Where's Santa - Clare London.pdf - Clare London - SilverWitch

Where ’ s Santa / Clare London

H E really was the cutest Santa I’d ever seen. Okay, maybe

not seen, but definitely the cutest I’d ever met. Not that I’m

the most sociable guy myself; in fact, my friends kept telling

me I should get out more. That’s partly why I was there in

the store at the mall that day, doing extra shifts for the

holiday period and hopefully mixing in with the shopping

public. I’m sure my friends meant riotous parties and dating

other men and stuff. I think I preferred to take things one

step at a time.

Mr. Stevens brings every new member of staff around

when they start, even temporary employees. This Santa was

working only for the holiday season. He was a drama

student, apparently, looking to supplement his income, and

his college had placed him at our store. Mr. Stevens said his

name was Chris. I never caught a surname but it didn’t

really matter. Actually, I didn’t catch much of Mr. Stevens’

information speech at all; I was too busy looking at the new

guy and wondering how I could get myself to the front of the

line to greet him. Unusually forward of me, I know! It wasn’t

hard to do, anyway. There were only three staff members in

the store at that time, making up the welcoming committee.

We weren’t open yet. It was barely six a.m. and we were just

getting the displays ready for the rush we were expecting

Where ’ s Santa / Clare London

that weekend. Only five days before Christmas! Or so the

lurid poster on the window told us.

Chris smiled at us all, though it was difficult to see what

he was really like under the red suit and white beard. The

costume was very realistic this year. And he looked

surprisingly good in it: his height allowed him to carry off the

thick jacket and the padded belly. But I could also see bright

blue eyes and some freckles over his nose and the remnants

of a warm tan. Unlike me, he probably got out a lot, a

friendly face like that. He shook my hand, too, which was a

pleasant surprise. His grip was strong and maybe I hung on

to him just a bit too long. He gave me a funny look but he

didn’t complain to anyone. I found myself staring at his back

when he turned to follow Mr. Stevens across the room. Even

in those cheap red pants, his butt looked very cute. I sighed

to myself.

I wish, as they say. It wasn’t as if I’d ever have the nerve

to ask him if guys are his thing, let alone ask him on a date.

Meanwhile, he was paraded past the other staff. Pammie was

on Customer Service, the same as I was, and she simpered

at him like she does all the men. Our other assistant, Joe,

just scowled. He didn’t have any other expression, or not as

I’d noticed in the time I’d been working here. That’s why we

kept him stocking up the shelves most of the time; so he

wouldn’t scare the customers. It was left to Pammie and me

to keep the registers going and the sales figures high for the

final month of the year.

And me? I just gazed at Chris’s back and wished there really

was a Santa bringing me my dearest wish. I’d have asked

him to put Chris in the sack for me, and I didn’t mean the

Where ’ s Santa / Clare London

sack of presents under the tree. And, I’d have added, don’t

bother with wrapping him up.

Where ’ s Santa / Clare London

T HE door to the storeroom squeaked behind me. I had left it

ajar so it would let some light in from the corridor; otherwise

the place could get pretty dark and stuffy. There used to be

some strip lighting over the far side of the shelving racks,

but Joe left his gum over the switch last month, and it didn’t

work properly anymore. And I needed all the light I could get

to help me find the boxes Mr. Stevens wanted. The initial

customer response for the morning had been promising—

which was manager-speak for the fact Pammie and I hadn’t

been allowed a tea break since we opened. Even tucked away

in here I could hear the sounds of laughter and the excited

murmur of many people passing through the store. There

was a shriek from some kid’s overexcitement; the rattle of

baskets; a blare of Christmas music over the speakers.

Someone’s child was arguing fiercely about another of those

giggling Santa beanies, the ones Mr. Stevens had on

promotion that year.

“You said, you said I could have one!” she wailed. Even at

a distance, that kind of high-pitched squeal can always be

heard.

I was on a quest for the surplus supply of beanies. Yes,

Mr. Stevens was sure he had another dozen boxes. Yes, he

Where's Santa - Clare London.pdf

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