Chapter 12
TWELVE
There’s no other way of saying this. I am sitting in Santa’s office.
It’s a nice office – wood is an overriding theme, from the panelling to the desk to a couple of ornately carved chairs.
Santa also knows how to do Christmas. He has two trees in each corner of the room, tastefully decorated in red and white, and, in keeping with the woodland Scandi theme of the place, a fire in a black cast-iron log burner crackles away giving the place warmth.
There are lots of family photos on the walls, a bookshelf of art and travel books, and there’s a well-worn red patterned rug in the centre of the room.
I sit there with my mug of coffee, sipping quietly, leaning over to see a computer switched on.
There’s a film paused on the screen that I believe is Home Alone.
Santa watches the best at Christmas. There is also a bowl of sweets to the side of his desk.
I look around and take one. Lord have absolute mercy, it would seem that Santa likes crispy M&Ms. I take another one.
The door opens and Santa appears again holding a bright-green medical box. I hold the sweets in my mouth.
‘Is the coffee alright?’ he asks. ‘Help yourself to biscuits if you want.’ He points to a plate on the desk. I take one tentatively. Naturally, the biscuit is ginger with a perfect snap. It crumbles as I bite into it, meaning I have to pick crumbs out of my hair. Santa looks at me curiously.
‘Did you make these?’ I ask, trying to break the tension.
‘I don’t bake. I leave that to the elves,’ he says, a little too seriously.
I find that comment funny in my head so I laugh.
I may also snort which must be attractive.
He doesn’t laugh. You’re supposed to be Santa.
Where’s your jolly? I watch as he sifts through the medical box.
The problem here is that this man is not Santa.
This dude is young. He has the red fur outfit and the big black boots but the red coat is not done up.
It’s hanging there so I can see he has a white fitted t-shirt on underneath.
Santa’s not been at the cookies. The beard is his own but dark brown, and he has green eyes.
No hat, slightly-longer-than-short brown hair, and tousled.
This is most definitely not Santa and not someone I’d picture being Lucy’s boss.
‘Then my compliments to the elves,’ I say, trying to snap myself out of staring at this very attractive man.
‘You know, this might be better if you perch yourself on my desk,’ he says. I choke a little on my coffee. ‘Saves my knees.’
I nod quietly and put my coffee down, going over to the desk and sitting there, waiting.
He grabs a chair and comes over, looking at my knee and taking it in his hand.
You’ve got big hands. Don’t look at his hands.
When I went through the Christmas tree netting machine, it would seem I tore fabric off my jumpsuit and have a nasty graze.
When Santa saw it, he invited me in to administer first aid and a warm drink for the trouble.
It sounded gentlemanly but it turns out there’s also an incident form to fill out for health and safety so I can say I got in that machine voluntarily and wasn’t pushed.
‘Where’s Lucy?’ I ask, trying to engage in chitchat to mask my embarrassment.
‘Tidying up, getting changed. She’ll be through in a minute,’ he says.
‘You’re not going to fire her for this?’ I ask.
He chuckles under his breath. ‘No. Funnily enough, you’re not the first person to jump through that machine and you won’t be the last. Bloody TikTok generation has a lot to answer for.
’ He opens some packets of gauze and medical wipes.
‘And Lucy Callaghan is many things but she is also one of my best employees. The kids love her, she gets us good reviews, even if she does flirt with a lot of the dads who come through the door.’ That sounds like my friend.
I breathe a sigh of relief I’ve not cost her her job.
I watch as he traces his fingers through the tears in my jumpsuit and grabs the underside of my calf.
That’s a firm hold and I breathe in to feel his fingers wrapped around me. ‘I am sorry about your onesie.’
‘It’s a jumpsuit.’
‘Same thing.’ Not really but I try and hold back my laughter.
He rips at a small patch of material to get to my knee and winces to see the blood.
‘Does it hurt?’ he asks. I hope it might appear to him that I’m brave and can withstand pain, but the truth is the alcohol in my system is helping to numb everything.
‘It stings a bit,’ I say.
‘Well, it’s going to sting a bit more, sorry…
’ he says, and he dabs at the blood and dirt with an antiseptic wipe.
I wince a little and he looks into my eyes.
I stop wincing. Yeah, don’t do that. Why can’t I breathe?
He blows on it gently. Oh dear. I don’t think that’s how you do first aid.
I don’t remember doing that on the course I took in the leisure centre.
He dabs at the graze with cotton gauze. ‘It’s not too deep.
’ He really needs to stop saying that sort of thing.
‘Yes, I think amputation won’t be necessary,’ I say, coughing to get the words out. Am I blushing? I feel I’m blushing and that’s not a good colour with my hair.
‘It’s a shame. We have good saws here.’
‘I bet you do. Are they tenon or hack?’
He sits back as if he doesn’t know whether to laugh or be confused at my terrible version of flirting, talking about his tools.
‘Those are tools for indoor carpentry. We tend to use a bow saw, a chainsaw for the bigger trees. You know your saws then?’ he asks.
‘I know what I remember from technology at school. I made a money box once. It had a hole… at the top.’
‘For the money?’
‘Yeah.’ I have a feeling this is why I have not managed to pin down a man yet. Look how amazingly charming I am with my wood talk. The charisma is off the scale. I should now tell him how I made a doorbell in Year Nine and burnt my finger with a soldering iron.
‘I once helped my nana saw a Christmas tree.’ He nods again.
I mean, that’s the whole story in its entirety.
I remember a few splinters and the mouse that jumped out at me.
He reaches into the box and starts to unwrap a few plasters.
I notice they’re covered in an elf pattern.
‘Your medical supplies are Christmas themed?’
‘That’s my sister’s doing,’ he says. ‘You’d be surprised the number of kids who fall over in this place. She also makes us wear the outfits so the whole farm is more of an experience. Gets the punters in.’
‘Which is why you are Santa,’ I say. ‘Do you normally wear a hat?’
‘I do. I draw the line at a beard though. Gets in the way.’
‘Of?’
He gives me a confused look. ‘The sawing of the trees.’
‘Of course.’ I wasn’t thinking of anything else, I really wasn’t.
I want to tell him this is likely why the punters come in, because he looks like the sort of Santa who has trousers with Velcro sides ready to let people sit on his knee and tell him what they want.
I won’t say it, but he is distractingly good-looking.
‘How’s your ho-ing?’ I ask. Yes, because that is a better thought to air aloud.
‘My gardening hoeing is exceptional. The other ho-ho-ho-ing needs work. It lacks gravitas.’
‘It really needs to come from the diaphragm, doesn’t it? Ho-ho-ho.’ I went very deep there. Again, he doesn’t even smile but gives me a look as if I’ve hit my head harder than he thought, and he may need to run through some concussion protocol.
He takes all the rubbish and supplies and puts them in a bin next to the desk. ‘Did you want me to check if you have any other cuts or bumps?’ he asks plainly. What is he hinting at? To do that would surely mean me stripping here so he could examine me more closely.
I hold my arms up to look at my own elbows. ‘All clear. Only my ego damaged.’
‘I don’t have anything in my box to fix that.’ He talked about his box. Don’t laugh. His eyes seem to gaze at the outline of my curls at this point. ‘You seem to have a whole tree stuck in your curls though. That’s a lot of pine needles. I can get a brush out of the stables? Give you a—’
‘Groom?’ I smile, looking down. I think he just compared my hair to a horse. I take back everything I said about the saws. This is primo flirting if ever I saw it.
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I’ll shake myself out later,’ I say, wondering about the nest I’ve acquired up there and how I’ll shake it out. Like a dog? Or Taylor Swift?
He stands there for a moment, holding back a grin, both of us not really knowing what to say.
Santa, from that t-shirt, I can see you have pecs.
My eyes go up the line of his jaw, over to his eyes.
It feels a little indecent to be perving over Santa.
‘Could I get you to sign this form?’ he asks, breaking the moment.
‘Oh, the incident form. Sure.’ I look down at it, signing my name away. ‘Did you want my telephone number?’ He looks up at me and hesitates for a moment. ‘For the form, there’s a gap here.’
He forces an awkward smile. ‘If you want. You can also tick the box so we don’t bombard you with emails about trees and stuff.’
I summon up a smile hoping it might lighten the mood, but nothing. ‘I am very sorry I got caught up in your machine. I hope I haven’t broken it. Thank you for looking after me.’
He looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. ‘I’m glad you’re not broken, Lucy’s friend.’
‘My name is Kay,’ I say, giving him back his clipboard and pointing to my name.
‘As in Peter?’
‘Yes, except I’m a woman.’
‘And not a comedian.’ I think he’s implying I’m not funny. I’m not sure if that’s a bit rude. It’s true that today I was not at my peak, I was injured and traumatised. ‘Well, thank you again, Lucy’s boss.’
‘I also have a name…’ he says. ‘I’m Nick.’
‘You’re joking, right?’ I say immediately.
He looks supremely confused. ‘You have a problem with my name?’
‘No,’ I say, backtracking and hoping I’ve not said that too quickly or offensively.
‘Nick North. Nice to meet you, Kay.’