Chapter 1
Christmas-time. Full of joy and good tidings. Selection boxes. Bustling markets. Brightly wrapped presents. Children excitedly penning Christmas lists to send to Lapland . . .
Holly Sprigg hated everything about Christmas with a passion.
For one thing, she'd had the misfortune to be born on the 26th of December. For her entire life, her birthday had therefore been drowned out by everyone else's joy of Christmas. While she wasn't particularly materialistic, she would notice that she'd receive less presents, and she definitely didn't reap as much attention. By the time her birthday rolled around, her family and friends were tuckered out from all the festive excitement. She was a mere afterthought.
And, as if to add insult to injury, her parents had named her Holly. Fucking Holly. Just to rub in her resentment of Christmas even more. With a name like Holly Sprigg, people would assume that meant she loved Christmas, when nothing could be further from the truth.
She was not looking forward to Christmas this year.
Obviously, she never got excited about it, but this year in particular she was also single, which just made her feel even more miserable. Not that her ex had exactly been a prize himself . . . He used to only get her one present to cover both Christmas and her birthday, which was admittedly rather infuriating. But he had been a bit of a scrooge too and so she could be her true self around him. They could watch regular films, eat normal food and act like it was just an average day.
She didn't have to pretend with him.
Because, in case you don't know, being vocal about hating Christmas is frowned upon by a large percentage of the population. People judge. They don't understand why somebody wouldn't like Christmas. So Holly mostly kept her feelings to herself and feigned enthusiasm whenever necessary. She'd been putting a decent act on for years.
Taking part in Secret Santa, Christmas lunches, acting excited when the first festive song of the year blasted out of the radio (always far too early, by the way). She even owned a (urgh!) Christmas jumper and would pull it out on the requisite charitable day in the office each December, trying not to shudder the entire time it was touching her skin.
There's a good chance she deserved an Oscar - her performances were that good.
And, right now, she was fake-smiling through yet another of the aforementioned ridiculous traditions - taking her nephew to see Santa. She was currently nursing what had now been a full-day-hangover due to one too many mulled wines the previous night (the only "Christmassy" thing she could get on board with) and Simon was asking way too many questions, as five year olds are wont to do.
"But shouldn't Santa be in the North Pole making the toys right now?" He asked, bouncing up and down excitedly on his toes as he peered down the queue to the grotto in front of them.
Holly sighed. She hated dealing with questions like this. She was convinced one day she'd be the one to accidentally give away the fact that Santa wasn't real and, despite her own feelings about the holidays, she actually didn't want to ruin Simon's innocent young outlook on life.
Plus, her whole family would hate her if she did. They'd probably chase her out of town with pitchforks covered in fairylights and tinsel.
"He's got the day off," she replied tiredly.
"If he's got the day off, then why is he working here today?" Simon was far too clever for her.
"It's the recession; he needs two jobs," she ad-libbed. Hopefully, that would shut him up.
"What's a recession?"
Shit, take her back to Santa related questions! She didn't have a clue how to explain that.
"He just needs the money, okay?" She said snappishly, and Simon's big blue eyes welled up with tears. She instantly felt bad. "For supplies . . . to make you more presents," she added, hugging him to her apologetically as they moved forward another few inches.
They'd been in this line for close to forty minutes now. She'd heard "I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday" three times already. Which - probably unsurprisingly given its title - was her least favourite of all the Christmas songs that had ever existed. The shopping centre was overheated and stuffy, and she was longing for some fresh air to clear her throbbing headache.
"How will he get home to the North Pole later?" Simon continued to badger her. "I can't see his sleigh anywhere."
"It might be on the roof," Holly sighed. "Or maybe he has a magic potion that will help him get home in a flash."
"Okay." Simon seemed to accept that answer without any further questions, much to her relief. Unfortunately, this was replaced by him humming tunelessly along with Cliff Richard's "Mistletoe and Wine", which was also now on its third rotation, while Holly wished she'd remembered her earphones and could drown out the noise with some Metallica. Thankfully, there were only five more minutes of torture before they finally reached the front of the queue.
As Simon shyly approached his hero, Holly was surprised to realise this particular grotto Santa actually looked pretty authentic; a bit like Richard Attenborough's version in "Miracle on 34th Street". Once upon a time, back when she'd been close to Simon's age, she'd actually liked that film.
"Hello, young man," Santa said in his deep voice. "What's your name?"
"Simon," he replied bashfully, scuffing his heels and looking up at him from under his ridiculously long eyelashes. "Hi Santa."
Holly stood, unaware her foot was tapping impatiently against the hard floor as Simon informed Santa exactly what he wanted for Christmas in excruciating detail. She tuned out completely, only coming back to the conversation when she heard Simon finishing with ". . . and I want it to snow, and I want it to be proper snow so I can make the best snowman in the whole world."
She couldn't suppress the sceptical snort that escaped her at the little boy's words. Glasgow didn't actually get that much snow. And when it did, it rarely lasted. If you actually managed to make a snowman in the limited snowfall window, it would usually have melted by the next day. Santa would need a meteorological miracle to grant that particular wish.
Santa looked up at her sharply when he heard her scoff; then he smiled. It was a curious grin, like he knew something she didn't. And it made her very uncomfortable.
He turned back to her nephew. "Well, I'll see what I can do for you about those presents, Simon." Then he reached into his pocket and produced what appeared to be a small clear packet of colourful glitter. "And here is something special to help you make that snowman," he added, placing it on Simon's open palm.
"A magic potion?" The boy breathed in delight.
"Glitter?" Holly laughed dismissively. Santa ignored her.
"This will help you make the best snowman ever," he assured Simon.
"Snow's not even in the forecast," Holly muttered, walking forward and taking Simon's hand. She'd had just about enough of this Santa and his ridiculous false promises.
Santa's eyes twinkled as he turned his attention back on her. "And what about you, young lady?" He asked suddenly. "What do you want for Christmas?" He was looking at her knowingly again.
"I want it to be January," she snapped. "And for all this crap to be over with. Come on, Simon," she added, tugging him along as she backed away.
"Well, I hope you find everything you want, Holly," Santa shouted after them as they left the grotto. "Ho ho ho," drifted along behind them.
She hadn't told him her name, she realised belatedly as they walked toward the main door of the shopping centre. Then she shrugged - maybe Simon had told him during his gift related monologue.
"I can't believe Santa gave me a magic potion," Simon said in wonder. He couldn't stop staring at the packet clutched in his chubby little hand.
"Don't get your hopes up about that snow," Holly warned. "Santa isn't a weatherman." She stopped to help him slide his mittens on, dropping the glitter into his duffle coat pocket. When she looked up, Simon was staring outside, his mouth wide open.
"I think he might be, Aunt Holly," he replied.
And when Holly followed his gaze, she realised it was snowing.
Heavily.
