Page 3 of Break the Ice

The volume from my older sister is enough to make Santa duck down behind me. I turn for a moment and see him slide off the bed using a bit of duvet as a shield. Christ, he’s naked. It’s naked Santa.

‘Aunty Phoebe has a new Santa boyfriend,’ I hear Skye telling her mother as the girls drop the phone and race out of the room.

‘HE’S NOT MY BOYFRIEND!’ He’s a hot Santa I picked up at an event and I had a one-night thing with him. Ignore the tinsel tied to the bedstead. That wasn’t used in what we did. I don’t think.

I see my sister’s face appear on the screen as she picks up the phone, her hair in a towel turban, her face flushed from her shower. ‘Have my girls literally just seen you having sex with an old man?’ she says.

‘I’m forty-three,’ a voice says from the other side of the room.

‘Who the hell is that?’ she says, backing on to the door and closing it.

‘The girls rang, Norah. He just happened to be here. His name is…’ I pause because I don’t remember.

‘Martin,’ he reminds me.

Norah’s anger dissolves into laughter, and she tries to hold in her giggles.

‘Mummy!’ I hear knocking on the door. ‘Is Santa still there? Are his reindeer at Aunty Phoebe’s? Can we go see them?’

‘Can you give me a moment, girls?’ she shouts out. ‘See? What am I supposed to tell them?’

‘Tell them he flew into Heathrow? I don’t know. Improvise. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was⁠—’

‘You didn’t realise you shagged Santa? That he was in your bed? I really can’t believe you. No, I can. This is classic you. Possibly a new low.’

‘Harsh.’ I see Martin, still hovering next to the bed, pulling a face. Not you, Martin. She’s talking about me. I sigh deeply.

‘We’ll talk about this later. Call me!’

‘Bye, Norah!’ Martin shouts, scrambling around, looking for his pants. I try not to laugh. My sister’s face on the screen silently berates and judges me before she hangs up. These are times when I really don’t like you, Norah.

I sit up in my bed. My boobs reveal themselves, so I quickly pull the duvet up around me, and turn to see Santa pulling up his underwear. It’s red. It’s very on theme. I do some quick maths in my head. Forty-three is acceptable. It’s not quite double my age but it is older than I usually go for. It’s grey and not just in the beard. He rubs his arms, as it really is quite Arctic in here, and reaches over to the chair in the corner to pull a robe over his shoulders. A red velvet robe, lined in white fur with a hood. This really feels all kinds of wrong.

‘I maybe shouldn’t have told your nieces I was Santa. I realise now that was wrong,’ he says apologetically.

‘Yeah… I also apologise for the angry sister,’ I say, grinning nervously. ‘You’re not that old.’

He smiles. ‘Well, I’m older than you. Can I ask a really terrible question?’

‘You may…’

‘Where am I?’

‘You’re in a flat in Harlesden. I thought you had some magic GPS that lets you know where all the good girls and boys live…’ I say, giggling.

‘Well, you’re not on that list, so…’ he says, upturning his palms, smirking. He reaches down and picks up an actual sack, looks through it and finds his phone.

‘You calling the reindeer?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah. Sorry, you know how it is…’

‘Gifts to wrap, a sleigh to get ready. It’s your busiest time of year.’

It’s all coming back to me now. We got an Uber back here. The Uber driver’s name was Egon and he told Martin he’d charge extra to go to the North Pole. There was a point when we were getting down to it and he referred to his bollocks as baubles, which makes me think that we will certainly not be moving forward with this liaison.

He looks around my room, the clothes piled high, the scrappy bookshelves that house all my junk, the old mugs that line the windowsill. I think he knows better than to start something with a messy twentysomething who still dries her bras on the radiator.

‘Well, Phoebe. This was fun,’ he says, pulling up his black trousers and locating his boots.