Chapter One If the Suit Fits

Chapter One

If the Suit Fits

“Father fucking Christmas?” Rick Thornton slouched in the worn leather booth of a cafe tucked away in the less glitzy part of Soho, the lacquered wood of the table sticky beneath his fingers—a tactile reminder of how far he’d fallen.

“What were you expecting?” Marianne, his agent, glided into the seat across from him with the practiced grace of someone used to delivering bad news. As she had to him many times. But this might be up there with the worst of it, and she shucked out of her winter coat and floral scarf, tugging off her leather gloves with a subtle grimace at their surroundings.

Their meetings had used to take place in far more opulent locales.

But Rick couldn’t roam in those circles anymore.

“King Lear? Hamlet? Fuck, I’d even take Scrooge at this point. Isn’t A Christmas Carol meant to be coming back to the Harold Pinter?”

“That would be fitting.” Marianne clicked her fingers to a roaming staff member. It wasn’t a table service sort of place, considering the queue lining up outside, but Marianne had that air of superiority about her that forced others to bow to her whim. It was what had made her a wonderful agent in the day. “They already have someone playing Ebenezer.”

“Oh, yes? Who?”

“If you don’t already know, it’s probably best you remain ignorant.” She gave him a pointed look that raised his hackles, then smiled for the not-a-waitress and pointed at Rick’s empty mug. “Drink?”

Rick stared down at his tepid tea and thought, what the fuck? How many was too many? “Coffee. Black.”

“Two of those, please.”

The staff member scurried off, leaving Rick having to listen to the worst news he’d heard since the production manager on Richard II read aloud the Evening Standard’s scathing review of his performance to the entire cast. He couldn’t blame the reviewer. They had been on point. The production, made on a shoestring, had been the physical manifestation of “the only way is up.”

He knew now that wasn’t true.

There were dungeons lurking beneath the basement levels of his career.

“Santa Claus, Rick. At the mall.” Marianne’s announcement carried an upbeat lilt clashing horribly with the offer on the table.

“This is ridiculous,” Rick scoffed, voice roughened by years of whisky and cigarettes with the Yorkshire tones clinging on stubbornly despite the practiced dramatic received pronunciation he’d had beaten into him at RADA.

The server returned with the coffees and Marianne asked for a croissant as if she hadn’t downgraded Rick’s decorated career to a jolly man in a red suit. He wasn’t even sure he could replicate the jolly part, anyway. That was an emotion far, far beyond his current reach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt jovial in order to draw on it for his character prep.

“There has to be something else.” Rick’s hand trembled as he reached for the hip flask hidden in his trench coat pocket and with a skilful motion, he unscrewed the cap and poured a generous shot of whisky into his black coffee, the aroma briefly masking the scent of stale pastries and despair.

“It’s eleven in the morning, Rick.”

“Your point?”

Marianne rolled her eyes. She’d long abandoned the need to quell Rick’s reach for the bottle. She was an agent. His agent, at that. Most of her clients had a surface-level addiction to something. Alcohol. Prescription drugs. Hell, even sex . Actually, most had an addiction to sex. It was almost a necessity these days. He had too, once.

And like all addictions, it had eventually caused his downfall.

“Come on, it’s not all bad.” A wry smile quirked at the corners of Marianne’s lips despite the tension. “Think of the children. Their little smiley faces. It’s almost like being adored by an audience.”

“Because nothing screams Christmas cheer like a washed-up actor reeking of booze in a Santa suit.” The bitterness in his tone belied the smirk tugging his lips.

“You could try to, you know, not reek of booze?”

“And you could try to, you know, find me a better job.”

Marianne leaned forward across the table and lowered her voice to her annoying, mother-knows-best flavour. “Look, I know it’s not the West End, but since the…well, you know…” She tactfully sidestepped the scandal that had turned Rick’s once-promising career into tabloid fodder.

“Let’s not.” Rick waved a dismissive hand. He didn’t need to be reminded of the roles that had dried up, the friends who had turned their backs, the relentless whispers following him even into this dingy cafe. Yesterday’s chip paper was no longer biodegradable. It was recyclable.

Again and again.

And those who knew how to utilise social media had drowned his voice out almost completely.

Marianne sighed. “Comebacks don’t come along too often, darling.”

The word ‘darling’ might as well have been a slap across his cheek with one of her leather gloves. Once upon a time, it had been an endearment tossed around by directors and co-stars during standing ovations. Now it felt like a consolation prize. Rick took a long sip of his spiked coffee, letting the warmth and burn settle his nerves. The silence stretched between them.

“I’m not destitute, Marianne. I can still choose whether to work or not.”

“Then why am I here at all?”

Because he wanted to work. Wanted to get back treading the boards. Needed to stop the relentless cycle of falling down when he’d just got back up.

“I’d consider a pantomime,” Rick said, jutting out his chin with irked hope.

A pantomime would once have set his teeth on edge. But he’d take that over another year buried in past glories and drowning in the cloying taste of failure he couldn’t dull with cheap whisky.

“Good to know.” Marianne rattled a sugar sachet before pouring the grains into her coffee and stirring. She lifted the cup to her lips, meeting Rick’s expectant gaze. “You know they complete their casts by August. We’re in December, darling. We are scraping the barrel as it is.”

“Even an understudy? Fuck, Marianne, I’d play Widow Swanky to get me back on the stage.” He masked his shudder with shameful desperation.

It had been a long year doing nothing.

“Considering the back end of the horse, now, are we?” Marianne quirked an eyebrow.

“Who’s at the front?”

Marianne peered under her lashes like an old schoolmarm, reprimanding Rick for having chosen to go there, then clinked her coffee cup onto the saucer. “Rick, darling,” her exasperation knew no bounds, “I say this out of pure love and respect for you. We’ve been together since the early days and I’ve seen you go from the top to, well, where you are now—”

The dungeon.

“—and I’ve stuck by you even when it would do me better to toss you to the curb as others have done.”

Rick winced. He probably should find a smidgen of gratitude for her. Trouble was, it was stuck at the bottom of the pile of all the shit that was his life and it was far too heavy and time consuming to search for it.

“I’ve tried everywhere. Every. Where . Even that poky theatre at the back of Romford. They don’t want your name on their posters.”

Rick slammed back his spiked coffee. It didn’t even touch the sides.

“If it’s any consolation,” Marianne sipped hers far more daintily, “the mall is desperate.”

“How on earth is that a consolation?”

“It means they’ll have you. That should be enough for you right now.” A croissant found its way in front of her and she picked at the crunchy ends, careful not to spoil her manicured nails, and Rick watched on with a grouchy stomach and a pitiful excuse for her ten percent.

“It unnerves me they are looking for a Santa this late into the holiday season. Grottos do their trade after Halloween, don’t they? Literally throw the tinsel over the cobwebs and rake it in.”

“Yes, well, the poor fellow who usually plays Santa for Five Mall got into a brawl at a football match and has a rather fetching black eye. Video of the confrontation with police is all over TikTok and let’s just say, he hasn’t done himself any favours. The mall fired him. But they have a stacked up booking list of children wanting to meet Santa and the chair vacant.”

“Surely anyone could sit in it? It’s not exactly a taxing role, is it? Wear a red suit and bounce a kid on your knee while listening to the endless bits of tat they want under their tree and how last year Santa didn’t bring them the red bike, so this year could little Johnnie have the blue one. With tassels.”

“I see you’ve already done your prep. Well done.”

“Jesus, Marianne.” Rick scrubbed a hand down his face, the coarse stubble he couldn’t find the energy to sort out scraping his palm. “This is humiliating. I’m a trained Shakespearean actor. The Stage called me the most exciting thing to come out of RADA since Hopkins. The Guardian referred to my Iago in Othello as the sexiest spin on the villain we all love to hate! I have awards for my sultry performances, and now you’re putting me in a padded red suit!”

“So recite passages from Hamlet to the children? Give them the gift of a love for the dramatic arts.” She waved a hand in dismissal.

Rick gave her the look she would expect.

But Rick had known the moment he’d received her call summoning him here that he would take this job. What choice did he have? It was this, or spend another miserable Christmas jobless and alone because he couldn’t go home . Not back to the small market village on the edge of the Peak District in Yorkshire he’d escaped from. What would his parents think? What would all those he’d left behind to chase this success say about him? He had his head shot up on the local theatre’s Wall of Fame, for goodness’ sake. His mum radiated pride at him being a glorified West End star. He couldn’t bear the look of disappointment on her face when he had to tell her he hadn’t had a role in over a year. Even if he was forty, he still sought their approval. Wanted to make them proud.

Perhaps he could tell them this was panto?

So he resigned himself to swallowing the bitter pill of rock bottom when he said, “Fine. I’ll do it. But not for the bloody children.”

“Of course not,” Marianne agreed, her eyes softening. “For the comeback.”

“Ha,” Rick snorted, though there was no real humour in it. “Let’s call it what it is—getting back on the payroll.”

“It’s a rather good payment. Not that you need it, of course.” She lifted the cup to her lips, and the smirk hidden behind the porcelain confirmed she had called out his bullshit. “Five Mall want to bring their local shoppers back. It’s been scarce of customers of late, so they’ve spent a fortune for their grotto to rival Westfield’s.”

“Hmm.” Rick had lost his care. And his dignity, it would seem. He stood. “I’ll assume you’ll foot the bill for the coffees?”

“Not hard up, are we? Pay day will be the end of the month.”

“I’ll be fine.” Financially, he would. Mentally? Perhaps not so much.

“Good. Then I’ll send all the details later. And Rick?”

Rick raised an eyebrow.

“Take a shower. I can smell the scrap heap from here.”

Rick resisted the urge to sniff himself, and with a heavy heart and even heavier steps, he left Marianne to her coffee and croissant to snake around the tables of hipsters and lovers sharing cream topped hot drinks to stamp out into the bitter cold of Soho.

The streets lined with twinkling lights prepped for the festive season ahead were particularly bright and beautiful this year. Once upon a time, he’d loved living in this part of the city, especially at Christmas. The usually morose Londoners developed a spring in their step at this time of year. Many even greeted others with a smile. But as he passed by the young, trendy couples holding hands, wrapped up in coats, scarves and each other, their carefree existence had his head down, buried in his collar. It wasn’t so much with Scrooge-like objection, more green-eyed envy of the Grinch.

Had he ever been that wrapped up in someone?

Yes . Yes, he had. Once .

But he hadn’t tied the bow tight enough.

He reached his flat, positioned on a quiet pedestrian area off Broadwick Street and nestled above the corner pub. Silver Place was his lasting legacy of the grandiose life he’d once had, having settled here after leaving his village in Yorkshire for the bright lights of the big city. Right in the thick of it, amongst the bars, restaurants, clubs and theatres he’d once called home, he’d lived the area to its fullest. Now it felt empty. Void. Much as his postal box was in the communal entrance hall, where the other four apartment boxes were bursting at the seams with Christmas cards.

Who sent cards these days, anyway?

Climbing the steps to the third floor, the boards creaked with melancholy, as though they were the ones he’d been treading in the West End for rounding on a decade. On pushing open his front door, the chaos within revealed how far he’d fallen. Trophies and framed accolades from yesteryear lined his shelves—mocking reminders of a time when his name had meant something more. He brushed a finger over a dusty Olivier Award, the metal cold and impersonal.

He then flicked through the mound of unopened bills and notices piled up on the cabinet that had become part of the decor. The only correspondence he had these days was from his bank and the various investments where he’d squirrelled away his nest egg. No fan mail greeted him anymore. And his cupboards were as bare as his fridge, save for a lone tin of baked beans that seemed to echo the emptiness of the place. He was considering selling up and moving back up to Yorkshire, so he didn’t end up dying alone, rotting through the reclaimed hardwood floorboards.

“Santa Claus it is, then,” he muttered to himself, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

How had he, the bright-eyed lad from Dore, ended up here? Well, not here, but alone. He knew how, of course, but he daren’t let himself recall it. The pain was too raw.

Last Christmas, he’d had hope. A future. Love.

It had all been a lie.

In the living area, he slumped into the worn armchair, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder as he fumbled with the cap of his whisky bottle. The mobile buzzed with an incoming video call, and he hid his drink to answer, revealing the familiar, loving faces of his parents nestled in the cozy living room of the thatched cottage where he’d once dreamed big.

“Ricky, lad!” his father, Gordon, brimmed with such genuine enthusiasm Rick wanted to sink between the chair cushions and hide among the lost bits of coins and crumbs. “Tell us then, what’s this mystery role you’ve been tight-lipped about?”

He wished he hadn’t told his parents about the possibility of a new role that Marianne had alluded to last night. He wished he hadn’t done a lot of things. When sober and inebriated.

“Ah, well.” Rick poured a liberal amount of whisky into his glass, the golden liquid splashing slightly over the rim. His voice wavered a fraction too much for his liking. “It’s…” What was the lesser evil? “Pantomime. Here in London. One of them big productions, you know?”

His mother, Sandra, clapped, wrinkled face lighting up like the Christmas tree they’d already erected behind them. “A pantomime? Oh, that’s wonderful, love! You were always such a hit in those!”

“Who you playin’, son?” Gordon asked, leaning forward with interest etched on his weathered face.

“Principal… er… the lead role,” Rick lied as smoothly as the whisky slid down his throat. The sting of guilt burned sharper than the alcohol, though. “It’s all very hush-hush at the moment—you understand.”

“Of course, love.” his mother’s eyes twinkled with pride. “We’re so proud of you, Ricky. We know it hasn’t been easy and you know you can always come back here. With us.”

“Thanks, Mum. Dad.” He forced a smile, but it felt as hollow as the surrounding apartment. Not that he didn’t want to go back to Dore. He adored his parents. Loved his old village. But he’d been leading a very different existence to the one beckoning him home to don a pair of slippers and sit by the fire. He’d once had an active social life. Friends. Colleagues. Lovers .

He had none of those now.

The call ended with promises of tickets and more details soon, leaving Rick alone with the buzz of silence engulfing the room. He glanced out of the window, gaze drawn to the sight of his neighbours stringing up festive lights along their balconies, laughter and chatter floating up from the street below.

He took another swig from his glass, the whisky warming his chest but doing little to thaw the cold isolation settling in his bones.

“Happy bloody Christmas,” he muttered to the glass, considering it him learning his lines for his next gig as he tipped the last drops into his mouth before setting the empty glass down on the floor with a thud.

So this was it. Just him and the ghosts of his past performances dancing in the shadows of a life that once promised so much more.

Another round for the house?