Chapter 29 #2
‘This is my wife,’ he says, so casually. I could also be of elf blood, another of Santa’s assistants, but instead it would seem I am Santa’s wife. He’s joking. It’s all an illusion. This, what we have. I sigh deeply and smile at this boy and girl looking up at me.
‘You don’t look like a Mrs Claus,’ Anya says.
Yeah, that’s because I’m in fifty-percent Zara but let’s roll with this, little one.
‘I just make sure Santa is looked after. That he always has a supply of milk and cookies,’ I say. ‘And that he remembers to take out the bins.’
The children laugh. That was all me. ‘I have a drawing for Santa,’ Anya says. ‘The real one, not you. In this drawing, he’s fat and got a big beard. Could you give it to him?’ she asks Nick, walking up to him.
Nick nods and she puts the drawing in his hands, scanning his face. ‘If you know Santa then name all the reindeer,’ she quizzes him.
‘Rudolph, Comet, Blitzen, Vixen, Dancer, Prancer, Cupid, Dasher and…’
‘Kebab,’ I whisper.
‘Donner,’ he says confidently.
‘I hope you have a nice Christmas fake Santa,’ she says, reaching over to kiss him on the cheek. ‘You smell nice.’
He smells of limes today, doesn’t he? I sometimes know that smell when I’m near, when I hug him or get close to him.
It smells like fresh laundry in a basket of citrus fruit.
I watch as he fist-bumps Louie and then bends down to wave at the baby in the pram, before crouching down to let their mum take a photo.
‘We also have some books for you…’ he says, reaching into his hessian sack and handing them out. ‘I wrapped those ones especially.’
I watch as they take the brown paper packages, their eyes lighting up because it’s a gift.
All of this is a gift. And just like that, the fatigue and tantrums of a few minutes ago have melted away.
They’re happy, they’ve rediscovered their Christmas spirit.
I immediately think about how this man is perfect dad material.
This is awful. I need to stop thinking that.
They run on and their dad turns and offers Nick a hug.
‘Thank you, Santa.’ He stays there for a moment too long, as if the inner child in him might need this moment and Nick allows for it, patting his back.
He lets go and walks away and we turn to the table where a line seems to have formed.
Nick and I look at each other. Time to give away some books, Santa.
‘Could you go in my pocket and grab my keys?’ Nick asks me as he carries a couple of boxes to the car.
It ended up being a longer evening than either of us anticipated.
Nick was fake Santa for about thirty kids.
He chatted to them, he learnt their names, he was frigging adorable.
And I handed over books, watching, trying to convince myself that I felt nothing for this man at all.
It was like having a herd of puppies at my feet.
They’re definitely not cute. Not one little bit.
Please don’t make me put my hand in your pocket.
But he’s waiting. I won’t put the whole hand in.
I’ll put two fingers so the contact is minimal.
I get them out and press on his key fob, opening his car boot for him.
‘Are you OK? You look cold? I have a coat if you need it?’ he asks. He puts the box in the back of the truck then steps closer to me, putting his hands to my shoulders and rubbing them up and down. My body tenses up. ‘Sorry,’ he says, stepping away almost immediately.
‘It’s fine. It’s just this cheap cardigan underneath, that sort of friction might cause…’
‘Combustion?’ he smirks.
‘Yes. I’d burst into flames right here and that would be…’
‘Messy,’ he says.
‘I was going to say inconvenient.’ My teeth are chattering slightly through my laughter.
He’s parked down a quiet street off the square, the lowlights of the streetlamps shining down on us but plunging the rest of the street into darkness.
Down the road, the market winds down. It’s been a lovely night to be among this small community, to meet families, curious old people, and to give them something free, without money, commitment or for anything in return.
I enjoyed seeing the surprise in their faces, their gratitude, their joy.
It’s why I felt compelled to do all this.
I gaze up into the clear sky, the stars twinkling down, and take in a deep breath of the cold night air.
‘That was a good night, thank you for the capybara save,’ Nick says, smiling and leaning against his car, looking at me.
‘Haven’t you heard the song?’ I ask. Do I sing him the capybara song? Of course I do. I even make up moves because my charisma knows no bounds.
He looks at me curiously. ‘Did you just make that up?’
‘No! It’s a thing on social media.’
‘I don’t do that.’
I look down, shaking my head, remembering. ‘Well, now you know. Firstly beavers, now capybaras. We seem to run an excellent line in talking about small furry animals.’
He smiles. ‘Did you hear that baby’s name too? George Bailey.’
‘It’s a Wonderful Life. “You want me to lasso the moon, Mary?”’ I say, doing my best Jimmy Stewart impression. He seems impressed that I’d get the reference, less so by the impression, standing there biting his lip as I laugh to myself. ‘Don’t pretend that you don’t find me amazingly hilarious.’
He shakes his head at me, trying not to smile.
‘The rest of that was excellent though. Well done, fake Santa.’
‘Well done, fake wife.’
‘Excuse me, please don’t refer to me with a label. It’s fake Mrs Santa,’ I say, putting a finger in the air, trying to downplay the wife comment.
He takes a moment to catch his breath. ‘You still up for that drink?’
‘I am. It might warm me up.’
‘You’re still cold?’
I nod, breathing warm air into my hands. It’s the sort of cold that makes you worry for the health of your toes, where you pray they will still be attached by the end of the day. A shot of something might help.
‘Come here.’ Without warning, Nick walks up to me and envelops me in his arms, holding me tightly, my head resting against his chest. This is far too close. I should push him away in the style of a Shaolin monk. But I lean into the embrace, and let him wrap me up, sighing quietly to myself.
‘You should invest in a better coat, something down-filled,’ he says. ‘Your coat is a glorified picnic blanket.’
‘It’s wool,’ I say, affronted.
‘A wool picnic blanket then,’ he says, rubbing his hands up and down my back. ‘Is this too much? I just can’t see you standing there cold. It’s a survival technique, quickest way to get warm,’ he says.
Yeah, I learned this in the Girl Guides too, except I was taught you had to get naked with someone in a sleeping bag for it to work.
I can’t think that way. Don’t think about that at all.
Accept the warmth of his furry Santa costume, that feeling of his arms tight around you, keeping you safe.
I close my eyes for a moment, not wanting to ever escape from this cocoon.
Because there is something so very right about our bodies close like this, our hips touching, the way I can nest my head in a space just below his chin and I can hear his heartbeat loud and clear.
We seem to both realise we’ve probably held this for too long now.
Maybe I’ll pretend to have fallen asleep here to escape any awkwardness.
But I glance up and see him smiling down at me, our faces dangerously close to each other, the closest they’ve ever been.
And he puts his hand to my face, scooping it up but leaning down to kiss my lips gently.
And I relent, kissing him back, at first with the softest of touches until his lips almost melt into mine, wanting to explore that kiss more deeply.
I feel a rush surge through me, a moment of electricity, his hand moving to the back of my head, scooping up my hair.
‘Nick,’ I whisper under my breath. He doesn’t say a word, I can hear his breath deepen, an intensity in the magnetism between us. I can’t do this. What am I doing? ‘I can’t.’
He steps back on hearing those words, looking at me, snapped out of his daze. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t—’
‘I’m dating someone else.’
And I see his lips part gently, his body slump on hearing the words.
His face is illuminated by the glow of the street lights and it’s almost as though the lights have turned another colour, as if they’ve faded a little, as all the warmth that was there before goes and the cold returns to my bones, almost running through my bloodstream like ice.