Lucy Gordon: The Millionaire’s Christmas Wish

‘Go on! Who?’

‘Santa Claus.’

Mitzi looked at him with six-year-old sisterly scorn. ‘You’re batty, you are!’ she announced. ‘There is no Santa Claus.’

‘There is.’

‘Isn’t.’

‘Is.’

‘Isn’t.

‘Is. What’s more, I talked to him.’

‘Batty!’ she said again. ‘Batty, batty, batty!’

She ran off down the stairs, yodelling the word happily.

Bobby was not upset by this reaction. At six, Mitzi still had a lot to learn about life, and people, and Santa.

‘Santa Claus,’ he said. ‘Santa Claus-Father Christmas.’

He took the little wooden medallion from his pocket and turned it over in his fingers, still murmuring softly. ‘Father Christmas, Father Christmas-’

He smiled to himself with secret contentment.

‘Father.’

One year later

‘YOUsee, I kept my word,’ Santa said.

Bobby nodded, slipping into the room and regarding his friend with shining eyes.

A year had made him two inches taller, and the shape of his face was a little different. His eyes were, perhaps, a little too wise for his age, but that was his nature. The tension and sadness were gone.

‘I knew you’d come because you said you would,’ he said.

Santa looked around him at the room. ‘I hardly recognise this place.’

Bobby nodded. ‘We’ve been redecorating. Dad tried to do this room himself, only he’s rotten at it, and Mum said he should chuck the paintbrush away and she’d get a firm in to do it, and anyway they had better things to do, now that I’m going to have a baby brother or sister.’

He turned to look at a small figure who had appeared in the doorway.

‘Come in. I told you he’d be here.’

Mitzi came further into the room, eyeing Santa with a touch of suspicion, then coming close and poking him in the stomach.

‘Ow!’ he remembered to say.

‘You see, I’m not batty,’ Bobby told her.

‘Yes, you are,’ she said firmly.

‘Aren’t!’

‘Are!’

‘Aren’t!’

‘Are!’

‘That’s enough, the pair of you,’ Corinne said, coming in. ‘Go to bed, now. Santa still has a full night’s work to do.’

He leaned down to them. ‘That’s right. I’ll say goodbye now. I won’t be back tomorrow, like I was last time.’

‘And next year?’ Bobby asked.

‘We’ll see.’ Santa added thoughtfully, ‘Most boys of your age don’t believe in Santa Claus.’

Bobby regarded him with a faint quizzical smile. ‘I believe in you, ’ he said.

Mitzi nodded. Then she put her arms around his huge girth as far as they would go, which wasn’t far. Santa leaned down and she vanished into his white hair.

‘Goodnight, both of you,’ he said huskily.

When the children were gone Corinne looked at Santa’s belly, then at her own, which was about the same size.

‘I wouldn’t have much luck cuddling you, either,’ she said, chuckling. ‘Cross fingers that we’ll make it through Christmas.’

‘Well, if not, that husband of yours is here.’ Beneath his beard Santa paled slightly. ‘He may not be much use, but he’s here.’

‘Don’t you say a word against my husband. The clinic said he was doing the breathing exercises very well. Better than me.’

He grinned, but then the grin faded. ‘Are you going to be all right?’ he asked seriously.

She smiled. ‘ We’re going to be all right. All of us.’

‘Sure?’

‘I’m like Bobby. I believe in you. Happy Christmas, Santa. Now and always.’

Lucy Gordoncut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Sir Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness, and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa and had many other unusual experiences which have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days.

You can visit her website at www. lucy-gordon. com and look out for The Italian’s Passionate Revenge which will be available in May!