Secret Santa

by Fern Michaels

  But then a ray of hope dawned on my horizon. Maybe the mirror at the mall was a “fattening” mirror—one of those distorted mirrors I so often find in department stores when I’m trying on bathing suits.

  That was it. I bet I’d look much thinner in my mirror at home!

  And so, filled with a desperate burst of optimism, the minute I got back to my apartment, I raced to my bedroom and tried on my elf costume again, hoping the Conspicuous Consumption mirror was all wrong.

  And indeed, it was.

  As it turned out, my striped tights did not add another five pounds to my thighs. No, siree. In my mirror at home, they added another ten pounds.

  I was standing there groaning in dismay when there was a knock on my front door.

  “Open up, Jaine. It’s me. Lance. I want to hear all about your job interview.”

  I trudged to the door to find Lance on my doorstep, spiffed up in his Neiman-Marcus work togs, his blond curls moussed to perfection.

  He took one look at me and gasped.

  “My God, Jaine. What happened? You look like you were mugged by a leprechaun.”

  Wearily I told him how Molly had offered me a chance at the Conspicuous Consumption writing gig, but only if I agreed to be a Santa’s elf.

  “The pay stinks, the hours are awful, I get a twenty percent discount on things I can’t begin to afford, and worst of all, I have to work with a Santa from hell.”

  “You poor thing,” Lance tsked soothingly. “You can’t possibly be seen in public in that outfit. You’re going to have to quit.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely! But not before you use your twenty percent discount to get me a Hugo Boss tie for Greg.”

  “Greg?”

  “The most adorable guy at work. I pulled a few thousand strings and I’m his Secret Santa! I saw the perfect tie for him at your mall the other day.”

  A tiny alarm bell went off in my head.

  “How much does this tie happen to cost?”

  “About two hundred bucks. But don’t worry. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get my Christmas bonus in December. No, wait. I might need that money for last minute gifts. How about early January? Possibly February. April at the latest.”

  “Forget it, Lance. I’m not laying out two hundred bucks so you can impress a guy you barely know. Besides, Secret Santa gifts are supposed to be inexpensive. This Greg guy will think you’re coming on way too strong if you hit him with Hugo Boss.”

  “You’re probably right,” he said, with a pensive scratch at his curls. “But I’ve got to get him the perfect gift. I’ll start making a list tonight. Don’t quit your job, hon, until I know for sure what I’m getting him. I may need your discount.”

  How gratifying to know he had my best interests at heart.

  While Lance trotted off to his apartment to work on his Secret Santa list, I headed back to my bedroom and began struggling out of my tights. I was in the midst of yanking them off my hips, flushed from the effort, my elf hat askew on my head, when Prozac wandered in and stopped in her tracks.

  She looked up at me with what I can only describe as a smirk on her face.

  And I thought I looked silly in my antlers.

  Chapter Three

  As much as I was tempted, I was not about to throw away my chance at a lucrative copywriting gig.

  I’d be an elf if it killed me.

  And my first day on the job damn near did.

  I can’t tell you how mortifying it was standing there in that moronic elf suit. The bright green tunic top barely covered my striped tush, leaving my neon thighs on display for all the world to see. There was no getting around it. I was a hot elfin mess—from the top of my pointy green hat to the tips of my curly toes.

  Somewhere in time, I was convinced, some medieval court was missing its jester.

  Not five minutes into my shift a towheaded tyke in a tiny blue blazer and red bow tie looked me over with the soulless eyes of a future hedge fund manager.

  “I thought elves were supposed to be skinny,” he sneered, much to the delight of the other kids on line, all of whom broke into a most humiliating round of giggles.

  Where’s a lump of coal when you need one?

  But the truly hellish part of the day was working with Scotty.

  The guy was lazy, rude, egotistical and mean spirited.

  And those were his good points.

  It was clear from the moment he came swaggering down Santa Lane that he hated working there.

  “I can’t believe I’m wasting my talents like this,” he muttered, taking a swig from his “hot chocolate” bottle.

  Good heavens. Was he actually drinking tequila at nine o’clock in the morning?

  “I’m up for a starring part in a TV pilot,” he told me, “and the minute I get it, I’m outta here.”

  That day could not come a moment too soon, as far as I was concerned.

  Mr. Showbiz couldn’t be bothered to remember my name, so he called me Elf #2. (Gigi, apparently, got top billing as Elf #1.)

  And I was lucky that’s all Scotty called me. He was capable of worse. Much worse—as I would find out when a large, ruddy-faced woman in a mall security uniform walked by Santa Land speaking into her walkie-talkie.

  Scotty looked up from the kid who was on his lap and called out, “How’s it going, Porky?”

  The woman flushed and, gritting her teeth, walked on, ignoring him.

  “Her real name’s Corky,” he said. “What a tub of lard, huh? I love to get a rise out of her.”

  By now, I was ready to strangle the guy, and I hadn’t even been there an hour.

  As for his duties as Santa, Scotty was one sly son of a gun. When kids showed up with a nanny or a low-income parent, he barely gave them the time of day, whipping them off his lap with lightning speed.

  But if a little tyke was holding the hand of a well-heeled parent, Scotty was all smiles and ho-ho-ho’s.

  And if that parent happened to be a pretty blonde, he was in full-tilt flirtation mode.

  “What can Santa get you for Christmas, pretty lady?” he’d leer.

  The really aggravating thing was that most of the women fell for it. He was a good looking dude, and those deep blue eyes of his made the designer moms giggle with adolescent glee.

  Elf #2, I can assure you, was ready to puke.

  He refused to wear any padding, and when kids asked him why he wasn’t fat, his standard reply was, “Santa’s been working out.”

  Then, with a snarky glance in my direction, he’d add, “His elf, not so much.”

  In slow periods when there were no kids on line, he was off like a shot to Santa’s Workshop to guzzle tequila or take a nap.

  Frankly, those were the highlights of my day.

  It was during one such lull, just as Scotty was about to scoot off for a nap, that Molly from Human Resources showed up.

  He quickly sat back down in his chair, all smiles.

  “Molly, babe.” He grinned. “How’s my favorite boss?”

  I looked down and saw his hand on her fanny.

  Like the designer moms, she burst out in giggles.

  “Really, Scotty,” she said, reluctantly removing his hand from her tush. “People are looking.”

  And indeed, over by a roasted chestnut cart, Corky the security guard was glaring in Scotty’s direction.

  “Let ’em look,” Scotty said. “You’re my main squeeze, and I don’t care who knows it.”

  With that, he shot her his idea of a sultry look.

  Somehow Molly restrained herself from jumping on his lap and turned to me.

  “So how’s your day going, Jaine?”

  “Great,” I lied. “Just great.”

  “Isn’t Scotty a terrific Santa? He’s so wonderful with the children.”

  This time I could barely manage to nod my head.

  Talk about love being blind.

  Eventually Molly tore herself away from Scotty and headed back to her office. The minut
e she was gone, he zipped over to his workshop for a nap.

  The rest of the day dragged by, with Scotty barking orders at me in between naps and nips of tequila. At one point, he actually snapped his fingers and said, “I’m hungry, Elf #2! Go get me some donuts at the food court.”

  Like I was his own personal servant or something.

  “Get your own damn donuts!”

  Okay, I didn’t actually say that. Mainly because I was sort of hungry myself, and a donut sounded like a pretty good idea at the time.

  Needless to say, I counted the milliseconds till the end of my shift, and practically kissed the toes of her curly shoes when Gigi showed up to relieve me.

  Thank heavens I’d made it through Day One.

  Only twenty-eight to go.

  But who’s counting?

  Thoroughly exhausted, I changed into my civvies and headed for the food court for an espresso latte. (Okay, and another donut.)

  I’d just paid for a chocolate-glazed beauty when I turned and saw Corky, the security guard Scotty had been taunting all day. She sat at a table by herself, a bag of fries and a can of Coke in front of her.

  At that very moment, she glanced up and caught me looking at her.

  I smiled feebly and waved. To which she just nodded curtly and shoved a fry in her mouth.

  Somehow I got the feeling she didn’t like me. Maybe she thought I was laughing at her when Scotty called her “Porky.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was hurt her feelings, so I walked over to her table to make amends.

  “Hi,” I said, with my brightest smile. “I’m Jaine, the new elf.”

  “I know,” she said, dunking a fry in some ketchup. “I saw you in Santa Land.”

  For such a hefty gal, she had a surprisingly childlike face: big baby blues, button nose, and pale blonde hair scraped back into a sparse ponytail.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened today,” I said. “I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with Scotty’s stupid comments.”

  “Nah,” she said with a shake of her ponytail. “He’s been calling me Porky ever since he started working here. What a prince, huh?”

  “The worst!”

  At last she broke out in a tentative smile.

  “Mind if I join you?” I asked.

  “Help yourself,” she said, gesturing to an empty chair.

  I plopped down, and without any further ado, chomped into my donut.

  “Yum!” I exclaimed after my first heavenly bite.

  “You should try the cheesecake donut,” Corky advised. “And the chocolate with sprinkles. They’re fantab.”

  Clearly I’d met my junk food soul mate.

  We soon launched into a discussion of the best places to go for soft ice cream; Corky extolling the joys of Carvel, me mounting an impressive campaign for Dairy Queen. I was in the middle of a paean to Dairy Queen’s Blizzard when I was interrupted by a loud, braying laugh.

  I looked up to see Scotty walking by with Molly, looking annoyingly handsome in his street clothes, laughing his silly head off. How irritating that he was in such a good mood after all the hell he’d put me through.

  “There goes Satan’s Santa,” I muttered. “I don’t know how you’ve put up with him all these weeks.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t bother me,” Corky said with a shrug. “Not one bit. I’m used to fools like him.”

  Her angel face was calm as could be, but when I looked down at her fist, I saw she’d smashed her Coke can tighter than a trash compactor.

  He bothered her, all right. More than a bit.

  I’d bet my bottom Blizzard on it.

  Chapter Four

  All I can say is thank heavens for Barnaby.

  I’ll never forget the morning I met him. I’d just changed into my elf suit and was walking into the employees’ locker room to lock up my purse, when I heard a deep plummy voice intone:

  She walks in beauty like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

  I looked over by the locker next to mine and saw a skinny guy in a Santa suit several sizes too big for him.

  At first I thought he was making fun of me with his “she walks in beauty” crack; after all, I was a woman in striped tights and curly-toed shoes.

  But no, there was a warm smile on his face as he said, “You must be the new elf Gigi told me about, the lovely Jaine. A pleasure to meet you, my dear.”

  With that, he took my hand and actually kissed it.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Barnaby King.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, wondering how this skinny little guy with a face like Mr. Magoo had actually landed a job as a Santa.

  “It seems as if we’re working together today,” he said. “I so look forward to it. Wait for me while I finish getting ready and then we can walk out together.”

  I sat down on the locker bench and watched as he took a giant hunk of padding from his locker and strapped it around his waist.

  “Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt!” he said, fluffing it up with a wink.

  First Lord Byron. Now Shakespeare. Obviously a former English major.

  Once his tummy was in place under his Santa jacket, he reached into his locker and took out a makeup brush and began dotting his cheeks with blush. After which he donned a white bushy beard, wire-rimmed glasses, and finished off his ensemble with a Santa hat perched rakishly over his wisps of curly gray hair.

  Before my very eyes, Mr. Magoo had become St. Nick.

  “Well, how do I look?” he asked, turning around for my approval.

  “Like you’ve just come down a chimney.”

  “Oh, my dear. I can tell we’re going to have such fun together.”

  And we did.

  Compared to Scotty, Barnaby was heaven to work with. Of course, compared to Scotty, the Marquis de Sade would have been heaven to work with.

  And the kids adored him.

  His favorite shtick was to surprise them by knowing their names before they even sat on his lap.

  “Well, well!” he’d cry out. “If it isn’t Courtney!”

  Courtney’s eyes would grow wide with wonder, and Barnaby would tell her how just last night he’d seen her name on his list of Good Little Girls.

  I, of course, was his accomplice in this magical feat, asking the kids their names as I led them up Candy Cane Lane, and whispering their answers in Santa’s ear.

  And what a fuss he made over them.

  “Why, I bet you’re the prettiest little girl I’ve seen all day!” he’d whisper confidentially, so the other girls on line wouldn’t hear. “I bet you’re a movie star, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

  Inevitably, the little girl would blush with pleasure. The plainer they were, the more they soaked up his praise.

  Occasionally, this being Conspicuous Consumption Plaza, the kid actually was in show biz and would tell Santa about her most recent parts. Sometimes, she’d even show Barnaby her head shots.

  With the tiny tots, the ones who tended to cry on Santa’s lap, Barnaby was gentle, whispering a soothing, “There, there,” before handing the child back to his parent.

  With the older kids, Barnaby zeroed in on what they wanted—or needed—to hear.

  The plain girls were all beautiful princesses.

  The shy boys were all action heroes.

  And the bratty ones, the ones with their Excel spread sheet gift lists, those were the ones he always asked, “And what are you giving for Christmas?”

  The kids would inevitably sit there, blinking, for the first time considering that the world did not revolve around them.

  Every once in a while, he’d break out in a Shakespearean fit of fancy. Especially if I brought him a girl whose name sounded anything like “Juliet.”

  “But soft!” he’d cry. “What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet (or Julie or Juliann
e) is the sun!”

  “Do you know who Juliet (Julie or Julianne) was?” he’d ask the little girl on his lap, re-writing Shakespeare a bit if need be. “A beautiful maiden who lived a long time ago, so beautiful she shone brighter than the sun! And you know what?” he’d say. “You look just like her younger sister!”

  Usually little Juliet/Julie/Julianne would squirm in delight.

  And the kids weren’t the only ones whose egos he bolstered. He insisted I looked “cute as a button” in my elf suit, that he was sick of all the “skinny minnies” he saw on TV and the movies. “Some of these mothers,” he would say, shaking his head at the designer moms in their size zero jeans, “look like they could use some intravenous Quarter Pounders.”

  In those moments, my neon stripe thighs didn’t seem so bad, after all.

  When it was slow, we chewed the fat and snacked on roasted chestnuts from a kiosk next to the Christmas tree. I told him about my life as a freelance advertising writer, and he told me about his career as an actor—starting out playing Lady Macbeth in his all-boys prep school, going on to do Shakespeare in the park in New York City, and starring as Tevye in the national touring company of Fiddler on the Roof.

  “My acting days are pretty much over,” he told me during one such gabfest. “Except for some community theater and my Santa gig. And there’s the Tiny Tim Project, of course.”

  “The Tiny Tim Project?”

  He pointed to a large plastic bin right outside Santa Land.

  “We collect toys for underprivileged kids. I started it a couple of years ago when I realized how many children never even get a gift on Christmas.”

  What a welcome change from the insufferable Scotty, whose favorite charity was, no doubt, himself.

  Chapter Five

  And so the days passed as I dragged myself through my shifts with Scotty, the hours flying by with Barnaby.

  It was on one of those days from hell with Scotty when I was listening to a twelve-year-old explain why she needed a pair of diamond studs from Tiffany that I heard my name called out.

  “Jaine Austen! Is that you?”

  I turned to see a mucho attractive guy with jet black hair and a crooked smile, carrying a Godiva shopping bag.