The longer we don’t bring it up, the bigger it becomes.
The photographer, a lovely older woman named Marsha, who dresses in a Mrs. Claus outfit that makes her look like Betty White, approaches me and Greg.
“My shift’s over,” she says, a bit nervous. “The new photographer is talking to the parents.”
We look at a man in black jeans, a grey leather jacket, and a collared business shirt talking to parents in line. Twenties are changing hands.
Greg stands and we put up the “Santa is Feeding the Reindeer—Back in Five Minutes!” sign. Parents groan, but the new photographer seems to be keeping them occupied.
“You know him?” Greg asks Marsha, who shakes her head.
“Never seen him before, but he says he’s a sub the owner sent. I texted the owner and he hasn’t replied, so…” She reaches for a clipboard on the small counter behind Santa’s throne and starts writing numbers on a spreadsheet.
Greg and I exchange a skeptical look. “We need to document this,” he whispers to me. “They either pay through the app or at checkout. Cash isn’t supposed to change hands.” One of the many sour aspects of being a mystery shopper and customer service evaluator is that you end up busting people who are embezzling, or cheating customers. It always involves cash.
Marsha looks at me with agitation and pulls me aside. “Your nipple is, um…” She points down and I growl, shoving the girls back in place.
“Thank you.” If this were a Dickens novel I would be the Ghost of Christmas Nip Slips Present.
“Jory was less…buxom,” she murmurs.
“Jory?”
“The old elf. The one who always worked here before. So much turnover.” She slings her purse over her shoulder and gives a wave, looking repeatedly at the new photographer, then shrugging. “I’m doing some shopping, so I’ll pop back in after a while and see how it’s going. I’ve been here for nine seasons and I can spot someone who isn’t going to work out.”
Greg and I share a knowing look, and Santa turns away from the crowd to text the client and let them know what’s just gone down.
Marsha crooks one finger at me and whispers in my ear: “This Santa is too nice. Betcha he won’t make it two more days.” She has no idea who we are, so I play along.
Greg is texting the client, but then stops, alarm crossing his face. “Shit!” he exclaims.
“Hush!” I hiss. “Santa doesn’t say ‘shit’!”
“He does when the replacement Santa is stuck in the parking garage! Says he’s been in there for more than forty-five minutes and can’t find his way out.”
“I believe it,” says a familiar voice. Warm hands are on my shoulders, and Declan adds, “This parking lot is designed by planners who hate human beings.”
I laugh. He doesn’t. But he plants a kiss on my cheek and lets go of me, walking around and emitting a low whistle.
“Whoa.” His eyes rest on the overflowing volcano of flesh that is my chest line.
“Ho,” he says as he looks at one breast. “Ho,” he says for the other. “Nice. It’s like a Christmas eye doctor’s chart.”
Greg’s texting furiously, then looks at us, horrified. “He says he just came out of the exit to the mall near the turnpike and he’s heading back home! Says it’s not worth it!”
Declan shrugs, eyes glued to my breasts. “You said sexy elf costume,” he says in a weird voice.
“This isn’t sexy?” My eyebrows are buried in the mall skylight.
“This is a slutty elf costume.”
I glare at Greg. “Told you.” I turn to Declan. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a bit much—”
“What are you apologizing for? Slutty beats sexy any day.” His hands slip around my waist and he pulls me into a kiss that curls my toes.
Greg texts and clears his throat. “Um, guys? I have a serious problem here. No replacement Santa, and I have to take Judy to a doctor’s appointment.” Greg’s wife is a long-term breast cancer survivor, and while I don’t know the details, everything has been in a good place for a while. The look on his face makes my stomach sink, though.
Declan goes somber, too.
And then Greg and I turn simultaneously and give Declan the once-over, like Clinton and Stacy on What Not to Wear.
Except we’re doing the Christmas Mall Edition: Santa Style.
“Oh, no,” Declan says, reading our minds. “No.”
“It pays $30 an hour and you can get a free picture on the next Santa’s lap.”
“I make $30 every time I cough,” Declan snorts. I’ve never heard him snort before. Today is a day for discoveries and revelations. Grumpy Cat looks and snorts. What’s next? Farting in bed and not excusing himself? Or, worse, pulling the covers over my head and Dutch Ovening me?
Mom says men save that for the second anniversary.
“Your nipple is, um…” Greg says. To me. Speaking of revelations. I tuck it back in. I might need to walk over to the scrapbook store and get a little rubber cement so these puppies will stop trying to escape.
“What’s your currency, man?” Greg asks Declan, gone from begging to outright negotiation. “You’ve got me by the balls.”
“I’ve got my own balls. Don’t need yours.”
The parents in line are murmuring louder and louder. “If there’s no Santa, the entire mystery shop is compromised, and twenty kids out there are going to start crying,” I say to Declan, pleading.