Patrick says, ‘We are, I think?’ looking at me, unsure, before we’re whisked through a curtain by the elf to wait inside what I think is an open-ended garden shed.
‘Patrick?’ I say, disorientated. ‘What’s this?’
He looks apologetic and like he’s about to say we should head back to the car.
‘Ho ho ho,’ a voice booms from through the curtain, and Patrick holds it open to reveal, of course, a grotto. ‘Ah, welcome!’ a very jolly Father Christmas says. ‘It’s little Margi, isn’t it? And Patrick Wootton. Lovely to see you again.’
I have to laugh. ‘You don’t want me to sit on your knee, do you?’
‘Ho ho ho.’ Santa shakes his round belly. ‘That would be against the estate’s safeguarding rules,ho ho ho.’
He does, however, pat a cushioned seat beside him. I make my way across the grotto, all sumptuously swagged red velvet disguising the fact this is probably just a tarpaulin-covered gazebo – clever that they don’t let you see it – and there are plush rugs on the floor and a real tree decorated with red baubles.
‘Tell me, what do you want for Christmas, Margi?’
Got to hand it to him, he’s doing a good job of keeping up the act.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘Well…’ Only, I can’t think of any special thing I’d like, nothing you could buy in shops anyway. ‘There’s only one thing, actually.’ Thinking about it makes me aware I might be on the verge of crying and I don’t know what to do about that.
‘Go on, Santa’s listening.’
I know it’s only make-believe, of course, and I have to remind myself I’ve absolutely lost all of my Christmas spirit this year, but after tonight and all the lights and the kisses and the warmth, I feel it all the more: the loss of my entire reason for being.
‘What I want is…’ I begin, knowing I won’t finish the sentence without tears coming, and sure enough, they’re already sneaking down my face. ‘I want my gingerbread grotto.’
The Santa glances ever so quickly at Patrick with a hint of panic in his eyes.
There’s a moment’s awful silence before Patrick intervenes and comes to me, taking my hand.
‘That’s what we all wanted,’ he soothes. ‘I’m so sorry it’s gone.’
I turn to face him, wiping my cheek with my glove. ‘I thought I was dreading it, all that work and effort and a whole fortnight of selling tickets in a freezing hall, pouring mulled wine, listening to carols, and, worst of all, you weren’t going to be there, and you’re such a good Santa, the best, really. Oh, sorry. No offence.’ The Dunham Gravey Mr Claus nods this away. The guy’s clearly regretting doing Patrick this favour. ‘But now it’s all been taken away from me, I just want it all back, and I want the smell of gingerbread all month long, and for the ovens to be on eight hours a day while I bake, and I want icing sugar in my hair like always and… I want my purpose in life back.’
That’s when I really cry, and Patrick holds me until I stop feeling sorry for myself and drowning in thwarted Christmas nostalgia.
‘Let’s get you home,’ Patrick says. ‘Cheers, Kev.’ He pats Santa on the shoulder.
I hear the sounds of excited kids scrambling into the shed waiting room behind the curtain, ready for their encounter with the big man.
On the walk back to the car I barely stop apologising, even when we stop to collect a cup of tea and a banana Nutella crepe at a van beside a beautiful dancing horse carousel – ‘All on the house,’ the woman says through her hatch, winking at Patrick, not knowing I’ve got all emotional and spoiled the night out that he’d planned so nicely.
There’s an announcement over an unseen tannoy that the musical fountain spectacular on the lake will begin in thirty minutes. Patrick knows I’ve had enough and don’t want to see it.
I spend the drive home eating the sweet pancakes and feeding little folded chocolatey bites to Patrick as he navigates the back roads to Wheaton. We don’t say much, only I continue to apologise and thank him umpteen times for a beautiful evening.
When we pull up at my cottage door, I unclip my belt. He cuts the engine.
‘What do we do tomorrow?’ he asks me, turning in his seat, all earnestness.
It really matters what I say now, so I need to hold my resolve.
‘Nothing. You do your Christmas and I’ll do mine, whatever that’s going to look like. We go back to how it was before.’
‘How’s that supposed to work, then?’ Patrick says, and I see his lip hitch at the side in the persistent, wicked way it did earlier. ‘And what would Izz say, huh? She told us to sort ourselves out, and I thought we had. You can’t let her down now. You’re her best friend in the world.’
‘You’remy best friend too,’ I say.
‘I could be an even better friend.’ This is said so pointedly I feel it in my stomach. My mind tells me to pull him by his coat, haul him across the gearstick, kiss him so hard we both turn faint.
