Christmas Wishes and Irish Kisses

Chapter 1

ONE

NEW YORK, ONE YEAR AGO

I am standing in line to see Santa Claus. I am a thirty-seven-year-old woman, and I am standing in line to see Santa Claus. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

That was an hour ago, and I think I’ve made a mistake.

This was supposed to be magical, and to start with it was.

Santa hangs out in a super cool, pimped-out snow palace.

There are polar bears, a steam train and a workshop for the elves.

The decorations are dazzling, the music is festive, and I have my very own passport that gets stamped by insanely cheerful helpers as I walk along.

I wandered in here with eyes full of wonder, and a heart full of hope.

I was ready for a Christmas miracle – but now I’m just hot and bothered, and people are staring at me.

Even the elves seem to be giving me some side-eye.

I know I’m probably imagining it, but still, the sensation of being watched is real.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I glanced down at my chest and saw one of those red laser beams from a sniper rifle.

I do a quick check, just in case. Nothing, thankfully.

I think it’s just my own brain playing tricks on me.

My brain is mischievous like that. It should be nicknamed Loki.

Still, maybe it has a point – maybe it’s weird that I’m here as an adult on my own.

Is it weird? A quick look around shows me I’m the only one, so perhaps.

It’s all families with children. Again, that should be magical – what could be cuter than seeing a kid excited about meeting Santa?

Possibly a Labrador puppy excited about meeting Santa, but I’m not sure dogs are allowed. They might pee on the fake reindeer.

The thing about kids, though, is that they rarely perform as expected, and they get tired and strung out pretty quickly.

Somewhere, a baby is screaming loud enough to block out the carols, and it does not bring to mind the little baby Jesus lying serenely in his crib.

Unless little baby Jesus had a bad case of colic.

Right behind me, a harassed mother is trying to explain to her cynical older child why the ‘real’ Father Christmas lives in Macy’s, and in front of me another is dragging her terrified offspring forward as the line moves along.

The kid is maybe four and bawling her eyes out.

I get it. Old Saint Nick can be a little scary.

I feel a wave of sympathy for all the parents, and a familiar wave of yearning.

I don’t have children, so I shouldn’t be here. What the heck was I thinking?

Too late now, I decide, as we finally approach the grotto.

This is it. I’m here. I’ve put in the hard time, fought off sniper attacks and survived terrorist assaults on my eardrums. I’ve earned this.

This is my chance for some quality alone-time with the fat man in the red suit.

I feel utterly ridiculous as I am ushered in by a young man so happy with life that he could explode at any minute – he’s a joy grenade waiting to go off.

‘Is it just you today?’ he asks cheerfully, as though that is the best damn thing in the whole world.

I nod and attempt a smile. ‘Yeah. Is that weird? It is, isn’t it?’

He shakes his head and looks horrified at the suggestion. ‘Not at all!’ he assures me. Huh. I suppose he has to say that.

I look over nervously at Santa. He’s sitting on his throne-like seat, and he looks perfect – the suit, the beard, the hair.

The twinkle in his eyes. I approach and have no clue what to do next.

Do I sit on his lap? I’m not sure even children do that now, and I am a grown-ass adult.

I’d probably squash him, maybe even kill him.

I’d be The Woman Who Killed Christmas. He pats the seat next to him, and I breathe a sigh of relief at having somebody tell me what to do.

‘Well, hello there, and merry Christmas!’ he says, his voice suitably jolly and very soothing. I wonder if they have to go on a training course to do this kind of gig. Or if, of course, this is actually the real Santa after all? ‘How are you today? Are you excited for Christmas?’

His tone is just too kind. Too fatherly.

I grip my purse on my lap, and feel my eyes suddenly fill up with tears.

Oh no. Oh, please God, no. Don’t let me cry in Santa’s grotto!

I squeeze my lids real tight, bite my lip, and shake my head.

When I open up again, Father Christmas has a combination of concern and horror on his face.

I don’t blame him. Kids crying because they’re freaked out is one thing.

Women crying is entirely another. Most men don’t know how to handle that, even Santa.

To be fair, he recovers quickly, and pats my shoulder with a comforting white-gloved hand.

‘There there. I know. It can get a little overwhelming at this time of year. We’re all so very busy aren’t we? ’

I nod and manage a small smile. ‘Especially you, Mr Claus.’

‘Yes indeed! But I have a lot of help from my elves, and Mrs Claus, and of course my reindeer! Why don’t you tell me what you’d like for Christmas?

’ He adjusts his belt and it jingles. It’s a lovely sound, and for a moment it makes me forget reality.

It makes me forget that I am lonely, that I am living in a city where I have never felt at home.

That I feel like a sad, unlovable leftover.

I forget everything apart from that pure, simple sound, and I let myself believe. Even if it’s only for a second.

‘I want to be with people I love, and who love me back,’ I say simply. He looks momentarily surprised, and I add: ‘Also, a puppy. And possibly a new phone because I dropped mine in Walmart and the screen is cracked.’

He nods wisely, and soaks it all in. ‘Those are very good items for your Christmas list,’ he says seriously.

‘Especially the first one – because spending time with our loved ones is the most magical thing of all. I’m sure you’ve been good, and you deserve a little happiness. Now, would you like to take a photo?’

I nod and am told to say ‘cookies’. The process is repeated with my phone, and then Santa gives me a hug.

It is a magnificent hug, and makes the whole experience worth it.

Yes, I am actually so starved of affection that a cuddle from Father Christmas is the only significant physical contact I have had with another human being for months.

I try not to cling on and sob into his beard, much as I’d like to stay in his arms listening to him jingle.

Loki conjures up a brief image of an alternate reality where I get adopted by Santa, move to the North Pole and live happily ever after.

‘Goodbye now, my dear,’ he says as I reluctantly stand up to leave. He waves his big white hand at me. ‘Remember that Santa loves all his boys and girls, and have a very merry Christmas!’

I stagger away through a Christmas-themed corridor, collecting my Santa button on the way, and head to the escalators.

By the time I emerge into the real world of the store, I feel like I’m coming down from an acid trip.

Not that I’d know what that feels like from actual experience; I’ve led a very boring life.

I pause behind a rack of Christmas onesies and look at my phone.

Oh, my goodness. That photo is terrible.

For a start there is a spider-web of cracks running through the screen, so Santa and I look a little like we’re in a horror film and have been cursed by a witch.

He is still the perfect Santa, though, with his warm expression and serene air.

I, on the other hand, look like I’ve just escaped from a secure facility.

My long brown hair could be a home for sparrows, one eye is open and the other closed, and my smile is a plea for help.

This is not the kind of picture you frame or send to friends.

It is, in fact, the kind of picture that Santa might use as evidence of how tough his job is and why he deserves a pay rise.

Still, I think, putting the phone away and making my way towards the exit – no regrets.

I really needed that hug from Father Christmas.

I needed a boost of festive magic, because this year I am not feeling it.

Just under a week until the big day, and I haven’t watched a Hallmark movie, bought a gift or eaten a single mince pie.

In fact, I haven’t had a mince pie for over a decade.

Americans might have invented the light bulb and put the first men on the moon, but they have yet to discover the miracle of mince pies.

I could probably get them at a speciality place for expat Brits, but then I’d end up standing in a room full of Heinz baked beans and Cadbury’s Dairy Milk bars and crying from homesickness.

I left the UK when I was a teenager, but the place you spend those early formative years somehow always still feels like home, doesn’t it?

No matter how many tough memories it holds.

I have lived all over the States, but I’ve spent the last few years in New York.

I fell in love with the romance of the place – its energy – during a trip here with my mum.

Turns out that the romance and the energy don’t feel quite the same when your life consists purely of work and meeting terrible men on dating apps.

Well, not all terrible – some just dull, others downright shady, and none of them right for me.

Or maybe I’m just not right for anyone. That is the conclusion I’m coming to – a failed marriage in my twenties, and a trail of broken-down relationships since then all point in the same direction.