Page 26 of Big Nick Energy
‘Oh my God, you were supposed to let go. I can’t…’ she says, bending over to have another laugh.
‘It’s… help… pricks… all over my face…’ Naturally, a comment of that nature doesn’t help and I can hear her stumbling around in laughter and then fumbling for her phone. Is she taking photos? ‘You’ll have to pull me out.’
‘I can’t, it’ll bugger the netting. I’ll have to pull you through…’ She’s still giggling. Meanwhile, I strangely understand how it feels to be a baby mid-delivery and stuck in your mum’s birth canal. ‘Can you breathe?’
‘Well, I’m not underwater.’ I start laughing at this point. This evening seems to be a comedy of errors, from the ice sculpture to this. All I can hear are her jingly shoes trying to get in the right position and the sound of her exerting herself.
‘HEAVE!’ I scream, and she stops to have yet another laugh. And just like that, I find myself on the other end of the funnel, still holding on to this blessed tree but wrapped snugly in layers of white netting. The force with which she pulls me through means I land on the ground with a thud. ‘Fucking OOWW…’
Of course, my pain comes secondary to Lucy’s amusement and, even though my vision is obscured by layers of webbed netting, I can still hear her howling. And then, strangely, the sound of my own voice saying HEAVE. The cow filmed it, didn’t she? I do hope she has scissors to get me out of here.
‘JESUS CHRIST!’ The voice comes out of nowhere, echoing around the place. It is Christmas but I suspect the man himself has not made an early appearance. It’s a man’s voice and hedoesn’t sound particularly happy or amused. ‘Lucy, please tell me that’s not a customer.’
‘Chill your beans, bossman. It’s my friend. It was an accident,’ Lucy explains, not particularly bothered that the person standing over us is her boss. Oh dear, is this going to get her fired? I am still laughing but also feel darts of worry for my friend. Is he a nice boss? Will he get the joke?
‘That’s what they always say. Have you been drinking?’ I hear him say. Oh my God.
‘It’s Christmas,’ Lucy explains.
‘It’s machinery. Your friend could have died,’ he says, clearly not pleased.
‘It’s not a wood chipper,’ Lucy retorts.
‘I am very sorry, it was all my idea,’ I pipe up. It might be a little bit funny that this person netted up like a mackerel is starting to talk. I hope he’s laughing and will start to get the joke.
‘Are you OK, miss?’
‘I landed a bit awkwardly but I’m OK. I really am sorry.’
I hear the sound of the machine creaking and his heavy footsteps circling around me. ‘Lucy, in that drawer there’s a cutter. Pass it here.’ I start to hear the sound of snipping. ‘Miss, I am conscious that I don’t want to cut your clothing or your skin so do tell me if I’m too close.’
There is something about his voice now that he’s stopped telling Lucy off that is soothing, a low register with a touch of earth to it. He rests his hands on me to gain purchase and turns me and my tree friend around. His figure comes into view a little more and I feel my body go taut. I’m not sure if it’s the firmness of his grip or the fact that a blade is so close to me. And then I suddenly see light, a hand comes in to push the branches of this tree away from my face. I look up.You’re shitting me.
Santa?
TWELVE
There’s no other way of saying this. I am sitting in Santa’s office. It’s a nice office – wood is an overriding theme, from the panelling to the desk to a couple of ornately carved chairs. Santa also knows how to do Christmas. He has two trees in each corner of the room, tastefully decorated in red and white, and, in keeping with the woodland Scandi theme of the place, a fire in a black cast-iron log burner crackles away giving the place warmth. There are lots of family photos on the walls, a bookshelf of art and travel books, and there’s a well-worn red patterned rug in the centre of the room. I sit there with my mug of coffee, sipping quietly, leaning over to see a computer switched on. There’s a film paused on the screen that I believe isHome Alone. Santa watches the best at Christmas. There is also a bowl of sweets to the side of his desk. I look around and take one. Lord have absolute mercy, it would seem that Santa likes crispy M&Ms. I take another one. The door opens and Santa appears again holding a bright-green medical box. I hold the sweets in my mouth.
‘Is the coffee alright?’ he asks. ‘Help yourself to biscuits if you want.’ He points to a plate on the desk. I take one tentatively. Naturally, the biscuit is ginger with a perfect snap. It crumbles asI bite into it, meaning I have to pick crumbs out of my hair. Santa looks at me curiously.
‘Did you make these?’ I ask, trying to break the tension.
‘I don’t bake. I leave that to the elves,’ he says, a little too seriously. I find that comment funny in my head so I laugh. I may also snort which must be attractive. He doesn’t laugh.You’re supposed to be Santa. Where’s your jolly?I watch as he sifts through the medical box. The problem here is that this man is not Santa. This dude is young. He has the red fur outfit and the big black boots but the red coat is not done up. It’s hanging there so I can see he has a white fitted t-shirt on underneath. Santa’s not been at the cookies. The beard is his own but dark brown, and he has green eyes. No hat, slightly-longer-than-short brown hair, and tousled. This is most definitely not Santa and not someone I’d picture being Lucy’s boss.
‘Then my compliments to the elves,’ I say, trying to snap myself out of staring at this very attractive man.
‘You know, this might be better if you perch yourself on my desk,’ he says. I choke a little on my coffee. ‘Saves my knees.’
I nod quietly and put my coffee down, going over to the desk and sitting there, waiting. He grabs a chair and comes over, looking at my knee and taking it in his hand.You’ve got big hands. Don’t look at his hands.When I went through the Christmas tree netting machine, it would seem I tore fabric off my jumpsuit and have a nasty graze. When Santa saw it, he invited me in to administer first aid and a warm drink for the trouble. It sounded gentlemanly but it turns out there’s also an incident form to fill out for health and safety so I can say I got in that machine voluntarily and wasn’t pushed.
‘Where’s Lucy?’ I ask, trying to engage in chitchat to mask my embarrassment.
‘Tidying up, getting changed. She’ll be through in a minute,’ he says.
‘You’re not going to fire her for this?’ I ask.
He chuckles under his breath. ‘No. Funnily enough, you’re not the first person to jump through that machine and you won’t be the last. Bloody TikTok generation has a lot to answer for.’ He opens some packets of gauze and medical wipes. ‘And Lucy Callaghan is many things but she is also one of my best employees. The kids love her, she gets us good reviews, even if she does flirt with a lot of the dads who come through the door.’ That sounds like my friend. I breathe a sigh of relief I’ve not cost her her job. I watch as he traces his fingers through the tears in my jumpsuit and grabs the underside of my calf. That’s a firm hold and I breathe in to feel his fingers wrapped around me. ‘I am sorry about your onesie.’
