterproof jacket keeps my top half dry on the walk to the tube station, but my trousers get splashed by passing cars whose drivers refuse to avoid the puddles near the gutters.

By the time I’m on the platform, my lower legs are cold and damp, and my mood has nosedived even further.

I want to go back to bed. I should have flown off to sunnier climes rather than planning a relaxing staycation.

Nigel wouldn’t have been able to dump all his responsibilities on me if I were in another country. But I’m not.

The plus side of living near the start of a route is that the train isn’t too crowded to get a seat.

By the time we’re nearing zone 1, it’s a very different story.

We’re packed in like sardines, and I’ve given up my seat to a heavily pregnant woman.

Luckily, I’m tall, so I don’t have my nose stuck in someone’s armpit.

Two tube changes later, and I’m heading towards the surface and the short walk to the redbrick building Elevated is in.

It used to be a Victorian workhouse, so it has tall ceilings and huge windows.

All the manufacturing is outsourced, so we only have the design, customer services, and fulfilment teams to house—oh, and stock.

Nigel rented the entire first floor, a vast open-plan space he separated into zones.

One end is partitioned off to house the toilets, stock room, and Nigel’s office, which will be my office while he’s away.

Impatient drivers honking their horns pack the roads.

The pavements are full of people who look as thrilled as I am to be heading to work this close to Christmas.

Twins pull an exhausted-looking woman along towards the tube station, while they chatter about what they hope to find in Hamley’s.

Why they’re racing to a toy store that isn’t even open yet is beyond me.

I pass by a man sleeping in a navy-blue sleeping bag in a doorway.

He’ll get chased off by the store owner soon.

I pause long enough to press a ten-pound note into his hand.

Then I’m entering the lobby and reception area, which is shared by all the businesses in the building. Abbey, the receptionist we all contribute to hiring, gives me a puzzled look.

“I thought you weren’t in until after Christmas.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be, but Nigel had other ideas.”

She arches a plucked eyebrow. “Oh, well, it’s good to see you.”

I doubt that, especially as I must have a face like a thundercloud right now.

I use the stairs, rather than the lift, and go to the first floor. Elevated’s logo—an aubergine pointing upwards—hangs above the entrance to our section of the building, leaving no doubt as to the nature of the business—sex toys.

I unlock the door and stride straight to Nigel’s office.

My office. For now. I have to get my head around how many orders we need to fulfil versus how many fulfilment staff we have, given how close to Christmas it is.

Once I’m sure we’re going to cope and not break any promises, I’ll need to find a costume for the charity ball.

With any luck, I’ll be the only man in the whole of London who wants to dress up as Scrooge tomorrow night.