Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
The cab lights appear in three minutes, tops, and I hop on in with a thanks. My phone is already in my hand, so I get right to typing out my D&S message to Josh. But if I’d have waited, just a few more seconds – if I’d have held off on the D&S until my cab was down the street, I might have got more of a glimpse of the man standing at the entrance of the club, directly under the Club Revelier sign.
Santa.
There is no wine glass in his hand. Not this time.
My fucking God, was he outside? Was he watching? Did he hear my filthy begging and the way I took it like a piece of meat who needed a pounding?
Suddenly I’m shaking as the nerves eat me alive out of nowhere. I feel so intimidated, so dirty and exposed as I twist in the cab seat to stare back at him.
Vulnerable.
I feel vulnerable.
Exposed, naked, used, debased and so fucking vulnerable.
Another cab pulls up and Santa glances my way before he gets in.
My heart is fucking pounding as the cab pulls away, but no, he’s not telling his cabbie to follow that cab. The cab does a U turn and heads in the opposite direction.
Shit.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
4
TIFFANY
Central Parade shopping centre, Santa, I type into Google.
The search results come up with some events days, and a mention of Santa’s Grotto in a recent news article, but nothing about Santa himself. I scroll down the feed, mention after mention, until finally, there he is.
Santa – minus the Santa outfit – is in one of the pictures, with his gorgeous dark eyes and his side parted silver fox hair. He’s standing behind one of those big, printed charity cheques, donating a chunk of money to a kids’ support centre in Dagenham. £40,000.
My stomach lurches like a motherfucker as I click the link to see more. I have to blink three times, zooming in on the photo. He’s way more gorgeous than the strobe lights did justice. In a suit, in daylight, he’s off the fucking charts.
Santa is Reuben Sinclair, owner of Central Parade and twenty-three other shopping centres around the country.
Wow!
“Reuben.” I speak his name aloud, and it sounds like dirty satin. I wonder how it would sound at squeal volume, while he’s slamming the shit out of me.
I need to find out.
A search for Reuben Sinclair himself hits a lot more results. There’s a chunk of interviews as part of his associations with various charities, with quotes on how he had to climb up the ladder from nothing himself, so he knows how hard it is for youngsters out there with nobody to rely on.
I can’t imagine him like that. A young boy, desperate. All I can see is the Reuben Sinclair of today. Powerful. Prestigious. Charitable. Loaded. And dirty as all fucking hell.
My stomach drops out with every article click, terrified I might come across either of the two fateful words. Husband or father. I feel ill at the thought of him being a cosy family man behind the scenes, with a beautiful Mrs and some sweet little kiddos. But no mentions turn up. Not in a single article.
A link to an old podcast appears on page seven, and my fingers are legit quaking as they click on it.
He’s talking about a particular charity that helps out single mothers.
I, myself, was from a struggling single parent family, and as much as my mother claimed in later years that it was stress talking, not her, she blamed her decision to have me at such a young age for her hardship. She’d throw her emotional outbursts in my direction, and I didn’t understand it then. My young mind couldn’t interpret her, and all I felt was pain. I had no idea how much pressure she was under to keep our heads above water. It was hard. Very, very hard. I have both huge empathy and sympathy for people battling with similar journeys. It’s not easy.
His tone has me entranced, even though it’s just a snippet. I replay it over and over, my head whirling. I can’t stop.
This is dangerous. It’s a familiar road up ahead.
I’ve been more in control of myself these past few years, ‘keeping my head screwed on’ as my nan would have said. I’ve kept my compulsive happy ever after fantasies at bay, confident enough to quit psychotherapy over six months ago. But my grip is slipping so fast by the second, I get tremors.
I had no idea how much pressure she was under to keep our heads above water. It was hard. Very, very hard. I have both huge empathy and sympathy for people battling with similar journeys. It’s not easy.
I give myself the excuse of ‘just a bit of fun’, but I’m staring at the picture of Reuben behind the cheque as his words sound out, and remember Ella’s enthusiasm at seeing him. He’s such an amazing guy, so kind and humble, and selfless… and just AMAZING.