Page 27 of All About Christmas

Olivier has been bent over with laughter for more than half a minute. A real laugh with tears rolling down his cheeks. Every time he gets up to catch his breath, his eyes glance in my direction, and he doubles over again.

I stand with my hands at my sides, tapping my green elf shoe impatiently.

The tinkling of the little bell attached to the tip fills the room.

“Are you done?” I ask irritably, hoisting my red and white striped tights up a bit.

The green velvet jacket is cinched at my waist by a thick black belt with a gold buckle.

And that’s not all: on top of my head balances an equally green hat with a little bell.

When I walk, I sound like a herd of tripping cats, all of whom have been given little belled collars to distract their fuzzy paws from killing half the population of birds.

“You’re in luck, Olivier,” says Martina from makeup, coming around the corner again with the Mount Everest of fabrics in her arms. “There was a bigger size after all.”

Her almond-shaped eyes peek out from above the shiny material, and Olivier suddenly stands straight up. His smile disappears like melted snow, and now it’s my turn to grin.

“How convenient.”

Olivier throws me a dirty look, and with the enthusiasm of a cleaning crew after a frat party, grabs Martina’s elf costume. She beams. I don’t know Martina well, but I can just tell she’s a real Christmasophile. One who says things like...

“I think it will look very Christmassy on you.” She makes a jabbing motion with her arm at the outfit. Her enthusiasm is not exactly contagious.

Olivier looks at her so furiously that it makes even me—who by now has regularly been on the receiving end of such optical torture—uncomfortable.

The corners of Martina’s mouth drop down and her eyes dart to me. “Oh, I forgot to mention that part,” she says hastily, her hands defensively in the air. And her next sentence doesn’t really make the situation any better. “You’ll have to repeat that phrase for the guests tonight.”

Olivier and I look at each other and silently plot the murder of whoever thought this up. “What?” we finally manage to utter in unison.

Martina nods vehemently. “Gabriel said so. All elves must wish guests a Christmassy evening before they sit down.”

I let out a tired sigh. Of course Gabriel is responsible for this. But then I clap my hands together. “We’ll just make the best of it,” I reassure her. “It’s not your fault, Martina.”

“You could have not found this costume,” Olivier mutters softly, and I look at him angrily, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. He turns and walks to the dressing room cubicles while grumbling something about not getting paid enough.

“For me, the venison steak, please.” The woman—glowing as if she had swallowed an atomic bomb—sits with her right hand intertwined with her date’s hand on the tabletop. Mark, the cameraman, zooms in closer and then refocuses the lens on the duo’s infatuated faces.

They’re an odd couple. A bit like pepper and sugar. She looks like she just had an emergency meeting with President Macron and Ursula Gertrud Von der Leyen about rising inflation, and he looks like he came straight from a Metallica concert.

I once read an article in Psychology Magazine about why we fall for people who look like us. When I dig out my dating history, I have to admit that this was often true for me as well.

My gaze slips briefly to Olivier, whom I can just barely hear saying, with a blush on his cheeks, “On a Christmassy evening.” It’s the first time we’ve looked somewhat alike.

He has been forced out of his tailored suits and although I’m still wearing colourful clothes, this is not the style I would normally go for.

The couple across from me might not immediately fit together at first glance, but they seem hopelessly in love.

“One venison steak,” I repeat, jotting it down on my Heineken notepad. Then I turn to the man. “And what can I get for you?”

“The mushroom stew, please,” he says. “That one’s vegan, right?”

I nod, “Yes, it’s vegan. And would you like another drink?”

“A jug of mulled wine, please,” the woman says, smiling.

“Coming right up.” I turn and walk toward the bar, where the other elves are hard at work, their movements creating an orchestra of tinkling bells.

In the middle of the tent is a Christmas tree whose top just barely pierces the ceiling of the tarp. Large red and gold balls hang from the green branches, and Michael Bublé sings “Holly Jolly Christmas” through the speakers. The string lights along the edges of the tent radiate a glowing warmth.

Using the ladle hanging on the huge pot of mulled wine, I fill one of the decanters next to it.

“That man sitting there was rejected,” I hear one of the elves say to another.

I follow her gaze and see a man with red locks, gold round glasses, and brown eyes staring sadly ahead.

I think it’s the man I saw earlier in the queue who was nervously sipping mulled wine.

His shoulders droop, and the jug in front of him gets emptier and emptier.

“Whew, this isn’t going well,” murmurs the other elf. “He’s ordered another jug of mulled wine, but I don’t actually know if we’re doing any good by pouring him a refill.”

I look at the man with pity. His big doe eyes don’t help the picture. It’s as if someone shot his mother in the field outside so she could be served here tonight.

I already have such a soft spot for Bambi.

“What happened?” I ask and grab two of the mugs we use to serve the mulled wine.

The elf who spoke last looks up. “The person he had written a letter for thought he would be someone else,” she says, shaking her head. “Poor man. I hope they cut that part out.”

That’s the advantage of pre-recordings: all sorts of things can be cut out. Something that won’t be possible at Maggie and Olaf’s wedding.

“I imagine they will, right?” I say when the man lowers his head into his hands. “The whole idea of our show is to make people happy.”

The poor guy lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Can you take this mulled wine to table three, please?” I ask the elf. “I’ll go check on this guy.”

“Yeah, okay.” She takes the tray from me and I manoeuvre myself past the bar.

Olivier, who can’t walk with more than two plates in his hands at a time, presses himself against the wall so I can pass him.

The bells of our shoes clink together and we look at each other just a little too long.

He leans forward a little so he can whisper something in my ear over the noise of the guests.

“Never walk empty-handed, Holly,” he chuckles, his warm breath brushing along my neck. These are the words I had pressed upon him before we started. It was the pizzeria mantra I repeated throughout the duration of my college years.

He steps past me. I look at him amused and then nod at the man who by now has his forehead glued to the tabletop. “I’m going to give him a hand.”

“Hm. Good idea. I think he’s one glass away from either smashing the place to smithereens or throwing up.” He tilts his head slightly. “He doesn’t strike me as the aggressive type. But I think we should probably get him out of here.”

“Hey, Olivier!” Gabriel’s angelic head suddenly pokes around the corner of the door. “We want to show you something. Do you have a minute?”

Olivier looks at him in surprise for a moment, then removes his hat from his head and nods enthusiastically. “Oh, I really do.” He strides out with big, ringing steps, happy to leave his Christmassy role behind for the time being.

To some extent, I wonder why Gabriel is asking for Olivier’s input. After all, we are both in Cologne to learn. But I shake off that thought. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the promotion. Our segments haven’t even been broadcasted yet, so they can’t have already decided.

I maneuver between tables until I come to a stop in front of the man. I gently place my hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” I say softly. “You okay?”

He doesn’t respond and, for a moment, I’m afraid I’ll have to dust off my first aid course. Something that would be a great shame because that knowledge has by now sunk about as far down as Atlantis.

But then he raises his head. “I’m nauseous,” he says simply.

“I get that,” I say. “You’ve had quite a bit to drink.”

“Four decanters?” the man exclaims as he looks at the two jugs on the table, evidently seeing double. “I really drank a lot.”

“Shall I take you to your hotel?”

He looks at me hazily. “Yes, please,” he says.