‘I’ll get Matt to call you!’ I reply. ‘You won’t regret it!’
‘Wait. . . Matt? Who is—’
‘Shit, I need to run. . .’ I give her a slightly (very) awkward hug, bolting for the exit before she can change her mind. I’m already halfway to the grotto, practically skipping through the mall towards the staffroom when I hear:
‘You are late again.’
I hold up my coffee cup at Izzy in response, mouthing the word ‘sorry’ and ignoring her loud tut as she passes me in full elf costume. Being a few minutes late is worth it. Everything is going to plan and for the first time in months, I’m starting to like myself again. As I remove my jumper, I can faintly smell Sarah’s perfume on the neckband and smile. Matt’s a lucky man.
Chapter Seven
‘Jesus, mate. . . smile much? I take it things went well then?’
Matt has been home from his date with Sarah for approximately seven minutes and that smug grin hasn’t left his face for one second. I watch him grab some leftover chicken from the fridge before joining me on the couch. I feel like his mum, waiting up on a Saturday night to see how his first date went. At least he didn’t drunkenly bring Sarah home with him. I’m very proud.
‘Yeah. . . it was good,’ he replies, inspecting a very dry-looking chicken wing. ‘I took her for tapas though so I’m still starving. How long have these been in the fridge?’
‘No idea,’ I reply indifferently, trying to keep him on topic. ‘So, it was justgood? Really? Not fantastic? Your face says it was at least great.’
He bashfully rubs the back of his neck. ‘It was pretty fantastic actually, really good fun. To be honest, she was not at all what I was expecting.’
Now I’m smug. Iknewhe’d like her. How could he not? She’s delightful. ‘Do you honestly think I’d set you up with a troll? Oh, ye of little faith.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Bethany Andrews?’
‘Apart from her. . . and everyone pees in the shower.’
‘Yeah, but usually the shower is on.’
‘Point taken.’
He kicks off his shoes and stretches his legs. For someone six foot three, his legs look surprisingly short. I sit up a little straighter as I try to judge if he has an abnormally long torso. ‘It’s weird. I just didn’t expect Sarah to be so. . .’
‘Lovely?’
‘Exactly,’ he responds, finally braving the chicken wing. ‘She’s stunning. She’s really grounded as well. . . and smart and funny. Offered to pay half the bill. . . it’s been a while since anyone I’ve dated offered to pay for anything.’
‘You just haven’t been dating the right women,’ I reply, quickly realising the parallel between our lives as Matt continues filling me in on the date. I’m no better at relationships than he is. The only thing Angela ever paid for in our relationship was her Uber ride home after she ended it. Sarah sounds like she is one of those women who don’t rely on anyone to take care of them. My mum was like that. . . maybe it’s a single-parent thing.
He nods. ‘You were right about me dating someone different. I’ve never met anyone like her. I might be getting ahead of myself, but I think she could be. . . well, you know. . .’
‘Worthy of a second date?’
‘Quite possibly, mate,’ he announces, throwing the chicken bone on the plate. ‘I know it sounds crazy but there’s just something about her. Her smile, maybe. . . Do we have any hot sauce? This chicken is bland as fuck.’
As he traipses back to the kitchen in search of condiments, my mind flashes back to Sarah smiling at me in the grotto and I feel a slight pang in my chest. It’s so strange – I hardly know the woman, but somehow, it’s now become my mission in life to make her happy. Matt’s a great guy; she could be happy with him. I’m doing a good thing here.
I might only be a lowly shopping-centre Santa, but I, Saint Nick, am well on the way to changing two and a half lives. Maybe I should be focusing on my own, given that it is such a mess, but I’m channelling my inner Santa and the Christmas Spirit and all that shit. Who knows, Alfie’s Christmas wish might just come true.
Tuesday in the grotto is thankfully much quieter than the outrageously busy weekend Izzy and I were subjected to. On Saturday alone we had three vomit incidents, nineteen criers and countless tantrums from both parents and children alike. I’ve never heard an elf threaten to murder someone in Spanish, but as it turns out, it’s rather endearing. Over the past few days we’ve developed a much more harmonious working relationship which involves me bringing her doughnuts and her not setting fire to my beard.
I beckon for the next child and watch him run to me, followed by a teenager covered in piercings.
‘Hello. Merry Christmas!’ I say, helping him up on to my knee. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Ryan,’ he says, bashfully. He’s cute; no Alfie, but cute all the same.
‘And what would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas?’
