A Gigolo for Christmas Read online

  A Gigolo for Christmas

  A M Jenner

  Copyright 2012, A M Jenner

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  About the Author

  Books By A M Jenner

  Connect with me online

  Chapter One

  Sheila looked around her apartment. At least it was clean, and as ready for the party as she could make it. She still wasn’t quite sure how Miss Jacobson, the office manager, had persuaded her to host the division’s annual Christmas party. Actually, she knew how it had been managed. Miss Jacobson had sent her a memo telling her she was the hostess, and setting the date for tonight, and then had changed the subject every time Sheila had tried to explain that she really didn’t have the space to host a party, and that her complex had strict curfew rules, especially for Sundays.

  Her tiny apartment was certainly too small to comfortably house even those who worked in the office, and would certainly never hold the sales force too, not to mention that everyone was expected to bring a spouse or “significant other”. When and how had the terms “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” fallen out of use?

  The complex manager had wanted a huge deposit to use the clubhouse and pool area; a deposit Sheila couldn’t afford, and one that the practically non-existent office party fund Miss Jacobson had handed over along with the injunction that every cent must be accounted for, wouldn’t cover.

  Sheila’s third-floor apartment included an empty balcony only large enough for a barbecue grill and one chair. Her living room would be hard pressed to hold more than a couch, love-seat and entertainment center, although it was spacious enough with her meager furnishings -- the bean-bag chair left over from her college days and the old CRT television/VCR combo which sat on an unfinished board balanced on two stacks of pre-med books.

  The cooking space was a refrigerator, stove, sink and a single counter all lined up against one wall, while a half-wall and table-height work-surface formed the other boundary. A bedroom only large enough to hold her double-height full-sized air mattress and the plastic organizer drawers she used for a dresser, and a tiny bathroom not large enough to hold two bodies at once completed the apartment, unless you counted the empty exterior storage closet that opened off the end of her balcony. All of her possessions not in her dorm room had been destroyed last year in the fire that took her parents, her home, and her chosen career from her.

  Sheila went over the expected guest list again. There were fifteen salespeople, each of them had a full-time support person in the office handling their paperwork for them, plus three supervisors, Miss Jacobsen, the owner Mr. Thomas, all of their spouses, and the Thomas’ five year old who roamed through the office at will, since his parents wanted him to “grow up with the business”. She just hoped they wouldn’t all come at once, because there was simply no place to put seventy people.

  Sheila glanced over her hors d’oeuvres, such as they were. She had purchased several veggie and deli trays from the local supermarket. One of each was carefully balanced on the half-wall between the kitchen area and living room. A stack of clear plastic plates and red and green cocktail napkins rested near each of the trays, and the spare trays waited in the refrigerator. A large, clear plastic bowl and ladle from the party outlet had been pressed into service as a punch bowl. Cherry Kool-Aid spiked with 7-up for a little fizz was her punch offering. A stack of clear plastic cups sat rim-down on a napkin next to the punch bowl, which was also balanced on the half-wall.

  She was a little uneasy that it would be rather easy to spill things balanced there, but the wall was nearly six inches thick, having been intended for holding potted plants and other decor. Besides, her kitchen was too small for people to go in and out of to serve themselves, and she didn’t have another stable serving surface in the house.

  The Christmas gift she’d purchased for the office’s name drawing was neatly wrapped and sitting in one corner of the room underneath the construction paper tree she’d spent three days creating. She had scrupulously stuck to the announced twenty-five dollar limit, scouring discount stores and coming up with an individual coffee maker the receptionist could keep at her desk, because she was seated so far from the break room that she never had time to get fresh coffee between phone calls.

  Although Sheila rather liked her tree and the other decorations she’d made largely from construction paper, she was well aware that they were a far cry from what most people would expect. The clear push-pins that held them to the walls had been inexpensive and wouldn’t make much visible damage to the apartment.

  From the bedroom, Sheila’s cell phone gave a single chirp and fell silent. She ignored it. The single chirp meant a calendar item, and she had only one item on the calendar for this evening. It was eight thirty, and time for the party to begin.

  She heard footsteps pounding up the cement and steel stairs, and squared her shoulders. For better or worse, she had done her best. It would have to do. She just hoped she would still have a job when the party was over.

  The footsteps reached the top of the stairs, and there was a knock on the door. Sheila pulled the apron from her waist and quickly flung it in the tiny linen closet, then crossed to her door. She pulled the door open, and her heart sank to her toes. Miss Jacobson stood at the door wearing a floor length black evening gown and an ermine wrap, apparently escorted by James Bond.

  Chapter Two

  Sheila swallowed hard, her breath moving in and out quickly, but not apparently doing her body or brain any good.

  “Come in,” she finally managed, stepping aside to allow Miss Jacobson and her escort entry.

  Tuxedo man held out two parcels wrapped in gold paper with large silvery iridescent bows to her, and Sheila took them, setting them carefully down next to her small package in the corner. One of them was obviously a bottle of something alcoholic, while the other was in a square box with a tag dangling from one corner.

  Miss Jacobson stood in the center of the room and gazed around her, an unreadable look on her face.

  Tuxedo man held up Miss Jacobson’s wrap. “Where can I put this?”

  Sheila’s mind raced. She didn’t have a coat closet, and in this climate, hadn’t really expected anyone to be wearing coats. “Um, why don’t you lay it across the bed?” she answered, gesturing toward the bedroom door. He nodded and moved in the indicated direction.

  “Your decorations are quite...unique,” Miss Jacobson said. “Where on earth did you find them?”

  “I made them myself,” Sheila replied.

  “Are we early, or are you running late? You’re not dressed yet?” Miss Jacobson commented as she retrieved the wine bottle from the corner. “And the wine isn’t for the gift exchange; I brought it as a gift for you, as a thank you for hosting the party this year.” She handed the bottle to Sheila.

  “Thank you.” Now what? She didn’t drink, and she didn’t know anyone who did. She tucked the bottle into her refrigerator, just to get it out of her hands, and hoping it was the correct response. How on earth did she get herself into this mess?

  “And...I am dressed. No one told me this was supposed to be formal, and in any event, this,” she gestured at her deep purple velvet pantsuit, “is the dressiest thing I own.” Despite feeling the rush of blood warming her cheeks, she held her head high, refusing to be publicly humiliated by her comparative poverty.

  Mis
s Jacobson’s eyes flicked once more around the apartment. “I see.”

  The two women stood looking at each other, and Sheila could see that Miss Jacobson had no more idea what to say next than she did.

  Tuxedo man returned from the bedroom with empty hands, offering one of them to Sheila.

  “Hello, I’m Anders Adamson.”

  Grateful for the distraction, Sheila turned toward him, shaking the proffered hand. “I’m Sheila Everett.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Everett.” He met her eyes as he spoke to her, and she knew that for that moment, she had his undivided attention. She felt her cheeks flush with another wave of blood.

  “It’s nice to meet you, as well, Mr. Adamson, but please, call me Sheila.”

  He smiled, the lonely dimple in his left cheek winking at her. “In that case, I’m Anders.”

  She nodded an acknowledgement. Miss Jacobson tucked her arm through Anders’ and pulled him across the room to stand in front of the paper Christmas tree with archly murmured comments about how original and refreshing the hand-made decorations were. The tone of her voice left Sheila no doubt that she thought a classroom of fifth graders could have done a better job.

  Sheila stood in the kitchen doorway, unsure of herself on several levels. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, since she had no pockets, and couldn’t really fill them with food while she needed to be available to answer the door. Miss Jacobson’s dress and manner had left her feeling insecure about the reception of her hand made ornamentation, her social standing, and the acceptability her hard work would find among her co-workers.

  Fortunately, more footsteps came tromping up the cheap stairs that doubled as the world’s most reliable burglar alarm, and Sheila had an excuse to be doing something more than watching Anders’ dark head as he listened patiently to whatever Miss Jacobson was now saying about her origami nativity. She moved toward the door and was able to answer it just as the next arrivals knocked.

  As the party progressed, she was kept busy answering the door, carrying expensive wraps and coats into the bedroom, pointing her guests to the hors d’oeuvres and punch, tucking presents on the growing pile in the corner, directing people toward the restroom, and sliding several more wine bottles into the refrigerator as the hostess gifts continued to arrive. At this rate she might be able to open her own liquor store.

  Sheila felt incredibly out of place. All of the guests were dressed formally; even Jimmy Thomas was wearing a miniature tuxedo that matched his father’s. The women all wore floor-length dresses, most of them in dark colors, although Jenny, a member of the sales support staff who worked in the office next to hers, was wearing a white gown that appeared to be a re-purposed Greek Halloween costume, except that the chains or cords that would customarily wrap around the bodice had been removed. The cut of the gown appeared to be nearly authentic, Sheila had thought, as the dress seemed to fasten together only briefly at the shoulders and hips. Jenny had been moving very carefully in the generously-cut gown, and had only showed brief flashes of leg from time to time.

  She hadn’t had a moment to eat anything, or even grab a drink of punch. Her feet hurt in the unaccustomed high heels she had bought last week to go with the new velvet jump-suit, and she really just wished that all the people would go away and let her have her home back again. She would have left the party long ago, if she wasn’t the hostess.

  By this time the small apartment and balcony outside was so full of people that considerable heat had built up. The door and both the bedroom and living room windows had been opened wide in an attempt at ventilation. Sheila didn’t mind the windows so much, but several moths and who knew what other insects had found their way indoors, and she was the one who was going to have to live with the bugs in the next several days.

  Sheila sighed. The punch bowl was empty. She slipped into the kitchen and lifted the bowl down from the wall onto the counter, setting the ladle in a small bowl she’d set in the sink for just that purpose. Within moments she had emptied a Ziploc baggie of pre-measured sugar and Kool-Aid into the punch bowl, and was filling a pitcher with water from the tap. She added two quarts of water to the bowl, and stirred it until the sugar was completely dissolved, then pulled a two-liter bottle of 7-up from the refrigerator and poured it slowly into the bowl, giving it just a single stir to mix it when she was done pouring. Not really stirring it after the soda was added was her secret to not letting the punch get flat. She added some ice cubes and replaced the ladle, then attempted to lift the filled bowl back onto the half-wall. The small work surface was in her way, and she didn’t have enough leverage to get the bowl quite high enough.

  “Here, let me.” She hadn’t realized anyone was in the kitchen area with her, and jumped, sloshing Kool-Aid onto her velvet jump-suit. Fortunately, the suit was dark enough that the cherry Kool-Aid would probably not show, even if it stained it.

  “Sorry, Sheila, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Anders deftly took the bowl from her hands and using his extra four inches of height, lifted it effortlessly into place.

  “It’s all right. And thank you. For helping me, I mean.” Why did she feel like such an incompetent idiot tonight?

  One of the deli trays was empty; one of the more expensive ones with the meat and crackers, of course, and Sheila removed it from the wall, sliding the tray into the trash can she kept tucked beneath the counter. She replaced cups, plates, and napkins from piles she had sitting on the counter, ready to be used, then turned toward the refrigerator to get out a fresh deli tray.

  Anders was still standing there, watching her. Why, when he had someone as lovely and socially perfect as Miss Jacobson to squire around? Probably he’d never seen someone actually work at their own party. Probably he’d never been to a home-made party before, the poor schmuck.

  At any rate, he was blocking her access to the refrigerator.

  “Excuse me,” she said as she moved toward him. He backed out of her way, then watched as she removed and disposed of the lid and placed the tray of meats and crackers on the wall.

  “Elaine said you made the decorations?” Elaine? Who was Elaine? Oh, he must mean Miss Jacobson. Somehow it had never occurred to her that her office manager actually had a first name, for she never encouraged informality in the workplace.

  “Yes, I did.” She couldn’t help the defensive note that crept into her voice.

  “I wanted to tell you that I think they’re lovely.”

  She glanced up at Anders, astonished.

  “You...you like them?”

  “Oh, yes. They remind me of my growing up years when my brothers and I would start making decorations in September. We spent forever making Halloween decorations for every window and wall in the house, then we would tear them all down on November first to start work on the Thanksgiving turkeys and pilgrims. We’d start making the Christmas ones on Thanksgiving morning, but Mom wouldn’t let us take down the Thanksgiving ones until Friday.”

  “I’ve always made some decorations, but last January I lost...” her voice choked to a halt. She tried to clear it, but her suddenly dry throat refused her speech.

  “Have you had any punch yet?” Anders asked.

  Sheila shook her head, still too close to tears to speak.

  He reached past her and poured a cup of punch, then handed it to her.

  “No wonder your throat is so dry, then.”

  Sheila sipped at the drink, enjoying the small tingly fizz as the heavily sugared water slid down and soothed her throat.

  “There was an...accident in January, and I lost...everything...in a fire.”

  “It must be hard to work your way back from a disaster like that,” Anders sympathized. “I can understand how replacing an expensive tree and new decor would be the last thing on your mind.”

  Sheila nodded. In truth, between grieving the loss of her parents, and at the same time sharply feeling the loss of their financial support, she hadn’t felt much like acquiring anything, even as her slend
er savings account had grown. Her apartment was comfortable enough as it was, for the simple way she preferred to live.

  “In fact, I was admiring how even your fringe is on the Christmas tree, and wondering how you got it to curl so nicely and uniformly,” Anders continued, his statement clearly an invitation to tell him her secrets.

  Sheila giggled. “They’re paper towel and toilet paper rolls. I cut them in thirds, which gave me the curve, then cut the fringes and spray-painted them green. I added a little glitter and glued them together into the long strips and pinned them to the wall.”

  “Well, I think it’s very effective. The pine cones and holly berries were added after the tree was on the wall?”

  Sheila nodded. “Otherwise I couldn’t be sure of the placement.”

  “How did you make the pine cones?”

  Jenny, the young woman wearing the Greek dress, stepped backward from her escort. "How dare you say that about me?” she shrieked.

  The man stepped toward her, trying to calm her down. She backed away, and bumped into the full punch bowl. Sheila reached out to steady the bowl. Her hand collided with Anders’, who was also reaching to steady it, and together they managed to accidentally push it off the opposite side of the half-wall.

  The contents of the bowl liberally splashed Jenny’s white dress, staining it bright red and plastering the thin fabric to her body.

  Jenny screamed. Sheila grabbed a towel from the linen closet on her way around the wall. Even though the red Kool-Aid would ruin the dress, at least she could help her get dried off.

  Jenny wasn’t too interested in drying herself off; she was too busy hurling insults at Sheila at the top of her lungs, most of which called into question her taste in apartments, in decorating, and her shortsightedness in not renting a large enough arena and having the affair catered by professionals, as well as questioning her ancestry and species. Apparently Jenny felt that Sheila had many canine qualities.

  Not content with vocal epithets, Jenny reached out and grabbed a handful of Sheila’s hair. Jenny’s date grabbed her arms, trying to settle her down and prevent damage. Sheila squeezed Jenny’s wrist, pressing her fingers between the forearm bones where she knew she could mash the nerves against the bones and cause Jenny a great deal of pain without actually causing any more damage than a couple of bruises. Hopefully the pain would make Jenny release Sheila’s hair. The ploy worked, much to Sheila’s satisfaction.