KATE:
Why does Christmas always have to be such a colossal pain in the arse?
I hurried along Fifth Avenue, the clatter of my boots on the sidewalk barely audible above the cascades of sleeting rain as I dumped my ruined umbrella in a bin. Shivering under my sodden coat, I tried to figure out where exactly I’d gone wrong this year.
Knowing I would be alone on Christmas Day itself, I’d planned accordingly: I’d arranged a Zoom chat with Benedict for two o’clock on the dot to account for the time difference between Manhattan and London. I’d forked out forty dollars for a gourmet turkey dinner for one from Sinclair’s luxury food hall, and stocked up on a demi-bottle of Bollinger and even checked out the cheesy Christmas movie options on Netflix to while away my evening. I’d even bought a real miniature blue spruce a week ago and decorated it with baubles and snowflake lights to keep my spirits up. And I’d been so enchanted with the result, I’d opted not to return it to the flower store on Lexington when the needles began to drop off two days later.
And all for what?
So I could still feel sad and desperate and miserably alone on the big day? And let my forty-dollar gourmet turkey dinner sit forlornly in the fridge because I couldn’t bring myself to eat it?
I swiped the wet hair off my forehead and concentrated on the twinkle of lights a block ahead that outlined the Art Deco frontage of Sinclair’s, shining like an oasis through the gloom.
Work.
Warmth chased away some of the chill at the thought of my well-ordered desk in my well-ordered office on the sixth floor of Sinclair Industries stately flagship department store in Manhattan. I picked up the pace as icy water seeped under my collar and dripped down my back.
Opening the email from Benedict over breakfast this morning had been my first mistake. A subject line marked “Sorry” should have been a warning to me. But I’d assumed it would be a message about rearranging our Zoom chat — not a message to cancel it altogether, followed by a two-thousand-word dissertation on the untenable nature of long-distance relationships.
My bottom lip quivered. I bit into it. Trust Benedict to dump me via email on Christmas morning and then add insult to injury by patronizing me to death while doing it.
Absorbing the festive finery of Sinclair’s expertly designed window displays as I rushed past, I resolutely cleared from my mind’s eye the less-than-sexy image of Benedict’s little frown of concentration — the one he always wore whenever we made love.
However bad his timing, perhaps Benedict had been right to end our relationship. We’d been apart for six months — ever since I’d relocated to Manhattan after being contracted by a prestigious head-hunting firm — and I hadn’t missed him as much as I thought I would.
I turned into the sheltered alleyway at the back of the store, my boots echoing a little eerily on the rutted paving stones before I reached the metal security door of the staff entrance.
A sense of calm and purpose settled over me as I pressed the button on the intercom. Maybe it was a little sad and pathetic to be coming into work on Christmas Day because I couldn’t quite face my empty apartment. But so what? Work had always been what grounded me and sustained me, and I had an invaluable opportunity to start working on my pitch for next month’s marketing forum while the store was blessedly quiet.
Charles, the store’s chief of security, answered on the second ring. “Oh my Miss Braithwaite, what happened?” he clucked as I stepped out of the rain. “You want me to get you a towel?”
“Don’t worry, Charles, I’ll be fine. I have some dry clothes in my office.” Or at least I hoped I did.
“What you doing here on Christmas Day, if you don’t mind me asking?”
I did mind a little bit but pasted on a smile regardless. Americans had a habit of asking what they wanted to know and didn’t tend to see it as rude. So, I wouldn’t either. That said, I didn’t plan to give Charles the real reason I’d walked six blocks in a freezing monsoon.
“I thought I’d take the opportunity to work uninterrupted, while there’s no distractions.”
Charles’s warm brown eyes crinkled around the edges as he sent me a curious smile. “Well, it sure is quiet today. But you don’t want to stay too long, Miss Braithwaite. Weatherman says the blizzard’s gonna hit real soon.”
Ah yes, the mythical blizzard that the hysterical local weathermen had been banging on about for weeks.
“Don’t worry, Charles, I’m sure I’ll be fine. My apartment’s only six blocks from…”
“Six blocks is a mighty long way in a blizzard,” Charles said in an ominous tone. “I already told Mr. Ryder he should light out before it gets dark, so I’ll say the same to you.”
“Mr. Ryder?” I asked, confused. I didn’t know anyone on the staff by that name — or anyone else who was sad enough to be at work on Christmas Day.
“Mr. Ryder Sinclair,” Charles clarified. “He flew into JFK an hour ago. He called to say he’s stopping by to pick up a last-minute Christmas gift.”
“Oh, all right.” Of course, Mr. Ryder would be Lachlan Sinclair’s prodigal playboy son, who was named on the store’s website and letterhead as a “company director” — and whom every member of the female staff appeared to have a crush on — but whom I had never actually met.
Because apparently Ryder Sinclair’s definition of a “company director’s” job involved drawing an eight-figure salary from the landmark department store that had been in his family for three generations and then disappearing for months on end on some mysterious undisclosed business. And getting photographed in his spare time with a parade of anorexic models, pin-headed actresses, and underdressed rock chicks surgically attached to his arm.
His impromptu shopping trip today neatly confirmed all my suspicions about the man. How irresponsible did you have to be to be buying your last-minute Christmas gift on Christmas Day? And how exactly did Mr. Ryder plan to pay for his gift, I wondered resentfully, given that all the tills were currently off line?
I shuddered, the gush of air from the loading bay all the reminder I needed that I was soaking wet. “I better go, Charles,” I said, deciding that Ryder Sinclair’s ethical turpitude and lack of foresight and accountability weren’t my problem — because unless I was extremely unlucky, I would be highly unlikely to bump into him. There were five floors of gift opportunities at Sinclair’s and I was making a beeline straight to my office on sixth next to the toy department. Knowing the sort of women Sinclair appeared to prefer, he’d probably be heading for Lingerie on third. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on the weather from my office window and head out if it worsens.”
Once I’d done a few solid hours on my pitch, I’d have reminded myself what was important in my life — and be ready to face my gourmet turkey dinner for one without feeling like a total loser.
It wasn’t until I got to my office, stripped off my wet coat, sopping tights, drenched boots, and decidedly damp wool dress, and stood shivering in my matching bra and panties searching frantically for the gym wear I could have sworn I left there a week ago, that I realized my colossally shitty Christmas had just got a whole lot worse.
RYDER:
What the fuck is the difference between Festive Fairy Princess Barbie and Santa’s Seasonal Sprite Barbie?
I frowned at the virtually identical dolls in their glittery green-and-gold packaging and tried to make an informed decision. But after five agonizing minutes of study, the only appreciable difference I could see was that the Seasonal Sprite seemed to have a good millimeter of extra cleavage. And I was pretty sure Gully wouldn’t notice that, because she was eight for fuck’s sake.
I flipped one of the boxes over to read the lurid scarlet lettering on the back, but instead of describing the doll’s virtues, it listed her whole damn life story — including the fact she was head elf in Santa’s workshop.
I stared at the doll’s mind-boggling cleavage again, barely covered by her miniature green elf dress.
Santa, you dirty old bastard.
I sighed and replaced the two boxes beside the others on the display, then rubbed my temple where the tension headache brought on by jet lag and extreme frustration was starting to bite.
Dammit, I’d been in the toy department for an hour at least and I still didn’t have a clue what to buy. I hadn’t seen Gully in over two months, so I’d phoned Christine from the airport in Damascus last night to get a ballpark idea of what my daughter might want — but Christine’s only suggestion had been a Christmas-themed Barbie. And there were like twenty of the damn things.
I glared at the array of boxes again, neatly stacked in a tower of concentric circles, as frustration turned to aggravation. Maybe I should get Gully a selection of them? But I dismissed the idea almost as soon as it had occurred to me.
Turning up at Christine and Bill’s place in Ithaca tomorrow with more than one Christmas gift would mean suffering through another lecture from Christine about being present in my daughter’s life, instead of trying to buy her affection — while getting the standard smirk of smug superiority from Christine’s husband Bill.
After holding it together for two solid months in the sweltering hell of Syria’s active combat zones — dispassionately photographing everything from two-year-olds who’d had their limbs blown off by IEDs to soldiers who risked their lives on a daily basis but were barely old enough to shave — I was pretty sure my bullshit-o-meter wouldn’t be able to survive even a single glimpse of that damn smirk. As punching Bill’s lights out for smiling the wrong way wasn’t an option with Gully there, I was going to have to make a decision about the doll — one way or the other — before I could head back to my apartment in SoHo and crash until the cab arrived to take me to Penn Station tomorrow.
I surveyed the tower for what I hoped was the last time and spotted a sparkle of silver amongst all the green and gold. But as I bent forward to read the script on the side, my boot connected with the boxes at the foundation of the tower.
“Fuck.”
I went to grab a hold of something, anything, but all I got was thin air as the boxes at the top tumbled backward in slow motion. I sucked in a breath, watching in horrified amazement as the rest of the display tilted precariously to one side like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and then collapsed — taking out the elaborate Lego landscape of Santa’s Grotto set up behind — in a thundering avalanche of plastic, Perspex, and sparkles.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
The astonished shout rang out and I whipped around to see a shadowy figure standing right behind me. Panic shot up my spine and battle-ready reflexes, honed by two months in a war zone, engaged. I launched myself at the threat before my mind could remember I wasn’t in the Syrian desert anymore — where your life depended on reacting first and asking questions later.
Female.
My mind finally grabbed hold of the coherent thought as my hands grabbed hold of about one-hundred-twenty pounds of soft, stunned female flesh clad in considerably less green velvet. I managed to turn in mid-air, taking the impact of the fall, as the two of us landed with a spectacular crash into the pile of crushed Barbies.
She gasped in shock as I rolled to get her underneath me. And muttered something incoherent in breathless outrage as I got a lungful of something sultry and exotic with a hint of cinnamon that smelled like snicker-doodles and sin.
I manacled her wrists and held them above her head as she began to struggle in earnest, then drew in a startled gasp of my own as I got my first good look at my captive in the store’s fluorescent lighting.
Damp hair framed a pale fine-boned face flushed with exertion, while her huge green eyes were the exact same rich emerald as the figure-hugging velvet dress she wore. Although calling it a dress seemed generous given the way the skirt barely covered her butt, and the red laces holding the bodice closed strained against the most magnificent rack I’d ever seen in my entire life.
“Goddamn it,” I said, my senses reeling from the sudden burst of physical activity, a hard jolt of lust, and the heady shot of cinnamon scent that clung to her. “Who the fuck are you?” I demanded, as jet lag and temper kicked in. “The Queen of the Barbie Sprites?”
