Some Christmas presents unwrap themselves…
When a colleague gets her ‘S's mixed up, care worker Marissa Taylor gets a bigger Yuletide gift than she ever imagined. Stripper, Santa, they’re practically the same thing, right? At least none of the residents had a heart attack.
Marissa isn’t the impulsive type, but when Liam Carlisle offers her a private show, she decides to treat herself to a little festive fun. Can the Christmas magic last? Or will Marissa stop believing in Santa for good?
A Very Happy Christmas is a standalone romantic comedy novella.
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Excerpt:
I cycled slowly along the lane, avoiding the frozen puddles that dotted the rutted surface. Frost sparkled on the trees, and through hedges and gateways, I glimpsed the twinkle of Christmas lights, welcoming visitors at this special time of year.
“Not so special for me,” I muttered, then chided myself.
Don’t be so negative, Marissa.
It might have been the twenty-fifth of December, but for me, it was just another working day. At ten past seven, the same as I always did, I’d left my house to make the mile-and-a-half-long journey to Fairfield House Retirement Home, where I’d worked for the past two and a half years.
As jobs went, it wasn’t bad, but sometimes I craved the company of people who were a bit, well…younger. There were only so many games of bingo a girl could take, and don’t even get me started on lawn bowls.
Alas, it wasn’t to be. According to Barbara’s schedule—which she’d decorated with glitter and pinned in the foyer—today, I’d get to enjoy carols at ten, shuffleboard at eleven, Christmas lunch at twelve, and the Queen’s speech at three, followed by a visit from Santa. Fun times.
For a moment, I wished I were back home in Somerset with my family, arguing over which movie to watch and trying to steal cherries out of the Christmas pudding. Right about now, my nephews would be racing downstairs, each trying to get to their stocking first.
I’d been invited, of course, but I’d had to decline. I’d been left with little choice. Had my mother believed my tale about having to feed my next-door neighbours’ cat while they took a trip to Casablanca? Probably not, but the deed was done now.
If only I could turn the clock back a few weeks… The problems had all started when I’d accompanied my mother to Mrs. Collins’s sip ’n’ paint party. With hindsight, that was the invite I should have declined. But I’d quite enjoyed art classes at school, and then wine was mentioned… The rest was history.
Mrs. Collins’s daughter, Rowena, would be getting married at the end of January, to a lawyer no less, and it was the talk of the village. Everyone from the milkman to old Mrs. Swenson at the post office was speculating about the style of her dress, the colour of her bouquet, and how many bridesmaids would follow her down the aisle. I’d put my money on empire waist, violet, and four—quite literally, because Celia Bainbridge had organised a sweepstake—when the inevitable happened.
“So, Marissa…” Mrs. Collins started. “When are you going to find yourself a nice fellow?”
“I’m not really looking at the moment.”
It was true; I wasn’t. In fact, I’d been avoiding men since my ex-boyfriend, the man I’d thought was The One, had decided the barista who served up his decaffeinated latte every morning—soy milk, no sugar—gave him a better wake-up than I did.
“Are you sure? Because you’re not getting any younger, my dear. Your biological clock is ticking away.”
I was only twenty-two, for goodness’ sake. I desperately tried to think of a witty reply, but an excess of Chardonnay and a sudden panic that maybe I would spend the rest of my life alone meant that when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.
Mum decided to help me, bless her, but several glasses of Pinot Grigio had made her brain-to-mouth filter malfunction, so what actually came out was, “Marissa’s not really into men.”
Every single mouth fell open, and Celia dropped her paintbrush as well.
Mrs. Willis recovered first, and she patted me on the arm. “Never mind, love. Perhaps you can find yourself a nice lady friend instead?”
No, no, no. I did not want to become the subject of village gossip, or worse, matchmaking. The only lesbian in Engleby was Patty Harris, and she had a black belt in judo and scared me a little bit. If I didn’t nip this in the bud, we’d be getting joint invitations to supper parties before the week was out.
“What Mum meant to say was that I’m not into other men.” Good grief, had I lost the freaking plot? “Because I already have one.”
My mother turned and stared at me. This was news to her too.
Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. I blathered on regardless. “Yes, I met him at a friend’s cheese and wine evening, and he’s everything I’ve always imagined.”
Like, totally imagined.
The ladies beamed at me, their pearly whites a sterling advert for denture cleaner. What had I done?
“Congratulations, darling,” Mrs. Collins said. “Promise you’ll give me plenty of notice before I need to buy another hat?”
“Absolutely.”
Years and years and years.
As I tried to slope off to the bathroom, my mother caught up and grabbed my arm, her excitement bubbling up and spilling over the edges.
“Marissa! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” I said miserably.
“Well, it certainly is that. You’ll be bringing the lucky chap over for Christmas dinner, then? So we can all meet him?”
What? No!
“I think he’s working.”
He was definitely working. Christmas Day, Boxing Day, and New Year’s too. And because I didn’t want to invite an interrogation, I’d had to offer the flimsiest of excuses and dip out on the festivities myself. It was either that or face the entire sip ’n’ paint group at church in the morning and have to explain that my beloved had dumped me.
So when Matron asked if I’d mind working on Christmas Day, I decided I might as well. Anything was better than spending the day in my flat—just me, the Strictly Come Dancing special, and a turkey dinner for one. Nothing said “loser” quite like a single, pre-packaged turkey breast and an individual bag of microwaveable Brussels sprouts.
No, I’d go to Fairfield House, and if I got really lucky, Mr. Benson might pinch me on the bottom the way he usually did when I got too close.
There was a festive feel to the retirement home when I stepped through the door. We’d spent ages putting up decorations for the residents to enjoy—tinsel and fake snow and mistletoe—and presents spilled out from under the giant Christmas tree in the hallway. It was meant to be a regular-sized tree, but Barbara had read Matron’s note upside down, and six feet had turned into nine feet. Mrs. Simpkins’s son was a scaffolder, and he’d put it up for us, but goodness only knew how we were meant to get it down again. Ah well, that was a problem for another day. I nudged a gift-wrapped box back into place with my foot. We’d hired an actor to play Father Christmas, and he’d hand the goodies out later.
Since I was a late addition to the rota, I’d been put on entertainment duty for the day—a pleasant change from doing the bed linen and measuring out medication. We started off with karaoke in the lounge, and all the residents joined in enthusiastically, a little too enthusiastically in some cases. I had to put Mr. Benson’s teeth back in twice. Bingo went down well too, and by the time the cook served up lunch, everyone was starving.
Yum, dry turkey. I perched on the edge of a chair, pushing food around my plate, half wishing I’d come clean with my family. They’d be exchanging gifts by now. I’d had to post mine and pray Royal Mail delivered them on time.
“Are you staying to watch Die Hard with us?” Mrs. Gibson asked.
“Didn’t you watch Die Hard yesterday?”
“Yes, but it’s my favourite Christmas movie.”
“Why don’t we mix things up and watch Die Hard 2?”
“Ooh, lovely.”
I happened to know that her daughter had bought her the DVDs of the third, fourth, and fifth movies too. They were sitting under the tree, just waiting to be unwrapped. Well, that was the plan anyway…
Matron waved frantically at me from across the room.
“Santa isn’t here,” she hissed when I got close enough to hear. “This is a disaster.”
“What time did you book him for?”
“A quarter past three, right after the Queen’s speech. But he was supposed to arrive at two to get ready.”
“It’s only five past.”
“What if he doesn’t show up?”
“Have you called the agency?”
“I don’t even have the number. Barbara booked him. She had awful trouble finding someone to work on Christmas Day, but the agency promised he was a professional. Said we’d be in for a real surprise, apparently.” Matron folded her arms. “Well, there’s nothing for it… You’ll have to dress up in the toadstool costume Janice wore for Halloween. It’s red and white—with any luck, most of the folks here won’t notice the difference.”
No. No way. I’d rather have suffered through my mother’s pity party than channel an extra from Super Mario.
“I’m not sure—” Oh, thank goodness. Saved by the bell. “That’s probably him now.”
I practically ran to the front door, hauled it open, and… Wow. Honestly, I had no words. If I’d written a Christmas list, this guy would have been right at the top of it.
“Am I in the right place?” he asked.
“I hope so. I-I mean, I don’t know. Are you?”
“I’m looking for Fairfield House.”
He even sounded sexy. That low voice was as smooth as a good Merlot. Which I definitely wouldn’t be drinking, no siree.
“This is Fairfield House.”
He frowned. “But the sign outside said it’s a retirement home?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Now he looked downright puzzled as he pulled his phone out of a pocket and checked the screen.
“Can I help with anything?” I asked. Literally anything. I’d kiss his freaking feet if he so desired. “Are you lost?”
“This may sound odd, but did anybody here order a stripping Santa?”
