Jeff took a swig from the bottle and shook his head.  “Is it me, or are kids born aged twenty nowadays?  My little Mikey is eight.  Eight!  And he told me last night that Santa Claus is just me pretending.  Can you believe that?  How old were you when you found out Santa didn’t exist?”

Peter, Jeff’s perennial drinking partner, looked aghast.  “What do you mean, he doesn’t exist?”

Jeff choked on his beer.  “Dammit,” he gasped.  “That went right up my nose.”

“That’s the secret of comedy: timing, my boy, timing,” said Peter, in an appalling W. C. Fields impression.

“No, but seriously.  Last year I wore the costume, ran around downstairs shaking these little bells, the works.  He fell for it hook, line and sinker.  What do I do now he knows it’s me?”

“You’re asking me?  I’ve not even got pets.  Could you imagine me with kids?”

“I can’t even imagine you with a steady girlfriend.”

“Hey, I’ve been going out with Sue for ... what time is it now?”

Jeff laughed again.  “Wow, we’re talking hours with Sue?  You’ll tell her your real name, next.”

“Why don’t you just slip the presents under the tree when he’s asleep?  Do you have to do the whole dressing up thing?”

“Hell, yes.  It’s a family tradition.  Anyway, I’ve got the costume, the beard, everything.  And ...” Jeff looked embarrassed, “ ... besides, it’s fun.  You should have seen his face last year.  His mouth fell open so wide I thought I was going to fall in.  It’s such a crying shame if it’s spoilt for him.”

“What you need is an advert at the Job Centre.  ‘Wanted, Father Christmas Impersonator, One Night Only.’  Yeah, you’re bound to get a response.”  Peter suddenly looked doubtful.  “Mind you, Christmas Eve.  You’ll have to put your hand in your pocket.  It won’t be cheap, not with the pubs open and everything.”

“Whereas, if I had a really good mate, one that I could rely on in a crisis, well, he might do it for a beer and home-cooked meal.”

“Crap, you’re right out of luck, then.  ‘Cos I’m your best mate, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to do it.”

“Aw, come on,” pleaded Jeff.  “It was your idea.  And you know what a fantastic cook Lucy is.”

“She cooks like an angel, but God doesn’t cook good enough to make me do this, Jeff.  You know I’m useless with kids.”

“Peter, don’t make me beg.  Mates rules.”

“Oh, don’t use that ‘Mates Rules’ bull on me.”

“’A man will always help out a mate when asked.’  Rule number five, Peter.”

“Ah-ah.  Rule number eight, ‘A mate will not involve himself in any domestic problem not of his causing.’”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to show Susan the photos of my stag night.”

“You ... you ... I thought you’d burnt them!”

“I could have them blown up into ten by eight glossies.”

“A mate never blackmails his mates.  That’s the unwritten rule, Jeff.”

“I’ll get Lucy to make her home-made tiramisu for afters.”

“With cream?”

“And she always buys me a ten-year-old Bushmills for Christmas.  I hate drinking good whisky alone.”

“And all I’ve got to do is stuff the presents under the tree?”

Jeff grinned.  “You can bring Sue if you like, if you’re still going out with her.”

Jeff crept up behind his wife, wrapped his arms around his her waist and breathed in deeply.

“Damn, you smell good.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.  You just want to lick the bowl.  Honestly, you’re just as big a kid as Michael.”

“Mmmm.  Will you tuck me up tonight if I’m a good boy?”

“I’ll rap your knuckles with this ladle if you carry on.  I’m cooking.  You can wash up, if you want to help.”

“I’m a man.  Men don’t wash up!”  He jumped over to the kitchen sink as Lucy raised the ladle.  “Joke, joke.  I would love to do the washing up, my little honey pot.  Anything for my favourite woman, you know that.”

She shook her head.  “Honestly, Jeff.  You are this close to spending Christmas on your own.  Why did you have to pick Christmas Eve to invite your friends over?  Name me one other wife that would do this.  One!”

“Darling, no other woman in the world would be this understanding.  That’s why I married you.  You’re like no other woman in the world.”

“Is it?” asked Jeff, raising his eyebrows.

She smiled.  “Maybe, try it some more.”

“Every man I know hates me, because they know that I go home to the perfect woman, and if they search the whole world over, they will only ever get second best.  And just imagine little Mikey’s face when he sees Father Christmas and me at the same time.  He will be gobsmacked.  He’ll believe again.”

This time she approached him from behind and hugged him.  “Do your friends know how soft you are?  Do they know you cry when you watch chick-flicks with me?”

“That is a base canard,” he said, turning.

She backed off from him.  “Oh no, mister.  Washing up, now!  Or I won’t tuck you in tonight.”

Michael came running into the kitchen.  “Can I stay up with Uncle Peter?”

Jeff scooped him up in his arms.  “No, you can’t, because Father Christmas is coming tonight, and if he finds you awake he might not leave you any presents.  But I’ll get Uncle Peter to come up and say hello when he arrives, how’s that?”

“Father Christmas is really you.  Kaylie says so.”

“Is Kaylie your girlfriend at school?”

Michael screwed his face up.  “Kaylie is a boy, Dad!”

“He is?  Well, how does he know it’s me when I don’t even know if he is a boy or a girl?”

“He says everyone’s dad pretends to be Santa, because he couldn’t go all around the whole wide world in just one night.”

“’Course he can.  He’s magic.  But he won’t if a certain young man doesn’t run upstairs, brushes his teeth and gets into his pyjamas.”  He put him down and patted his bottom.  “Now, get ready for bed before the Daddy Monster tickles you till you’re sick.”

The boy ran giggling through the kitchen door.

Jeff turned, and caught the indulgent smile on his wife’s face.  “What?  Kaylie is a girl’s name.  I didn’t know.”

“You are a wonderful dad, you know that?”

“Well, yes, I did know that, actually.  I have to be wonderful to keep up with his fantastic mother.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and rubbed her nose against his.  He tried to kiss her, but she teased her head back.  “You know what I want you to do, before he comes down and your friends get here?”

Jeff waggled his eyebrows expectantly.  “No,” he breathed.  “What?”

She pulled him close so that her lips tickled his ear.  “Finish the washing up,” she whispered, then turned giggling to the kitchen table.

Five minutes later they heard the thunder of Michael’s feet running down the stairs. 

“Doesn’t he do anything at walking pace?” asked Jeff, of no-one in particular.

His feet drummed along the corridor and stopped.

“Hey, young man!” called Jeff.  “No messing around with the Christmas tree.”

There was silence for a moment, and then a panicky voice screamed, “Dad!”

Jeff and Lucy looked at each other for a heart-stopping moment, then both rushed to the living room.

Just inside the doorway Michael turned to face them and jumped up and down on the spot.

“It’s him, it’s him!” he screamed, excitement raising the pitch of his voice so high it would surely set off every dog in the neighbourhood.  He turned again to face the room, and sprinted on the spot, his hands stuffing his pyjama top into his mouth in sheer jubilation.

By the tree, frozen in surprise, was a fat, jolly elf, dressed all in red.  One hand held a pillowcase, from which spilled brightly-wrapped gifts.

“How did he get in?” asked Lucy.

“Down the chimney, down the chimney,” yelled Michael, beside himself with excitement.

“I left the door on the latch,” whispered Jeff, then chuckled.  Oh, was he the Dad of the Year, or what?  Was Mikey ever going to forget this Christmas?

Santa slowly raised his finger to his lips, or at least where his lips should be.  With his hood pulled low and his enormous beard, it was difficult even to make out his eyes.  Peter was completely unrecognizable.

“Mikey, Mikey,” whispered Jeff, urgently.  Michael half turned, but kept his eyes fixed on the man by the tree.

“Mikey, it’s Father Christmas.  You should be fast asleep in bed.  Quick, run into bed, or he might not leave the rest of the presents.”

Santa waved to Michael.  Michael waved gently, suddenly uncharacteristically shy, then turned and bolted for the stairs.

Jeff was grinning so hard his cheeks ached, and his eyes were misting up.  It was moments like this that justified all the compromises, all the tears and tantrums, all the difficulties of being a parent.  Justified it, and then some.

Lucy nodded.  “Okay, that was pretty good, I’ll give you that.  Makes me wish I believed in Father Christmas.  Now, I have a tiramisu that needs attention.”  She nodded at Santa.  “Nice one, Peter.”

As she busied herself in the kitchen the phone rang.  Jeff appeared in the doorway as she answered it.

“Hello? ... Yes ...”

After a moment she turned, eyes wide and face pale.  “Oh my God,” she breathed.  “It’s Peter.  His car’s broken down.”

Jeff returned her stare.  “Then ... who?”

She rushed past her husband, down the corridor and stopped in the doorway.  The figure had thrown back the hood and pulled his beard down.  There was Peter, mobile phone to his ear.  She turned to Jeff, who was sitting on the floor, red with suppressed laughter.  She whirled angrily to face a sheepish-looking Peter again.

“Be fair, Lucy.  You made a wish, and just for a moment there, you believed, didn’t you?”

She shook her head.  “Children!”  And she retreated to the kitchen.