Father Christmas

...

Thursday 6th December

"I met him when I was six," Grace remembers fondly. "My dad took me one Saturday morning while my mother did the shopping. It was snowing, and I thought there was no way he was real, because his clothes were too clean."

He's watching her attentively, the fingers of one hand lightly mapping the bones of her ankle as they sit facing each other at opposite ends of the sofa, legs entangled between them. His expression is reflective and thoughtful as he contemplates his own question.

"I was… five, maybe? He came to school, my first year. He met all the little ones – gave us presents too. I got an action figure. It was a policeman." They grin at each other, highly entertained.

"Did it have handcuffs?" she wants to know, her eyes glinting impishly.

"It did indeed!" he answers, seriousness entirely feigned.

Laughter fills the room, echoing luxuriously around them. Boyd picks up his mug of tea from the end table and considers it, quietly pensive again. After the disaster yesterday, both of them are still feeling a little too fragile to attempt anything stronger.

"What do you mean, his clothes were too clean?" he asks eventually.

"Childhood logic," she shrugs. "He couldn't possibly be so neat and tidy when he'd been up and down so many chimneys."

He shakes his head slowly, as if trying to picture her as a little girl. "I bet you were one of those children that just has to rationalise everything, weren't you?" he asks, staring deep into her eyes. "You had to know all the answers, am I right?"

"Studious to the extreme," she confirms, her own eyes twinkling over the rim of her mug. "Teacher's pet, total know-it-all."

"Nothing's changed then," he teases. Grace raises an eyebrow, gazing steadily at him, but says nothing. She rests her head back, closes her eyes and lets her thoughts go, making a conscious effort to stop thinking and relax her mind as much as her body. She concentrates on his touch instead; the light caress of his fingertips on the delicate skin of her ankle is wonderfully soothing. So too is the way his thumb applies pressure to the arch of her foot, releasing the tension of the day. She's drifting now, thoroughly ensnared in the sensory nature of the moment. It's peaceful, very pleasant.

"Did you like him?" he inquires suddenly, and she starts faintly, rousing a little from her serenity.

"Like who?" she asks languidly, humming softly with pleasure as his touch ventures a little further up her leg, lightly massaging the muscle there.

"Father Christmas." He puts his empty mug aside and applies both hands more firmly to the task.

"No," is her lazy reply as she sinks further into the cushion, utterly content with simply enjoying the indulgence.

"Why not?"

"I told you – he was a fraud. The real Santa would never be that clean. He wouldn't have a grumpy donkey instead of reindeer either."

"You know your trouble, Grace?" His hands have moved to her other leg now, and her eyes are closed in deep, pervading pleasure. "You think about things far too much."

"Hmm…" is all the answer she can manage.