Chapter 1 #2
It’s one of the reasons I went to see Santa.
I realised as I wandered through the festive city streets, after a scintillating day as an office manager for a building supplies firm, that I had no Christmas spirit.
I had no sparkle. I had no pixie dust. I was spending Christmas alone, and that did not fill me with joy.
I don’t even have a tree up in my apartment, because it seems like a waste of time when there’s only me that will get to see it.
I feel like I’m doing everything alone these days, and it’s starting to drag me down.
I live in one of the biggest cities in the world, but I feel invisible.
Like I might just disappear from my own life.
I want somebody to be close to. I want someone to confide in, to talk about my day with, to be my ally in life. I want somebody to know how I take my coffee, to bring me flowers and hold me close at night. Is this all too much of a Christmas miracle, even for Santa?
It’s early evening and fully dark outside.
It has been snowing, but it is now mushy underfoot, melting in the roads and dripping from gutters.
I stare through the store windows at the busy street, at all the people striding around with a sense of urgency.
Couples, families, people clutching bags.
Everyone looking so busy and purposeful.
I realise that I really don’t want to go home.
It is a home in name only – it does not feel like one.
When I first moved in, I was a little more enthusiastic.
Now, it just feels cold and small, rather than cute and cosy.
It’s not just the apartment, it’s me. I have not been looking after myself, and when you are single, it’s pretty damn important to look after yourself.
I know that – so why the hell am I living on microwave meals for one?
I can cook – I love cooking, and I am a skilled baker!
I’ve always loved spending time in the kitchen, kneading and mixing and whisking.
So how come my freezer is full of cardboard boxes that might as well be called Lunch for Losers, or Dinner for Dumbasses?
And why haven’t I decorated the place, even with a few strings of fairy lights? Why haven’t I bought myself a new phone, or tried going on a date for the last few months?
Because I’m sinking in a pit of melancholy, that’s why. My dad has the same tendencies, and I do not like it one bit. I’m going through the motions of living, but I feel like I’m shrivelling up inside. Like I’m giving up on myself.
I need to stop treating myself like this.
I cannot press pause on my own life. I think back to what Santa, my new life coach, said.
I deserve a little happiness. I decide that he is right, and moping around drowning in self-pity really isn’t helping.
I need to be more positive. Things can change.
I don’t have to carry this sense of failure and loneliness with me forever.
Christmas always highlights what you’re missing – the whole world gangs up and screams at you.
It’s about children and family and love.
For those of us who don’t have those things, it can be tough.
But maybe this has been a turning point. Seeing Santa – undoubtedly the real Santa. Maybe my wishes will come true. Maybe I’ll walk outside right now and bump into the man of my dreams. I could have my very own meet-cute outside Macy’s, and it will be a sweet story to tell our children one day.
Bolstered by the idea, I make my way through the crowds and stand expectantly on the sidewalk.
Or, as some of us call it, the pavement.
I stand and take a deep breath, and look around.
I say a little prayer, looking up at the stars in the night sky.
I cross my fingers – and wait for the magic to happen.
Any minute now, I’m sure, a smoking hot billionaire will drive past in his limo and splash me with melted snow-water.
Then he will get out of his car to apologise, and our eyes will meet across a crowded street.
He will offer to take me to dinner while I dry off, and we will spend the whole evening lost in witty banter and heart-busting flirtation. By dessert, we will be in love. Nice.
Or maybe I’m about to collide with a cyclist, and I will bang my head as I fall.
I will be taken to hospital, and he will come with me.
When I wake from my short stint in a coma, I will have perfect hair and a full face of make-up, and my teeth will be shiny and white.
The smoking hot cyclist will be at my side, holding my hand, gazing into my eyes.
He might also secretly be a billionaire, and we will fall in love before you can say ‘hairline skull fracture’.
Possibly, the busker on the corner is actually a former member of a chart-topping boy band, playing on the streets to try and rediscover his musical mojo.
When I throw a dollar in his guitar case, he will wink at me and my heart will skip a beat.
I will recognise him, become his muse, and he will write timeless classic love songs about me.
At a guess, I’d say that he will be smoking hot, and a billionaire.
I decide to give the magic a nudge and walk over to the busker.
I throw a dollar down, trying not to wince at him slaughtering Elvis’s Blue Christmas.
When he looks up from his guitar, his Santa hat dangling in front of his face, I see that he is maybe a hundred years old.
Possibly a thousand. He winks at me, then belches for maybe five solid seconds.
I almost pass out from the whisky fumes, and back off rapidly. Okay. Maybe not.
As I scuttle away, a cyclist screeches past, a courier from the look of his uniform, and he misses me by inches. I feel the swoosh of air on my body as he skims by me, swerving to avoid contact. ‘Watch yourself, asshole!’ he yells, giving me the finger as he rides off into the distance.
Just as I am recovering from the shock of that near-death experience, a huge black SUV with tinted windows drives by.
The filthy puddles of rain that have collected at the side of the kerb splash up from its wheels and drench me.
The vehicle does not even slow down, and I am left soaked and shivering and wondering where all the polite billionaires have gone.
I don’t even care about the smoking hot bit right now; I’d settle for someone with manners.
A woman who saw what happened walks towards me and pulls a sympathetic face. ‘The world,’ she announces firmly, ‘is full of jerks. You okay?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, wringing out my hair. ‘Thank you. I’m not sure it’s the whole world.
I think maybe I’m a jerk magnet.’ She pulls a pack of tissues from her bag and passes them over.
I dab my face, and smile at her. At last. Someone with manners.
She’s very pretty, too. Maybe she’s a billionaire, and I’ve been playing for the wrong team all these years.
‘Do you want to get a coffee?’ I ask, unexpectedly.
Like, I had no clue I was going to ask that.
She looks taken aback and shakes her head.
‘No, sorry, I’m meeting someone. But keep the pack, and happy holidays to you, okay?
’ And just like that, she races away. I don’t suppose I can blame her.
I know from my Santa photo that I’m not looking my best, and now I’m covered in dirty water too.
She’ll probably tell her pals about the crazy lady she met outside Macy’s, wearing a Santa badge and hitting on her.
‘I wasn’t hitting on you, by the way!’ I shout after her. ‘I’m just lonely!’ She glances back over her shoulder, and a few people stare at me. This is New York though, so nobody really bats an eyelid. I shrug, and trudge on.
I feel weirdly determined now. I might look like a lunatic, and I might feel sad and pathetic, but I will at least try and find some Christmas magic this year.
I am not a bad person. I don’t kick puppies or steal, or deliberately hurt anyone else.
I rescue spiders that are trapped in the tub, and I sponsor a child in Bangladesh, and I always check in on my elderly neighbour, Mrs Baumgarten.
None of this qualifies me for sainthood, but it should at least qualify me for the cosmic version of the nice list instead of the naughty list. Shouldn’t it?
I know the cosmos doesn’t work quite like that, which starts to annoy me.
As I make my way through the thronging crowd and the melting snow and the brightly decorated store fronts, I feel a sense of anger growing inside me.
The anger turns into strength, and I begin to make some decisions.
I start to act rather than react – for the first time in months. I accept the Christmas miracle.
I pause in a store doorway and give myself a pep talk. Out loud, which ensures that everybody gives me plenty of space.
‘I deserve to be happy,’ I say firmly, putting it out there into the universe.
‘I deserve love. I deserve a new phone, and a haircut. And I deserve to bake myself the most spectacular Christmas cake that the world has ever seen. I promise you, Santa, that I will do my very best to make all of those wishes come true.’
And with that, I go shopping – it’s as good a place to start as any.