White Christmas

Surveen had spent weeks following John. Her husband and business partner. Christmas had not lifted sales.

'Missing money, secret calls, obvious,' she thought, watching from the car as he went into the small council house again.

A middle-aged woman in a floral dress answered the door. No, not middle-aged; dressed up.

“Where is he?' Surveen blustered, pulling the gray wig from the woman's head, pushing into the tiny warm room; Christmas tree, patterned carpet, gas fire, presents, foil decorations strung like bunting.

Racing upstairs, banging open doors, turning on the box room light Surveen saw posters of seventies footballers, Airfix models suspended on ceiling threads, a stocking waiting for Santa on the bed post.

And John in paisley pyjamas tucked up.

“I just wanted Christmas back,” John said, starting to cry.