Chapter 2
CHRISTIAN
Don’t look back , Christian told himself. Just don’t look —
He looked back, seeing the young woman who had greeted him.
She was watching him go, and when he caught her eye she beamed another beautiful smile his way.
Merry was an unusual name, but it fit her perfectly.
She had to be in her early twenties, and everything about her seemed to suggest that she was merry and bright, just like the Bing Crosby song that had been playing a moment ago.
She was dressed in the traditional Carroll’s red dress, with green tights and shiny black heels that made her legs go on for miles.
Her hair was a tumble of red curls that framed her face in a way that made it hard not to stare.
And her eyes, so bright green they were almost unreal, stood out even from across the lobby.
He waved at her, and she waved back, the little collection of leaflets exploding from her hand again.
Even from here he heard her groan, and she almost took out another customer on the way down to collect them.
He laughed gently, wondering if he should go back to help her.
But he stopped himself. He wasn’t here to speak to the greeters, no matter how pretty they were or how much he wanted an excuse to hang around.
The reason he was walking through the doors of Carroll’s Department Store for the first time in five years was far more serious.
Christian sighed, looking around to get his bearings.
The giant tree towered above him, reaching the balconies of the fourth floor and pouring out so much light that it almost hurt to look at it.
There were hundreds of presents at its base, but Christian knew that all those perfectly wrapped boxes were empty and just for show.
Kind of like how he felt now, standing here, showing up, but feeling hollowed out inside.
Taking a deep breath, he set off around the tree.
The store was bursting full of people, young couples in matching Christmas jumpers and delighted children running rings around their parents, all of them laughing and smiling and shouting with excitement.
How many times had he run screaming around this shop when he was a boy?
He wished he could be as happy as they were, but it was a long time since he’d been able to enjoy the festive season.
And now that he was back here, the chances of him enjoying this year’s festivities were even slimmer.
What he’d told Merry was true. Christmas was about family, and his family — the one person left in it, anyway — never made him feel very welcome.
He reached the elevator and rode it up with a group of high school kids who were hyped up on hot chocolate and marshmallows.
They got off on the third floor, leaving him to ride to the top of the building alone as ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ drifted from the speakers.
He stepped off into the children’s department on floor ten, making his way through the crowds gathered around Santa’s grotto to the staff door right at the back of the building.
There was a keypad there, and he typed in the number to open it — his date of birth.
To his surprise, the light blinked red and the keypad bleeped angrily.
He tried again, and as he was going for a third attempt the door swung open and Christian found himself face to face with somebody he hadn’t seen in years.
“Christian Carroll,” said Margot Miller, looking him up and down as if he was a rat that had scurried in from the street. “I’d like to say it’s good to see you, but we’d both know that would be a lie.”
She was older now, but she looked almost exactly as he remembered her. Sharp navy suit, silver hair pulled into a tight twist and a gaze that could cut through steel.
“Margot.” Christian nodded curtly. “The code has changed.”
“A lot has changed,” she shot back. “You’d know that if you hadn’t abandoned ship.”
Christian did his best to push the anger down into his stomach. He had known there was a chance Margot would still be working in the store, but he’d hoped he could get through today without seeing her.
“Is Dad here?” he asked. “He wanted to see me. He said it was urgent.”
He’d received the message two days ago, at his base in the Philippine island of Rapu-Rapu.
It had been the first contact from his dad in years, and something about the way it had been worded made it clear how serious it was.
He’d packed up and flown home that night, and the thirty-six hours of travel were starting to take their toll.
He rubbed his eyes, feeling like he could lie down right there and sleep for a week.
“He’s here,” said Margot. “I told him it was a bad idea to invite you, but you know how he is. There’s no saying no to that man.”
“Are you going to let me in, then?” Christian asked.
Margot smiled unkindly and didn’t move, blocking him like a doorman.
“I warned your dad about bringing you back, but he insisted,” she said, leaning close to deliver the ice-cold words directly into his ear. “Do not mess it up. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” Christian replied. “Believe me, I want to be here about as much as you want me to be. Just let me through.”
Margot stood there for a moment more, then moved to the side.
“He’s in the office,” she said as he walked past. “And he’s pretty angry.”
That was nothing new. Lewis Carroll was as famous as his literary namesake, and as far as the world knew, he was the same gentle giant that appeared on the TV adverts every year dressed as Santa and ho-ho-hoing next to his giant Christmas tree.
Only a few people had actually met the short-tempered, ruthless man behind the myth, and Christian knew the truth better than anybody.
There was a good reason that his father was a billionaire, and it wasn’t because he was as generous as Santa Claus.
If anything, he was more like Ebenezer Scrooge — before the ghosts.
Christian walked past the staff locker room, reaching the office door. He paused, composing himself. Then he knocked.
“Who is it?” growled a familiar voice from inside.
Christian felt a rush of anxiety at the thought of seeing his dad again after so long. “It’s me,” he said, turning the handle and opening the door. “It’s . . .”
He froze, thinking for a moment that he’d made a mistake.
There was only one man in the bookshelf-lined room, sitting behind the same antique desk that had always been there, and framed by the huge window that looked out over the city.
But it couldn’t be his father. For one, he looked about half the size he had last time Christian had seen him.
He’d lost maybe fifty pounds, and it seemed like he had shrunk vertically as well.
His hair had all but fallen out, and his famous white beard was thin and scraggly.
Christian was so shocked that it took him a moment to notice the oxygen tank next his father’s chair.
“Dad?”
“So you do remember who I am,” said his father, sucking in breath with an alarming wheeze. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
“Of course,” Christian stuttered. “I just . . . I didn’t realise . . .”
“You would have realised,” said Margot, following him into the office and closing the door behind her, “if you’d bothered to keep in touch.”
“This is none of your business,” Christian said. “You don’t need to be here.”
“Actually, she does,” said his dad. “Margot is the general manager now. She has been for a year, ever since I got sick.”
“What do you mean, you’re sick?” Christian’s heart was thumping. “What’s wrong?”
As if replying, the old man started to cough, a rasping, hacking noise that sounded painful.
Margot walked around the table and held the oxygen mask to his mouth until it had subsided.
Christian was so shocked he felt like his legs were about to give way beneath him, but he didn’t sit down.
He forced himself to keep standing so that he wouldn’t look weak — something his dad had always taught him to do.
Not that his dad was standing now.
“Your father has been getting worse,” said Margot while his dad collected his breath. “The doctors say he needs to start taking things easy. He needs to stop working.”
“Which is why I brought you here,” he growled, his blue eyes as fierce as they had always been. “I’m giving you one last shot.”
“One last shot at what?” Christian asked. “I told you, I don’t want any part of the business.”
“You’re happier working in the mud?” his dad shot back. “Building flea-infested toilets?”
Christian nodded, feeling the frustrations rise in him.
One of the reasons he’d left for good was because his dad had never made an effort to understand him.
Money was the only thing that had ever mattered to Lewis Carroll, but Christian had never seen the attraction.
He’d taken after his late mother. She’d always told him you couldn’t eat gold.
When Christian had witnessed the terrible conditions of the factory workers during a buyer’s trip to the Philippines and decided to stay to help them, his dad had seen it as a betrayal of him, the family, the business and everything he believed in.
How many arguments just like this had he had with the old man before he left five years ago?
And now here they were again, at each other’s throats just minutes after meeting.
“I’m happy where I am,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re not well, Dad. I really am. And I’ll do what I can to help. But I’ve made my choice. This business isn’t for me.”
“You didn’t seem to mind when I was giving you all my money,” said his dad.
“That’s not fair, and you know it,” Christian said. “I helped you turn the store around when it looked like everything was going down the drain. I helped you franchise. I earned that money.”
It was true. He’d worked insanely hard for four years to save Carroll’s during its darkest days after the recession.
It had been his idea to open up new stores across the world — London, Paris, Shanghai — and that’s where the real money had come from.
Without him, Carroll’s would have closed its doors years ago.
Not that his dad seemed to remember any of that.
“You came,” his dad said. “That shows you’re at least willing to hear me out.”
“Sure,” Christian said. “Whatever you need.”
“I need you back here.” Christian started to protest, but his dad held up a hand. “Margot’s right. I need to take a step back or this is gonna kill me. But I need help. The company is in trouble, son. It’s on the edge.”
“It looks healthy enough down there,” said Christian. “I’ve never seen it so busy.”
“Plenty of people,” said the old man, wheezing as he drew in a breath. “But nobody is buying. At least not enough to keep the ship afloat. Something’s gone wrong, and I don’t know what it is. I need somebody to fix it, somebody I can trust.”
“What about Margot?” Christian glanced at her and saw the anger in her expression. She wanted this job, he knew, and as much as he hated the thought of giving her anything, he knew she was a better choice. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to be sucked back into the family business.
“Margot is doing an amazing job,” his dad said. “She’ll continue to run the company. But I need family. I need a Carroll. And you’re the only one I’ve got.”
“I’ve got my own business, Dad,” he said. “FutureWorlds. I’ve got a life out there. I can’t just up and leave it.”
“You upped and left this one,” the old man said. “Besides, why waste your time on a non-profit venture when you could be more than comfortable here?”
Christian sighed. Trying to argue with his father was a lost cause. The old man was still as sharp as a tack, and just as painful.
“Look, I don’t want to argue,” said his dad. “I figure we’ve done enough of that. I just . . . I need you, Christian. I’m old, I’m sick. I don’t even know how much time I have left. Do this for me, just for a little while. Take a look at the company from the inside, find out what’s going on.”
“He doesn’t even know the company anymore,” said Margot.
“Christian has known this company since the day he was born,” said the old man. “But you’ve been gone so long nobody will remember you. You’re in the perfect place to get to the heart of whatever is going on.”
Christian sighed. All he wanted to do was climb on a plane and head back to his home in the Philippines.
But his dad was sick, really sick. This situation was obviously stressful for him, and there was a danger it could seriously hurt him.
He wasn’t being asked to take the company over or anything, just to investigate.
He’d saved Carroll’s before — he could do it again.
Besides, Margot was right. You didn’t say no to Lewis Carroll.
Reluctantly, he nodded.
“Okay, sure,” he said. “I’ll stay, and I’ll see what I can do. But only for as long as it takes to fix whatever has broken.”
Margot muttered something beneath her breath, her eyes as dangerous as a snake’s.
“Good,” said his dad, slapping the desk with one big hand. “I knew you’d come through for me. I think you should—”
“He needs to start somewhere low,” Margot interrupted. “A job’s just opened up on the cleaning crew. If he’s going to go unseen, I can’t think of anywhere better.”
“A janitor?” said the old man. “Sure, good idea. You can start tomorrow morning. Eight sharp.”
Christian nodded. He knew Margot had only suggested the job to humiliate him, but he’d spent the last five years doing messier jobs than cleaning bathrooms, restocking toilet paper and getting stains out of the carpets.
Besides, she had a point. If he was going to observe the company, that was the best position to do it from.
“Sure,” he said. “Eight.”
“Here’s everything we know so far.” His dad pushed a manila folder across the table. “Read up on it tonight.”
Christian took it, waiting for his father to say something else, something nice .
He thought, after all this time, that he might at least invite him over for dinner at the family house.
But he just picked up his oxygen mask and breathed deeply from it, waving his free hand to dismiss Christian from the room.
Margot leaned over the old man, helping him, and Christian watched them for a moment before making his way to the door.
His father was dying. The company was dying. Just what kind of Christmas had he come home to?