‘Hey, you’re right. Merry Christmas,’ he echoed.
And then, the very next thing, as if he could simply flick a switch and fall asleep, she heard his breathing slow and change, grow calm, steady. His hand rested on her shoulder, heavy, completely relaxed.
He’s fast asleep, just like that, Aniela thought, amazed. Maybe he really is from another planet. Planet Appalachia, somewhere in a galaxy far far away.
Aniela smiled to herself. Well, if he is, and if he wants to take me back there with him in his spaceship, I might even go.
December 25th – Christmas Day
Andy
‘We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!’
Grigor was in his element. Wearing his full Santa Claus costume, his belly protruding happily in a satisfyingly round sphere that pushed against the red fabric, a white beard hooked around his ears and a red, fur-trimmed hat pulled down over them, he looked, from a distance, the perfect Father Christmas figure, round and jolly, if a little shorter than usual. It was only when you got closer to him that you realised the costume was custom-made to fit him, that the legs of the trousers ended perfectly just below his ankles rather than puddling over his shoes, that the red material was the finest merino wool, and that the fur trim was real: white mink, softer than soft. Mr K, Andy thought respectfully, takes Christmas very seriously.
Grigor had got hold of a wreath made entirely from red metal bells woven together, and was rattling it like a tambourine; he capered around the lobby, shaking his jingly bells, a huge smile on his face. Two bodyguards, one on either side of the lobby, stood as stony-faced as ever, more than used to seeing Grigor give his high spirits full rein. The bodyguards had enough self-control not to react to Gregor’s bell-ringing, but the three reindeer stationed around the lobby were not so well-trained. They shifted their hooves nervously whenever Grigor and his wreath came anywhere near them, their heads, each heavily laden with a full rack of antlers, bobbing back, away from the crazy man in red jumping around and making loud noises.
Grigor’s capering was really the last straw as far as the reindeer were concerned. They were used to appearing at events, having been bred on a farm for that specific purpose; but those events were almost always outside. Even the generous glass doors of Limehouse Reach’s lobby had not accommodated the height of their antlers; Grigor, naturally, had insisted upon hiring full-grown adult males, and the handlers had had quite a job getting them to duck as they clopped inside the building.
The reindeer didn’t like the shiny floors, the bright lights, and the fact that they were separated. Reindeer were sociable animals, who liked company, but even in the huge lobby there wasn’t room for an entire herd of reindeer to be grouped together. They didn’t like the fact that their handlers were dressed in weird green outfits, which smelt new and odd, and they particularly didn’t like the wide, glittering collars which Grigor had commissioned from Swarovski for them at great expense, huge stones in green and red and white, cold and unfamiliar. The crystals reflected the illumination of the lobby, the positive blaze of lights emanating from the gigantic tree, and, of course, each other’s collars: the more they fidgeted, the more their unease grew, the more they looked to each other, and the more their collars flashed emerald and ruby and diamond into each other’s eyes, dazzling them and making them even more uncomfortable...
Grigor, naturally, was oblivious to the reindeer’s growing distress. He had paid a great deal of money to hire them, and it was their handlers’ responsibility to keep them quiet as he danced around and sang gleefully.
‘So bring us some figgy pudding, so bring us some figgy pudding...’ he carolled. He dashed over to Andy and threw one big meaty arm around the concierge’s shoulders. ‘Sing, Andy! Sing with me!’
‘So bring us some figgy pudding, and a cup of good cheer!’ Andy sang along happily.
This was more fun than he’d ever imagined having at work. He was already blissed-out, dazzled with the sheer amount of money that Grigor had thrown at making this Christmas more lavish than Andy could ever, remotely have imagined; the last few days had been like living in a fantasy, as if Grigor really were Father Christmas come to life, a magical creature who only had to click his fingers to make any dream come true. Armed with Grigor’s credit cards, Andy had decked out not just the lobby but Grigor’s penthouse within an inch of their lives, with the most expensive Christmas decorations money could buy, and he was very keen to see all Grigor’s guests ooh and aah at the sight of them.
‘Wow! Look!’ Andy broke off singing the carol to point towards the huge curving glass walls of the foyer, where, through the exquisite spray-on snow stencils he had spent all yesterday carefully creating, the yellow flash of a Lamborghini Aventador could be seen rounding the drive and pulling up in front of the doors.
‘It is Wayne!’ Grigor roared cheerfully, striding towards the sliding doors. ‘Hello, Wayne! Happy Christmas!’
The short, rather squat figure of Wayne Burns, the star striker of Grigor’s football team, Kensington, hopped awkwardly out of his two-hundred-thousand-pound car, manoeuvring uncomfortably under its door, which lifted up at an angle like an opening wing. Pulling down his suit jacket, he walked towards the building, leaving his keys in the ignition for the doorman to park the car in the basement garage. With his pug nose, cauliflower ear and small, rather piggy eyes, Wayne was no David Beckham, Fredrik Ljungberg or Ashley Cole. Calvin Klein were never going to ask Wayne to pose in his underpants or hold a bottle of aftershave suggestively. He didn’t even move well; his walk was clumsy, his legs too short for his frame, his arms too long, swinging like an orang-utan’s from his wide shoulders. But on the pitch Wayne was transformed. If not precisely graceful, he was poetry in motion, sheer footballing genius in action, the kind of skill that could not be taught, merely coached to polish it to perfection. Wayne had been a child prodigy, and just like Suzuki-method six-year-old violinists or pianists, he had been spotted young. He might not have the looks of a male model, but he didn’t need them; he already had more money than even a footballer could ever spend, a mansion in Elmbridge, Surrey, near the Kensington training ground, a large collection of the most expensive cars available to humanity, and a gorgeous glamour model girlfriend, Chantelle, who was the subject of many inventive chants by the fans of Kensington’s opponents. It helped, of course, that her surname was Bitts.
‘’Ello, Mr K,’ he said, smiling shyly as he entered Limehouse Reach. ‘’Appy Christmas and all that.’
‘Wayne! It is so good to see you!’ Grigor enfolded his star in a warm embrace. ‘And the lovely Chantelle? She is not here?’ ‘No, she’s gone to see her mum,’ Wayne said. ‘And I’m staying in the London flat tonight. Y’know, to be here for the big game tomorrow.’
He looked around the lobby, and jumped at the sight of the reindeer.
‘Bloody ’ell! Are they real?’ he said nervously, backing well out of range of the antlers.
‘Of course!’ Grigor boomed, throwing his arms wide. ‘I am Santa, so of course I have reindeer! See, my elves are looking after them for me...’
The handlers, who were not enjoying wearing their green felt elf costumes with matching ears one little bit, stared sullenly at Grigor as he waved expansively at them, turning on his heels in a happy circle, gesturing at the reindeer. The reindeer, sensitive animals, picked up their handlers’ bad moods and whinnied unhappily.
‘And here is Andy, my main elf!’ Grigor said, dancing over to Andy and pulling him forward.
Andy beamed at Wayne: unlike the handlers, Andy loved the elf costume he was wearing. The bright green colour was not only festive, but suited his dark skin to perfection, much more than the burgundy uniform. If he’d been short, it might have been embarrassing, but Andy was tall enough for the outfit not to be a comment on his height, and the tabard, belted tightly at his waist with a big leather belt, actually flattered his slim figure. The elf ears, fixed ont
o a headband and wired so they bobbed when he moved, were the final touch. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said to Wayne. ‘Happy Christmas, and welcome to Limehouse Reach.’
‘Andy, you must take Wayne upstairs,’ Grigor said, ‘and give him some mulled wine! My chef has made a special recipe. It is very good. I must wait here for the rest of my guests. Ho ho ho!’ he roared unexpectedly in one of Wayne’s ears, shaking the wreath next to the other one.
‘Jesus, Mr K,’ Wayne said, backing away. ‘You trying to deafen me?’
Wayne grinned at Andy, who realised he was smiling back. Wayne might have a face only a mother could love, but his smile was very sweet, and his demeanour completely unlike the swaggering stance that Andy would have expected from someone whose two-hundred-thousand-pound car represented merely ten days’ pay.
‘I call him Mr K too,’ Andy heard himself say.
‘I know! He said to call him Grigor,’ Wayne said, ‘but it don’t seem right when he pays my wages.’
‘Off! Upstairs!’ Grigor shouted happily, grabbing both young men’s shoulders and shoving them in the direction of the penthouse lift. ‘Make sure to show him our Father Christmas on the terrace! When I come up, there will be two Father Christmases! Ho ho ho!’
‘Don’t worry,’ Andy said as they walked off. ‘You can’t miss Father Christmas on the terrace. He’s ten feet high.’ ‘The reindeer aren’t coming up too, are they?’ Wayne asked. ‘I wouldn’t put it past Mr K to try to get ’em in a service lift.’ Andy sniggered.
‘Please don’t suggest that to him, okay?’ he said. ‘Or he’ll give it a go. It was hard enough getting them in here. One of them had a bit of a freak-out and did the most enormous poo you’ve ever seen. Poor old Kevin had to shovel it all up.’ Wayne rolled his eyes.
‘That’s Mr K all over,’ he said affectionately. ‘Always got to do bigger and better. Sky’s the limit when he gets a bee in his bonnet. ’E’s been banging on about ’is big Christmas do for months now.’ He glanced sideways at Andy. ‘I see ’e’s roped you in as well, eh?’
‘To be honest,’ Andy admitted, ‘the costumes were my idea. I love dressing up. Did you see Derek, on the front desk? I got him antlers.’
Wayne shook his head.
‘Nah, I didn’t. Should look out for that when I go back down.’ ‘If you could sign something for him,’ Andy said tentatively, ‘he’d love it. He and his kids are all big Kensington fans. I’m sorry, I know you’re off duty—’
‘Nah, it’s fine. I really don’t mind.’
Wayne gave that sweet smile again. It took Andy quite by surprise; Wayne’s demeanour was so stolid when he was playing, and when he agreed to a rare interview, that Andy had barely ever seen the striker smile; it lit up his face, transforming it, turning his small, ugly features into something almost charming.
‘Especially if it’s for a kid,’ he added. ‘I really like kids.’ ‘Oh, me too! There’ll be lots tomorrow, at the Boxing Day party,’ Andy said happily as they stepped into the lift. He had been up and down in it multiple times in the last few days, but its sheer level of bling always made him blink. The tiny, glittering Italian mosaic tiles interspersed with the gold-framed mirrors were polished daily to a high sheen, and the Up and Down buttons were made of giant Swarovski crystals. ‘Wouldn’t like to get in this with a hangover, eh?’ Wayne said.
‘At least there isn’t a disco ball hanging from the ceiling,’ Andy said unguardedly.
Wayne burst out laughing.
‘We should get one!’ he said. ‘Be a laugh on Mr K!’ ‘You could do that,’ Andy said, pressing the Up Swarovski. ‘Somehow, I don’t think I’d get away with sticking a disco ball to the ceiling of Mr Khalovsky’s thirty-thousand-pound lift with Blu-tack.’
Wayne laughed even harder.
‘You’re funny,’ he said, when he had caught his breath. ‘And I must say, you’ve got balls, dressing up like that. Suits you, as well.’
‘Oh! Um, thank you,’ Andy mumbled, not sure how to respond.
The lift whooshed up to the penthouse; as the doors opened, the scents of Christmas swirled towards them – spicy mulled wine, clove-studded oranges, mince pies warming, roasting meats. It was heady and welcoming, quite unlike Sergei, who, standing there to greet the guests, glared at the sight of Andy.
‘Mr K told me to bring Mr Burns up here,’ Andy said quickly; Grigor’s secretary was becoming increasingly jealous of Andy’s rapport with his boss.
‘That’s right,’ Wayne chimed in, taking in the situation with surprising swiftness. ‘Andy’s supposed to show me the decorations on the terrace. Mr K said that loud and clear.’ Sergei hissed something vicious under his breath. Then, plastering on a teeth-baring smile, he took a gold-chased, enamelled punch glass from a silver tray held by a waiter standing beside him and handed it to Wayne. Wayne promptly passed it to Andy and held out his hand for another glass. ‘Call me Wayne, mate,’ he said to Andy. ‘Mr Burns is my dad, and I fucking ’ate the old sod. Ain’t seen ’im or me mum since they sold a story on me to the News of the World years ago, and I ain’t planning on seeing them ever again.’ ‘Oh, that’s really sad,’ Andy said, taking the glass and avoiding Sergei’s enraged glare. He had known this, of course; anyone who even occasionally glanced at the tabloids was aware of Wayne’s problematic family and their attempts to make money off their son’s talent. ‘Especially at Christmas.’ ‘Yeah,’ Wayne said, shrugging. ‘But in a way, I was sort of glad, y’know? It was just a stupid story on me getting in trouble, bunking off school when I was a nipper, getting pissed on shandy. But it gave me the excuse to cut ’em off. Me dad’s an alkie and me mum’s not much better. I’ve set them up for life, and if they blow through what I’ve given ’em, that’s their business. I just can’t be doing with it no more.’ He looked a little surprised. ‘Listen to me, running me mouth off ! Sorry, mate! Bit of a depressing thing to be talking about at Christmas!’ ‘Oh no,’ Andy said quickly, ‘it’s fine. I was brought up in care, and I didn’t even know my mum. Believe me, I had a lot of shitty Christmases. So this—’ he gestured around the lobby of the penthouse apartment – ‘is beyond amazing. I feel so lucky to be here.’ He giggled. ‘Even if Sergei’s just waiting to shove me back downstairs again where I belong.’
‘’E’s a miserable sod,’ Wayne agreed, darting a glance back at Sergei, who was standing by the lift to greet the next arrivals, glaring at Wayne and Andy’s backs. ‘Let’s wind ’im up, shall we?’
He clinked glasses theatrically with Andy.
‘Merry Christmas, Andy!’ he said loudly. ‘Sorry to hear your family’s even crapper than mine, but here’s to us both being on top of the world for Christmas!’
He smiled at Andy. Sergei seethed in impotent rage as they walked into the gigantic great room. Wayne stopped dead, blurting out in shock at the sight that met his eyes: ‘Fricking ’ell! Are you fricking joking or what?’
‘Isn’t it amazing!’ Andy said joyously. ‘It’s a train set! I got it from Hamleys! But, instead of a train – it’s Santa’s sleigh! All electric! The kids can sit in it tomorrow and go round!’ ‘Bloody ’ell,’ Wayne said with huge respect, staring at the sleigh with its following carriage, decked out within an inch of its life, sitting on the wide train tracks which looped around the entire perimeter of the enormous room and disappeared into Grigor’s ‘library’ beyond. Stationed at intervals around the room were tables covered in red fabric, decorated with gold and green bows, gilt candelabras at their centre, heavily laden with food and drink; it was like something from a fairy tale. ‘I never seen anything like this in my life.’
Automatically, Andy burst into song, singing the words Wayne had just spoken: then he clapped one hand over his mouth, horrified. ‘Sorry! That’s a song from—’
‘Dr Doolittle,’ Wayne said completely unexpectedly. ‘I love that film. Blimey, will you look at this?’
He stepped cautiously over the train tracks, his short legs having some trouble crossing their girth, heading for
the dining table. ‘Old Mr K really done us proud.’
The long table – a twenty-foot slab of ancient dark oak which would never have made it up to the penthouse if the builders hadn’t sensibly made the service elevator double-height – was already groaning with bowls of clementines, apples, nuts and dried fruits, cheeses, quince paste, and canapés. Huge ice buckets bearing magnums of Dom Pérignon were stationed at intervals behind the big, elaborately carved, leather-upholstered chairs, and deep insulated glass bowls on the table held mother-of-pearl shells in which tiny, pale grey beads of Beluga caviar and gold Osetra royal caviar were piled up in as generous quantities as if they were boiled sweets in a jar.
‘I did the table centrepieces,’ Andy said proudly, gesturing with his glass at the gold and red candles, the vases full of candy canes tied with green silk ribbon, the tinsel twisted around the poinsettias. ‘Well, I helped.’
‘It looks amazing,’ Wayne said appreciatively, as a waiter bustled over and presented Wayne with a tray loaded with tiny mince pies, each one decorated with fragile, trembling gold leaf.
‘Nice,’ Wayne said, taking the plate the waiter was proffering with his other hand and loading it up with pies. ‘What about ’im, then?’ He nodded to Andy. ‘Mr K told ’im to show me round. I can’t stand ’ere eating if ’e ain’t. Not manners, is it?’ ‘Oh, I’m all right,’ Andy said quickly, but Wayne Burns, Kensington star striker, merely had to express a wish for it to be instantly executed, and in thirty seconds Andy had a plate and was taking a couple of gold-leaf-covered mince pies. ‘Diet starts after Crimbo, eh?’ Wayne said, biting into one and scattering shards of pastry layers all down his ill-fitting four-thousand-pound suit. ‘You’re all right,’ he said wistfully through a mouthful, looking at Andy, slim and elegant in his tight-fitting elf costume. ‘I chunk up really easily. Me mum used to call me Chunky Monkey when I was little.’ Andy sputtered out pastry over the plate that he was sensibly holding just below his mouth.
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