Tiff falls into Josh’s arms as soon as he opens the front door about thirty minutes later, and her attire knocks me for six, because the red-haired beauty is dressed up like an elf. An actual elf with stripy tights, like she’s been performing at a stage show. I get a lurch in my stomach as Josh squeezes his best friend tight and lets her cry against his chest. There’s been a lot of that lately.
Tears of joy, tears of pain, tears of fear.
“I fucked up,” she sobs. “I fucked up so fucking bad.”
Josh doesn’t push her for words, just rocks her gently as her tears stream. This is so unlike Tiff, it feels bizarre to watch, so I don’t watch. I leave them to it, in privacy. It’s him she needs right now, not me.
I retreat to the living room and take a seat, hitching my legs up and holding a pillow to my chest. I feel so bad for her. So worried. Because whatever’s happened must be serious. Really fucking serious. The tears prick at my own eyes, in sympathy forour friend. Whatever she’s going through must be horrific, and so is the unknown.
When Josh leads her through to the living room, she drops into her usual spot on the sofa, with Josh right beside her. He rests his hand on her knee and tells her to breathe. Calm. In and out, in and out. She listens to him, sucking in air through her nose and blowing it out through her mouth, clearly struggling to regain the use of words.
Both me and Josh give her our full attention, poised ready to hear her words.
“I fell in love with Santa. At the mall.” She gestures to me with wide eyes. “When me and you went that day, and I sat on his lap.”
Oh my God, Santa.
“I remember,” I say. “The client with no bookings. Were you his first? The owner of the mall?” She pauses.
That pause speaks volumes.
My mouth drops open in shock.
“Oh crap, have you fallen in love with a client, Tiff? Has Orla found out or something?!”
My own situation is coming to haunt me. My late-night conversation with our Agency co-ordinator still fresh in my mind.
She shakes her head, a fresh sob rising from her chest.
“He’s not just a client… the owner of the mall is a, um… he’s a…”
I wait. Poised. Confused.
“He’s a founder,” she tells us. “Reuben Sinclair. He’s a founder, and I went back to the grotto, and I fell in love with him. And now it’s over. It’s all gone to shit.”
Jesus Christ, what a revelation. I feel the colour drain from my face as her words sink in. Reuben Sinclair –Santa –is one of the founders. No way. It can’t be true. I can’t even fathom it.
My eyes click with Josh’s, and he’s as pale as I am, trying to get his mind around what the hell is going on.
“The mall?” he asks me.
“Yeah, we went shopping,” I say. “Me, Tiff and Eb. We thought it would be fun to go in the grotto. Just a stupid game.”
“A stupid game, no shit.” He looks back at Tiff. “And the prick has called it off now? Had his fill and turfed you out? I know you get these obsessive streaks, Tiff, but he’s the one who crossed the line if he fucked you over.”
She shakes her head. “No. He didn’t fuck me over. It was the opposite.” Her lip trembles as I speak. “He loved me.”
“Loved you?” Josh raises his eyebrows. “A founder dressed up as Santa in the mall sought you out, fucked you, and told you he loved you? And then what? Loverboy kicked you to the kerb?”
“No. It wasn’t like that!”
“Sure it wasn’t. What a fucking tosser.”
Oh, how life has its parallels. But Josh doesn’t knowSanta. He’s never met him. The idea he’s a founder is fucking mental, but there’s a tandem situation here that I never saw coming in a thousand years.
Josh has no idea of the similarities, though. He grits his jaw like he’s ready to go and attack our founder at the mall. Like he wants to rip his Santa beard from his face and pummel the shit out of him.
Again I remember when we were first together, and he confronted those idiots for being a cunt to me, kicking their bikes to the floor.
