Chapter Eight
J ack slumped onto the sofa, dodging a scatter of Lego traps underfoot. The living room looked like a tornado had hit a toy store. Not that its usual state was much better. This was his part-time dad/bachelor’s den.
Atop the coffee table stood a chipped mug bearing the faded slogan ‘World’s Best Da’. In the corner, a guitar stand held Jack’s prized possession – a lovingly battered Fender Stratocaster. Next to it, a small amp served double duty as an end table, supporting a teetering stack of children’s books and a framed photo of Jack with his kids, all pulling silly faces at the camera.
He’d spent the last hour wrangling the kids into bed, a process that involved two bedtime stories and one impassioned debate about why unicorns and octopuses couldn’t be kept as pets. The five-year-old wanted a different story than the seven-year-old, and the nine-year-old didn’t want to admit he still liked stories at all. All of them sleeping in one room didn’t make it easier, either.
Now, in the blessed silence, Jack reached for his phone. The moment he turned the flight mode off, it erupted like popcorn in a microwave. Notifications flooded the screen, a digital tsunami of likes, comments, and DMs.
‘Fuck me sideways.’ He was clicking through the chaos. The inbox of the new Instagram account Trish had created was a minefield of thirst traps, desperate pleas, and borderline sexual harassment.
Sexy Santa, slide down my chimney!
Got a special package for me?
Christ, the puns were worse than his own. And that was something.
A text from Trish popped up on his screen.
(TRISH, 21:13) How’re you holding up, internet sensation?
Since they both had access to the account, Trish was reading all of it, too. Somehow, that made him feel icky. Jack didn’t mind a bit of female attention, in general. It was harmless, a laugh if anything. He could handle the dirty talk, the winks, the not-so-subtle innuendos. But knowing Trish was seeing all this?
Jack’s stomach plummeted as if missing a step in the dark. He moved on the sofa, suddenly restless, as if Trish’s gaze was on him right now instead of his inbox. The thought of her lumping him in with the picture these strangers had cooked up in their heads – a grinning chancer who’d shag anything with a pulse – made his skin crawl.
Jack’s thumb hovered over the reply button. He typed out ‘Grand, drowning in tits and terrible pickup lines, as you know,’ then deleted it. Too tasteless. Too much. He stared at the blinking cursor, feeling the weight of her somewhere behind the screen.
Jack settled for a noncommittal: ‘Surviving. Barely.’
He tossed the phone aside. The constant pinging felt like tiny hammers against his skull. Pseudo-fame was a fickle mistress, and right now, she was being a pain in the arse.
Even his Area Delivery Manager had got in touch, ‘Jack, I’ve seen the buzz about your Santa photo. Just a heads-up: if any reporters approach you, pass them along to comms. And maybe save the fake beard for your off-hours?’
The fact that it had crossed his boss’s desk niggled at him.
Jack’s gaze landed on a framed picture of him and the kids, taken last summer at the beach in Applecross. His hair was windswept, his smile easy and genuine. That bloke looked nothing like the ‘Sexy Santa’ plastered across the internet. He’d always been just a face in the crowd. The postie. Niall’s mate. The guy who’d fumble through a guitar solo at the pub on Friday nights. The bass player. Now he could add ‘meme’ to his meagre CV.
The sound of tiny feet padding down the hallway snapped him back to reality. Phil appeared in the doorway, clutching his favourite stuffed penguin.
‘Da? I had a bad dream.’
Jack opened his arms, and Phil clambered onto his lap, a warm, drowsy bundle of a boy and his penguin.
‘What was it about, wee man?’
Phil’s bottom lip trembled. ‘There was a big, scary monster. And he was eating all the Christmas presents.’
Jack brought his knuckles to his mouth to suppress a chuckle. ‘Sounds terrifying. But you know what? I bet that monster just needed a friend. Maybe if we left him some cookies, he’d share the presents instead of eating them.’
Phil’s mouth was set in a little o. ‘Really?’
‘Aye. Monsters are like people. Sometimes they do silly things because they’re lonely or afraid.’
As he spoke, Jack’s phone buzzed again. Another notification, another stranger clamouring for a piece of him.
Phil yawned, snuggling closer. ‘Can I sleep with you tonight?’
Jack hesitated. The warmth of his son’s small body against his chest, the trust in those sleepy eyes… ‘Awright. Just for tonight, wee man.’
He carried Phil to his bedroom and tucked him in, then slid under the covers himself. His son’s breathing evened out almost immediately, but sleep eluded Jack. His thoughts tumbled over each other.
A few months back, he might’ve had a laugh about ‘Sexy Santa’, soaking up the banter and the winks like a right cocky git. Now, the thought just grated, as if the shine had worn off without him even noticing.
And Melissa… She could potentially use this against him, paint him as some kind of half-arsed porn star. But he was showing up now, wasn’t he? Helped with homework, knew which ones liked strawberry jam and which one needed the crusts cut off. She could wave around whatever photos she wanted; he was a good da these days. Besides, it wasn’t like he was doing anything dodgy. A bit of Christmas cheer for the village. Nothing worth losing sleep over.
The memory of their last custody fight still stung, though. The way she’d laid it all out in court – every missed parents’ evening, every time he’d chosen a gig over bath time. Back then, he’d been too busy chasing his own tail to see what really mattered. For months after the divorce, every handover had been a battleground.
‘You’re not responsible enough,’ Melissa had declared.
The worst part? She hadn’t been wrong. He’d been coasting, treating fatherhood like a part-time job. Until the day her solicitor had handed him the papers requesting full custody, and reality had slapped him awake. He’d started stepping up. Really stepping up. Parent-teacher meetings. Swimming lessons. Doctor’s appointments. He’d learned to plait Beth’s hair, mastered Phil’s bedtime routine, and helped Jack Jr. with his times tables.
Phil rustled beside him, mumbling something about penguins in his sleep. Jack pulled him closer.
The pit in his stomach deepened as his phone vibrated again.
(TRISH 21:57) Don’t let it get to you. It’ll blow over in a few days. And you’re still going to be just Jack.
A thorny lump formed in his throat. Just Jack. Was that enough? Had it ever been?
He thought of all the times he’d fallen short. Jack knew that he’d been a shite husband and father during the first few years.
But in his defence, he’d never learned how to be part of a normal family.
He was working on it. Too late for his marriage but not too late for his kids. Hopefully.
Jack’s fingers itched to reply to Trish, to pour out his fears and insecurities. How weird it felt that the world went nuts for an image that wasn’t him, the guy who barely kept his head above water. But what would be the point? She’d be gone soon, back to her fancy life in Edinburgh or London or fuck knew where. And he’d still be trying to piece together some semblance of a life worth living. For his adorable, wee terrors.
Phil stirred in his sleep, his tiny hand reaching out. Jack took it, marvelling at how small and fragile it felt in his own.
This. This was real. This mattered.
Jack closed his eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his son’s breathing anchor him. For now, in the quiet darkness of his bedroom, he was just Jack. A dad. A postie. A work in progress.
Jack fidgeted with the Santa suit, feeling like a right tit as he stood in the Blue Bonnet’s back room. The pub’s familiar aroma of old pine wood, wet stone walls, and stale beer did little to calm his nerves.
He’d agreed to one more photo. Just one. For Trish.
There was something about the way she’d asked. Not pushy, but hopeful. The way she’d smiled, a flicker of gratitude even before he’d agreed, like she’d already known he wouldn’t disappoint her. And hell, maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he liked the way it felt to have someone believe in him, even for something this daft. And really, what harm could it do? One picture to keep the train rolling for five more minutes, to keep Kilcranach on the map. That was all.
But now, faced with Trish’s camera, he felt about as comfortable as a nun in a strip club.
‘Relax, Postman Pat.’ Trish adjusted her camera settings. ‘Pretend you’re delivering presents, not parcels.’
‘Aye, because that’s my everyday, isn’t it?’ He rolled his eyes, but a reluctant smile broke through.
Gwen strolled over, wearing her usual black pointy hat. ‘Jack, you look like you’re about to face a firing squad, not a camera.’
‘Might prefer the firing squad.’
Trish’s laugh loosened something in his chest. ‘Come on, big guy. Show me your charm. I know it’s in there somewhere, I’ve seen it.’
Jack squared his shoulders. ‘Right then. Only this once.’
‘You know I need to take many shots to get just one good photo, right?’ Trish said, circling him like a hawk sizing up its prey.
‘Not with me, you don’t,’ Jack replied with a grin. ‘I’m a one-shot wonder.’
‘Hate to break it to you, Postie, but one shot never does it for me. I’m a woman of…high professional standards.’
As Trish manoeuvred him into one pose after another, Jack’s guard slipped. Her warmth and energy had a way of wrapping him in, turning the clumsy moments into something intentional. The way she honed in on details – his hands, the tilt of his head – made him forget he was supposed to feel like a numpty.
‘Now, hook your thumb in your waistband,’ Trish instructed, her voice slightly breathless. ‘And…bite your lip.’
Jack complied, feeling daft. But the way Trish’s eyes widened, colour rising across her face, made his skin too tight for his body. He held her gaze, letting a hint of challenge seep into his expression.
Click. Click. Click.
‘Brilliant.’ Trish lowered her camera.
Was it his imagination, or did her hands tremble slightly? Gwen’s wry expression from behind the bar told him it wasn’t all in his head.
After the shoot, they huddled around Trish’s laptop, scrolling through the avalanche of comments and questions flooding the Santa photo.
‘Here’s a good one,’ Trish said. ‘“Dear Sexy Santa, will you marry me and my three cats?”’
Jack snorted. ‘Sorry, lass. I’m more of a dog person.’
As they bantered back and forth, responding to increasingly absurd proposals, Jack felt every nuance of Trish’s presence. The soft bump of her arm against his, the scent of her shampoo, the way her eyes creased at the corners when she laughed. It was…nice. Comfortable.
And out of bounds. Friends without benefits didn’t sniff each other’s hair.
‘You’ve got an eye,’ he said as she closed her laptop. ‘The way you capture things… It’s something else.’
Trish ducked her head, a glimmer of a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. ‘Thanks, Jack.’
He opened his mouth to say more, but her phone pinged, shattering the moment.
Her lips parted, a tiny gasp slipping out as she read the e-mail. ‘Oh my God. It’s Wanderlust Magazine . They want me to do a spread on Highland Christmas! Apparently, their photographer backed out. They’ve seen the viral post with your photo and the village pictures.’
Jack’s insides took the express elevator down to his shoes, even as he plastered on a smile. ‘That sounds brilliant. When do they need it by?’
‘One week – which means I’ll have to stay a bit longer.’ Her voice fizzed with excitement. ‘But it also means that, if it goes well, they’re offering me a regular gig. A steady job as a staff photographer. International travel, Jack! This could be huge for my career!’
As Trish rattled off details about the assignment, his initial excitement curdled into apprehension. Words like ‘quaint’ and ‘romantic’ and ‘rustic charm’ landed wrong.
‘Sounds like they want a fairy tale version of Kilcranach.’ He tried to keep his tone light. ‘Not exactly the real deal, is it?’
Trish waved off his concern. ‘Yeah, but it’s only a bit of holiday magic, Jack.’
‘We‘re not some theme park attraction, Trish.‘ The words slipped out before he could stop them. There was no malice in what she was doing; he knew that. She wasn’t trying to make Kilcranach into something it wasn’t. She just…looked at it differently. Where he noticed quiet corners, bad roads, and hard graft, she found postcard landscapes and stories waiting to be told. And maybe that was the problem. Because people like her – who saw Kilcranach as something to frame, not to hold – never stayed. Not for long.
A crease formed between her eyes. ‘I know that. But this is a massive opportunity. Don’t you see how important this could be for me?‘
Jack bit back a sigh. That was the kicker, wasn’t it? He did see. All too clearly. ‘Course I do.’
As she turned back to her phone, already making plans, something old and bruised stirred behind Jack’s ribs. He’d seen that look before, that hunger for something bigger. That irresistible itch. It never ended well for stuck-in-place blokes like him.
His gaze fell on Gwen behind the bar. She raised an eyebrow, a silent question in her gaze. Jack shook his head minutely. No use getting attached. Trish would be chasing her dreams across glossy magazine pages. And he’d be delivering the mail, raising his kids, and living his quiet life.
It was better this way.