selfie with Santa, even if it’s only a dress rehearsal.’
‘Actually, I’m all good.’ That’s my polite way of saying I’d rather eat my own head than have my picture taken with Santa, when all I want to do is get to the shop, climb the stairs to Poppy’s little attic kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.
The elf’s nostrils flare. ‘Be very careful. Santa can get a bit tetchy. In elf-speak what I’m saying is a refusal may offend.’ His eyes take on a triumphant glint. ‘Let’s face it, you don’t want cinders in your pillow case on Christmas morning do you?’
Ever heard of dressing up and getting right into character? And taking it way too far. Even if I’d be more than happy for Santa to miss out my stocking this year, there are times when I know I’m beaten. ‘Fine.’ I grab my phone, jam my face up against Santa’s, frown because he’s wearing so much more eyeliner than I am and try for a smile. As I pull off a grimace, I’m resigning myself to a bad case of beard rash later.
‘Brilliant.’ Mr Elf – or should that be the second Mr Claus? – has reconnected with his happy self again. ‘Hash tag St-Aidan-Santa-Special-Selfie underscore Kids-at-Christmas for every tweet please. Whenever you find some signal, that is. There isn’t any here, obviously.’
Another of the joys of Cornwall I accidentally overlooked when Poppy suggested I use the little flat above the Brides by the Sea shop as a bolthole, and I agreed in a nanosecond. Poppy and I both grew up in Rose Hill village, a few miles inland from here. She was in the year above me at school and we both escaped to London and did the same food tech course at uni. And even though she’s been back here a while, we’ve always kept in touch.
‘Photograph your mad winter wedding then stay on for a fabulous low key Christmas above the wedding shop,’ Poppy said one day when she was cheering me up on Facebook messenger. Reminding me straight afterwards that I still had my entire annual holiday allocation left. And offering to throw in as many cupcakes as I could eat, because Poppy is Brides by the Sea’s cake baker. She also happens to be unexpectedly pregnant, with a whole load of Christmas wedding bookings to deal with as well as her bump. So all I had to promise in return for using the flat for the whole month was to lend a hand in the shop while Jess was away on a winter holiday and help Poppy with the weddings, at her partner, Rafe’s, amazing wedding venue, Daisy Hill Farm.
I know, from when Poppy lived in the tiny top floor flat, that the views across St Aidan Bay from the little porthole windows are amazing. But that wasn’t what swung it for me. The truth is, I’m not actually planning to make Christmas low key this year – I’m planning to erase it entirely. The idea of doing whatever work I had to, then locking the shop door and hiding away in the attic for the whole of Christmas is the perfect celebration-free scenario for me. This way I can watch back-to-back episodes of Friends all on my own, and come out again when it’s all over. As an evasive plan of action, it’s completely foolproof. And for someone like me, who’s in Christmas denial, it couldn’t be better. Once the wedding pictures are in the bag, it’ll be plain sailing all the way to the New Year.
‘Ready to go?’ As Santa shakes the reins and Nuttie trots out into the road, the jingling from the harness bells is shockingly loud. And hideously festive. And it’s not just who’s driving the carriage. Thanks to the back being plastered with fake snow, dangling baubles, ivy garlands and a shitload of presents, not to mention huge banners proclaiming SANTA IS COMING YOUR WAY, everyone is staring at us. Pointing, even. The only way we’d be turning more heads is if we were being pulled along by an actual real-live reindeer. What’s more, now we’re speeding down the street, the wind is biting. On a good day in winter, much to my constant dismay, my nose is red enough to lend to Rudolf. And that’s without the help of a hot, steaming coffee or a vodka cocktail. Both of which I try to avoid consuming in public, even if I don’t always succeed. After a few minutes out in this arctic blast, my hooter is going to be positively luminous.
I let go of the seat and try to pull my collar of my trusty leopard-print jacket up over my ears so I can bury my nose in the fake fur. It’s one of those coats that feels like a shield when you put it on. If you snuggle down into it, you’re guaranteed to be warm and safe wherever you go. And pretty much invincible. Which is why I couldn’t think of a month away without it, even if the rest of Cornwall are wearing on-trend down jackets, or gorgeous wool coats with humungous fur collars. Although faced with a Cornish westerly as stiff as today’s, with me trying to make it double as an invisibility cloak, I’m asking a lot of my own small jacket.
‘So, are we looking forward to Christmas?’ It’s a wonder Santa has time to chat as well as deal with the early afternoon traffic. His carriage driving technique consists of pointing his pony, then going for it. I reckon his costume must have gone to his head, because at every junction he assumes he’s got priority. If he were driving a taxi this recklessly, they’d fine him and confiscate his license.
I blink as yet another car screeches to a halt, its driver open mouthed as we whoosh past, a snowflake’s width away from his bumper. On balance, I decide it’s easiest to bluff the reply to a tricky question.
‘Christmas? I couldn’t be any more excited, Santa.’ Even without jolting along behind a pony’s swishing tail, the truth is way too complicated to go into, even for Santa. Basically, the problem is, he’s twelve months too late asking me the question.
For my whole life, Christmas has been my favourite time of year. When we were kids, my big sister Freya and I used to get so excited we’d hyperventilate from the moment we opened the first door on the Advent calendar until the last present had been opened. Freya embraced Christmas the same way she tackled everything – forging her way ahead with her amazing exuberance, dragging our younger brothers and me along on her wave of enthusiasm. Making hundreds of yards of paper chains, then hanging them in festoons all over the house, even in the bathroom. Spraying the windows along the entire street with fake snow late at night. Buying a bale of red fleece from the market and making the whole family Santa suits for her school textiles project. Then when I was twelve, the unthinkable happened and she died. It was the worst time ever. Fast growing brain tumours happened to other people, not girls like Freya, who was only fourteen and ripping through life like a tornado. Twenty years on, I’ve learned the best way to cope is to concentrate on the good bits. I’ve taught myself to love remembering all the happy times. And as my everlasting tribute to Freya, I go completely over the top with the festive thing. Because anything less would be wrong.
Which is why this time last December, I’d already decorated my boyfriend Luc’s flat to within an inch of its life and I was holding my breath for a fabulous Christmas trip to his parents’ place in the Highlands. I’d splurged to the max on presents. And bought at least a hundred rolls of paper to wrap them in, obviously. And yes, I was aching for Christmas to come. Then it did, and my entire life unwound.
I’ll save the more desperate details for a time when I’m not careering round a corner at top speed on one wheel, like we are now. At least if we go super fast, we’ll get there quicker, with less chance of anyone I know recognising me along the way. It’s enough to say that entirely thanks to me, Luc’s surprise Christmas proposal went all kinds of wrong. Okay, I admit that a woman running away at the speed of light isn’t an ideal reaction when a guy waves a diamond ring under her nose. When you’re as un-sporty as I am it’s more than ridiculous. And I still don’t completely understand why my legs reacted as they did. Or why, once I’d calmed down and come back, we couldn’t work things out. But the upshot was that by January I was boyfriend-less. And eleven months on I’m still single, confused and way too sorry for myself. What’s worse, my dream London life has completely lost its sparkle. And with my fifteen boxes of Christmas decorations still in storage and no proper home to put a tree up in anyway, I’m hardly going to be whooping it up on the twenty fifth this year. But thanks to Jess and Poppy’s help, I’ve got that sorted. I just hope me telling Santa porkies
