the door.
“You’re going to the Christmas ball then?” I say, casually placing the beers down on the table.
“Yeah,” says Kate, twisting hers open. “I’m taking Rhett as my plus one.”
I look expectantly at Deacon.
“How about you?”
“Actually,” he says, “I thought I’d ask Alicia this year. You don’t mind, do you?”
Chapter Seven
“Hi everyone!” Alicia calls, as she skips through the door. “Oh, hi Isabel!”
She slides into the empty seat next to Deacon and it takes every ounce of my strength not to kick it out from under her. My stomach churns as he casually rests his arm on the back of her chair. The jealous wolf inside me has reared its ugly head.
“You’re really OK about Deacon taking Alicia to the ball?” Kate asks when I give her a lift home.
“Course, it’s no big deal,” I lie. “I’ve got another party that night anyway.”
“Great - you should come round to my house so we can get ready together.”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, come on! We can open a bottle of wine and put on some music to get us in the party mood. Besides, I might need fashion advice.”
She’s got me there. One year, she tried to wear legwarmers under her cocktail dress, claiming her legs were cold. I definitely need to quality check her outfit before she sets foot outside the door.
“Well, OK.” I reluctantly agree. “I’ll get ready at yours.”
Robertson’s - Three Weeks before Christmas
“If I hear Jive Bunny one more time, I’m going to ram a Christmas tree down someone’s throat!” Jon the security man tries to shield his ears, but it’s impossible to block out the sound.
That’s one of the many joys of working at Robertson’s at this time of year, they bombard us with diabolical Christmas music all day long. I’ve tried talking to Sonya about it, but apparently it’s a head office directive. We have to play Christmas music to get the customers in the spending mood. And so we do - all day long. I’ve heard the American government used the same technique on prisoners in Guantanamo Bay. I bet it was effective.
The Christmas shopping season has begun in earnest, but not as ferociously here as at Filbert’s, where the kiddies are queuing round the corner to see Santa.
Sonya rushes up to me, her face flushed.
“Isabel! I need a favour.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve just caught the elves conducting themselves in..er…”
“Un-elfly behaviour?” I supply.
She nods. “I’ve had to send them both back to the agency, so I was wondering if you could take over, just till they send someone else? Santa can’t cope on his own.”
“Surely there’s someone else who could do it?”
Sonya tugs at the hair at the back of her head. “Isabel, I’m asking you. I don’t want any more screw ups, I just want to know that it’s under control.”
“Well, OK.” I reluctantly agree, “But I don’t really have to wear a costume do I?”
“It’s in the office.”
It is a long, long afternoon. Stu comes over to leer at me in my ridiculously short belted tunic and curly toed shoes.
“There’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,” he croons, in a terrible faux Irish accent.
“That’s leprechauns, you ignorant bastard,” I hiss. “Oh, sorry!” My hand flies to my mouth as I remember too late that I’m surrounded by small children. Their mothers look at each other and shake their heads in consternation.
The promised replacement elves never materialise, so I have to prop up Santa all afternoon. Finally, at five o’clock, I stalk off to the toilets to change, feeling hot, sweaty and irritable. The cheap, tacky green tights leave an inky stain as I peel them from my legs, and my feet hurt from being squished into those stupid shoes. I wriggle thankfully into my normal clothes, bundling the hated costume into a ball and contemplate flushing it down the loo.
Sonya couldn’t be more apologetic, but her apologies don’t make up for my humiliation. Bernie
“You’re going to the Christmas ball then?” I say, casually placing the beers down on the table.
“Yeah,” says Kate, twisting hers open. “I’m taking Rhett as my plus one.”
I look expectantly at Deacon.
“How about you?”
“Actually,” he says, “I thought I’d ask Alicia this year. You don’t mind, do you?”
Chapter Seven
“Hi everyone!” Alicia calls, as she skips through the door. “Oh, hi Isabel!”
She slides into the empty seat next to Deacon and it takes every ounce of my strength not to kick it out from under her. My stomach churns as he casually rests his arm on the back of her chair. The jealous wolf inside me has reared its ugly head.
“You’re really OK about Deacon taking Alicia to the ball?” Kate asks when I give her a lift home.
“Course, it’s no big deal,” I lie. “I’ve got another party that night anyway.”
“Great - you should come round to my house so we can get ready together.”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, come on! We can open a bottle of wine and put on some music to get us in the party mood. Besides, I might need fashion advice.”
She’s got me there. One year, she tried to wear legwarmers under her cocktail dress, claiming her legs were cold. I definitely need to quality check her outfit before she sets foot outside the door.
“Well, OK.” I reluctantly agree. “I’ll get ready at yours.”
Robertson’s - Three Weeks before Christmas
“If I hear Jive Bunny one more time, I’m going to ram a Christmas tree down someone’s throat!” Jon the security man tries to shield his ears, but it’s impossible to block out the sound.
That’s one of the many joys of working at Robertson’s at this time of year, they bombard us with diabolical Christmas music all day long. I’ve tried talking to Sonya about it, but apparently it’s a head office directive. We have to play Christmas music to get the customers in the spending mood. And so we do - all day long. I’ve heard the American government used the same technique on prisoners in Guantanamo Bay. I bet it was effective.
The Christmas shopping season has begun in earnest, but not as ferociously here as at Filbert’s, where the kiddies are queuing round the corner to see Santa.
Sonya rushes up to me, her face flushed.
“Isabel! I need a favour.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve just caught the elves conducting themselves in..er…”
“Un-elfly behaviour?” I supply.
She nods. “I’ve had to send them both back to the agency, so I was wondering if you could take over, just till they send someone else? Santa can’t cope on his own.”
“Surely there’s someone else who could do it?”
Sonya tugs at the hair at the back of her head. “Isabel, I’m asking you. I don’t want any more screw ups, I just want to know that it’s under control.”
“Well, OK.” I reluctantly agree, “But I don’t really have to wear a costume do I?”
“It’s in the office.”
It is a long, long afternoon. Stu comes over to leer at me in my ridiculously short belted tunic and curly toed shoes.
“There’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,” he croons, in a terrible faux Irish accent.
“That’s leprechauns, you ignorant bastard,” I hiss. “Oh, sorry!” My hand flies to my mouth as I remember too late that I’m surrounded by small children. Their mothers look at each other and shake their heads in consternation.
The promised replacement elves never materialise, so I have to prop up Santa all afternoon. Finally, at five o’clock, I stalk off to the toilets to change, feeling hot, sweaty and irritable. The cheap, tacky green tights leave an inky stain as I peel them from my legs, and my feet hurt from being squished into those stupid shoes. I wriggle thankfully into my normal clothes, bundling the hated costume into a ball and contemplate flushing it down the loo.
Sonya couldn’t be more apologetic, but her apologies don’t make up for my humiliation. Bernie
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