Chapter 1

Dear Santa,

I wish I could believe in magic again.

From,

Sasha Hansley, aged 12

What’s the best thing that can happen a month before Christmas? Well, it’s definitely not losing your job.

‘Of course I understand,’ I say to my friend Debra on the phone. ‘I’ll find something else. It’s fine.’

And I do understand. I’ve been helping out at her dog grooming parlour on a casual basis, and now her sister-in-law’s been made redundant and needs the extra income so she’s going to help out instead.

‘Family comes first,’ I say cheerily. ‘Especially at this time of year. No worries. I appreciate you keeping me on for as long as you have.’

She hangs up with another apology and thanks me for taking it so well, and I’m glad she can’t hear my gritted teeth through the phone line.

Great. Yet another thing to be joyful about. Where on earth am I going to find another job at the end of November? Even the temporary Christmas positions will have been filled by now.

I drop my phone on the coffee table and throw myself back into the sofa where I’d perched awkwardly on the edge when Debra rang saying she had some news. And I get it. If family need help and you’re in a position to help them out, of course you’re going to. But I’m gutted too. I’ve been working there for a year and a half, and I love it. I get to spend my days hanging out with dogs. Washing dogs, drying dogs, brushing dogs, playing with dogs, distracting dogs while Debra clips their nails and cuts their hair. Walking dogs.

Christmas cheer was already in short supply this year, but losing a job I love is the icing on top of the dried-up fruitcake. Now I’m going to have to be extra careful with money, so I can’t even drown my sorrows in copious amounts of mince pies, mulled wine, and tubs of Christmas chocolates like I usually would.

I’d say it’s been one of those days, but really it’s been one of those years. I open my eyes and blink up at the ceiling. How much worse can things get? I’m probably tempting fate by even thinking that.

At the ripe old age of thirty-six, I’m feeling so old and jaded that I’m ready to give up on life and move to a remote Scottish island where there’s only one house and a few sheep. And maybe a watchtower with a cannon that automatically fires at approaching boats. Unless that was more Viking-era and might be frowned upon in this day and age …

It would be less isolated than I am now. I don’t even have a pet to eat my corpse if I died. I’d be one of those cases where no one realises I’m missing until the neighbours start noticing an odd smell four months later.

I groan out loud. Working at the dog grooming parlour was just about the only thing that was going well for me. I should pick up my laptop to update my CV and upload it onto job search sites, but instead I pull the TV remote over and switch it on.

Cheerful Christmas songs. I switch channels and land on an ad break full of festive adverts, showing laughing families sharing jugs of gravy, singing children, and sentient snowmen. I switch the TV off again. The adverts do nothing but drive home yet another year of being alone for Christmas.

I look at the empty corner beside the TV where my tree used to go. I looked forward to putting it up every December, in the hopes that this December would be the one when Dad finally fulfilled his promise of coming home for the festive season and we’d have a proper family Christmas. As a child, I remember sitting under it, disappointed he’d broken yet another promise. Now I’ve gone from a disappointed little girl to a disappointed adult who gave up on seeing her dad for Christmas years ago and doesn’t even bother to put up the Christmas tree anymore.

I don’t even know where he is in the world. He’s always off, here, there, and everywhe— My phone buzzes on the table and cuts off the thought.

‘Speak of the devil,’ I say out loud when “Dad” flashes up on the screen.

He’s early. He usually leaves it until December 23rd at the earliest to tell me he won’t be coming home for Christmas after all.

‘Let me guess,’ I answer the phone, ready for yet another excuse. ‘A spacecraft landed in the middle of the road to the airport so you can’t get home? Maybe aliens have taken over the population of Morocco or wherever you are, and you simply can’t abandon them in their time of need? Perhaps a giant squid has invaded the village and you’re the only one who can save them? Pirates? Dinosaurs? Man-eating jellyfish?’ I’ve certainly heard more outlandish justifications over the years for why he’s missing yet another dad-and-daughter Christmas.

‘Sasha?’

I sit up straight. His voice sounds shaky and frail, and there’s a wobble in it that I’ve never heard before. ‘Dad? What’s wrong?’

‘Now I don’t want you to worry …’ He speaks slowly, almost a whisper, like he’s struggling to get the words out.

It instantly sets alarm bells jangling. No one ever says that unless there’s something to worry about and my mind jumps into overdrive about all the accidents he could’ve had on his latest crazy adventure. Kicked by a camel in the desert? Fallen down a mountainside in Asia? Stampeded by a herd of elephants on the African savanna?

‘I’ve had some health trouble …’

His voice is so quiet that I have to press the phone closer to my ear to hear him.

‘The thing is … I’ve had a heart attack. I’m absolutely fine and you mustn’t worry about me—’

‘Dad! A heart attack? That’s serious serious!’

My mouth goes dry and I can’t hear myself think over the rush of blood in my head, like I’ve stood up too fast even though I’m sitting down. I definitely jinxed things by wondering how much worse this year could get.

He never takes anything seriously, but even he can’t ignore a heart attack.

‘When was this?’

‘Two weeks ago—’

‘You had a heart attack two weeks ago and you’re only now telling me?’

‘I didn’t want you to worry. I feel fine—’

‘You don’t sound fine.’

He gives a weak cough as if on cue. ‘I thought the doctors would send me straight back to work, but they’re telling me – quite sternly, I might add – to take it easy.’

I scoff. Take it easy. My dad doesn’t know the meaning of the words. He’s nearly eighty but he acts like he’s in his twenties. To be honest, twenty-year-olds would look at him and wonder where he gets his energy from.

Plus, taking it easy could be difficult depending on his location in the world. Taking it easy on a beach in the Bahamas, okay. Halfway up Mount Kilimanjaro might not be so okay. I clench my teeth again and ask the dreaded question. ‘Where are you?’

I brace myself for the answer. It’s always different. All answers are equally worrying. He’s never in the same place twice, and he never does things that most seventy-nine-year-olds would do, like pottering in the garden or doing crosswords with a nice cup of tea. He’s always got to be scaling mountains or wrestling crocodiles or sailing across some previously un-sailable body of water where forty-eight boats have sunk in trying.

‘I’m in Norway.’

Norway. Okay. Norway sounds like it might be a reasonably safe and calm country. What kind of scrapes could he get into in Norway? Ice fishing? Fjord crossing? ‘Doing what?’

‘I’m running a reindeer sanctuary.’

‘Of course you are.’ Reindeer. Why didn’t I think of that? At least the word sanctuary sounds quiet, a world away from my dad’s usual activities. ‘Is that a difficult job?’

‘Well, that’s why I’m phoning …’ Dad gives a weak cough again, and I wait while he takes a few breaths, and even though I’m trying to tell myself that he’s had a heart attack and he’s still alive so that’s got to be a good sign, I’m panicking because his breathing sounds laboured and his voice sounds so feeble that he can barely form words.

‘I need your help.’

Those are words my dad has never said to me before. He never asks for help with anything, and the fact he’s asking now might be the most worrying part of this conversation so far. ‘With what?’

‘The reindeer. The doctors have forbidden me from doing any strenuous work, and I’m struggling to manage on my own.’

‘Come home,’ I say instantly. ‘Move back in here. You know I have room. Let me take care of you. This has to be a sign, Dad. You can’t keep running off around the world on these hare-brained adventures. Come back to the UK.’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of …’ He gives another cough and has to catch his breath. ‘Maybe you could come out here? I’m on my own, Sash. I can’t abandon my reindeer – there’s no one else to look after them. I can’t come home.’

Home. He still thinks of Britain as home then, despite the fact he hasn’t lived here for a couple of decades. He hasn’t even visited the country since I met him at a London train station when he was inter-railing around Europe three summers ago.

‘I don’t know who else to turn to,’ he says quietly. ‘I need someone stable who I can rely on.’

I never knew my dad thought that about me. It might be an insult really, like he thinks I’m an actual building. Me being “stable” and always staying in one place is usually something he criticises – he’s constantly disappointed by my lack of adventurous spirit and refusal to visit him whenever he stops in one place long enough. He once invited me to meet him in Japan and climb inside an active volcano, and was surprised when I didn’t fancy it.

‘I’m struggling, Sash. I need your help. The reindeer need a lot of care, and it’s not so easy for a man of my age to get around with all the snow.’

‘It’s snowing there?’

‘It’s Norway. It’s been snowing for weeks.’

‘That sounds cold.’

‘Oh, no, not at all. It’s only minus-fifteen today.’

‘Only?’ I say in horror. I love snow, and we don’t get nearly enough here in Oxfordshire, but surely a pensioner who’s just had a heart attack shouldn’t be roaming about in those temperatures? ‘Dad, that’s madness. You have to come home.’

His breathing is harsh down the line, but I can tell he’s not particularly enamoured with my plan. And I’m still struck by the idea of my dad actually asking for help. It leaves me with no doubt that this really is serious.

My dad is a larger-than-life character who will always be there. Despite his love of travelling and his daredevil spirit, it’s never before crossed my mind that he isn’t immortal. That one day, and one day soon given how frail he sounds on the phone, he won’t be there. We might not always see eye to eye, but he’s always been in the background of my life, off on his adventures, nothing more than the occasional postcard dropping through my letterbox. A phone call every few months. A Christmas card with a few banknotes inside it every year. A birthday card that invariably arrives two weeks late.

‘I know you can’t take time off from your job at the drop of a hat, and I know you must be owed loads of holiday time because you never go anywhere or take any holidays.’ He gives another wheeze. ‘And I thought it might count as a family emergency …’

The word “emergency” sets my alarm bells ringing again. Does he think … is he really that close to death’s door?

‘And I thought … after all these years working at that fancy hotel … and you are the boss, after all …’

Ah, yes. That. There’s the small matter of how my dad thinks I work at the Hotel Magenta, and that I not only work there, but I’m actually the manager. He got the wrong end of the stick a few years ago, and I never had the heart to set him straight. So whenever he asks me how work’s going, I mumble something about it being great, and don’t tell him that the management position never went to me, or that I’ve been through several dead-end jobs since he thought I became the manager of a posh hotel.

‘We— I … I could really use your help and expertise. Not many … sanctuary owners would get a chance to consult with one of the top hoteliers in the country.’

‘For the reindeer?’ I ask in confusion. ‘Are reindeer in regular need of caviar and champagne via room service, breakfast in bed, and five-star dining every night? Do they need a concierge to attend their every whim?’

‘Well, they probably wouldn’t complain.’

I don’t laugh at his attempt at a joke. No matter how much he tries to brush aside the heart attack, this isn’t funny. ‘You have to come home,’ I try again. ‘You can’t stay out there alone in snow and below-freezing conditions. You’re clearly not well.’

‘Don’t write me off yet, Sasha. There’s still plenty of things I need to do with my life. Space tourism, for a start. I’ve seen a lot of the world, and now I insist on living long enough to get a place on the next rocket to the moon.’

‘No! No space tourism! Terra firma is bad enough!’ I say, even though the idea of him not living long enough makes my stomach roll.

I should tell him I’ve lost my job, even though it wasn’t the job he thinks it was. The most exciting thing I do in my life is curl up in front of the TV with a cuppa and a packet of biscuits. I’ve never done anything my dad would consider “fun”. I’ve never even left Britain. The only time in my life that he’s ever been impressed by anything I’ve done is when I got that job. I don’t want to disappoint him more by admitting I’ve been fired from a totally different job or that I never got that one in the first place. ‘Maybe I could come out there for a little while …’

Even as I say it, I wonder what I’m thinking. Am I really saying I’ll get on a plane to Norway to help my dad out with his reindeer sanctuary? It’s not the most unusual thing my dad has ever asked me, but it’s got to be in the top three, after the volcano climbing, and possibly that time he asked if I’d like to visit the wreck of the Titanic for my sixteenth birthday.

‘Fantastic! I’ll email you the flight info. I’ve booked your tickets for tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? How did you know I’d …’ I trail off. His voice sounds so animated now that I’m forgetting this is a man who’s just had a heart attack. He’s lucky to be alive. He might not have long left, and I haven’t seen him for over three years. I’m not going to turn down what might be my last chance to see him, no matter where he is in the world.

‘It’ll be fun, Sasha. It’s been too long since we saw each other. And finally a chance to spend Christmas together!’ He sounds remarkably less close to death’s door than he did a few minutes ago. He sounds normal now, like he’s not even on death’s garden path.

‘Christmas? That’s four weeks away. You need me for that long?’

‘Well, it’s a busy season. Reindeer and Christmas, they go hand in hand. And we’re not keeping on top of things …’

‘Who’s this “we”? I thought you were on your own?’

‘Me and the reindeer, obviously. They can’t wait to meet you. I’ve told them all about you and your fancy job. They were very impressed.’

‘The reindeer?’ I ask, wondering if the incredulity is coming across in my voice. Should I feel guilty that there’s now a bunch of reindeer somewhere in Norway who also think I’m the manager of a posh hotel?

Dad starts telling me about what wonderful animals they are, but this conversation has spiralled out of my control – a common feeling when talking to my father. It’s like he’s pre-decided how this phone call would go. ‘Where exactly is this place?’

‘We’re in the northernmost part of Norway. It’s lovely here. You’ll love it. Two hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle and—’

‘Two hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle?’ I shiver involuntarily. ‘Surely that’s not … habitable?’

‘Oh, yes, it’s charming. You can survive quite happily up here.’

‘Survive …’ I repeat. ‘Why is everything you do about survival and not just being happy where you are and having a quiet life?’

He doesn’t answer and I feel the need to claw this conversation back around, to do something that wasn’t already determined before he picked up the phone. ‘Dad, I have a condition. If I’m coming out there, it’s to help you sell the place. You might not have realised it, but you’re an elderly man and you’ve had a heart attack. This cannot continue. You can’t keep living like this. And you can’t stay somewhere that’s two hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle completely alone – that’s not safe. You have to come back to a quiet life here in the UK with a doctor’s surgery ten minutes up the road. You’ve been lucky to survive this, but you have to take it as a sign. It’s time to give up the mad life and be normal.’

‘And do what? Jigsaw puzzles while drooling into my slippers?’

‘Yes! Exactly that! There are plenty of classes you can join to keep active, but you cannot stay out there by yourself running a flipping reindeer farm.’

‘Sanctuary, not farm. We help injured and abandoned reindeer.’

He’s deliberately ignoring me. ‘I’m serious, Dad.’ I squeeze the phone a bit tighter, even though the harsh breathing and coughing ceased since the moment I agreed to go. ‘We’ll get it market-ready, get a valuation and a survey and whatever else we need, and then get an estate agent to put it up for sale, and you come home with me in January. Enough is enough now. You’ve been living the wild life for too long. Your body is telling you to slow down. I’m not coming unless it’s to help you sell the place and come home for good.’ I give a sharp nod to the wall. He can’t see it, but it makes me sound more confident than I feel.

He doesn’t reply. Are all parents this frustrating or is it just my dad?

‘Look, we both know you’ll have moved on and bought a beach hut in Hawaii by Easter. You never stay in one place for more than a month or two, but this has to end now.’ I sigh and try a different tactic. ‘If you expect me to be able to shirk off work and leave all my colleagues in the lurch at my fancy, important job, then it has to be for a good reason.’

‘Well, you never know, when you see it, you might fall in love with the place like I did.’

I do a deliberately sarcastic laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s going to happen.’

Neither of us speaks for a long while. Dad usually fills any silence with tales of people he’s met in random corners of the earth, and I usually recount the plots of TV dramas like they’re events that happened to friends of mine in an attempt to make my life sound more interesting. My dad is a global traveller who’s seen every inch of the world twice over. I don’t even take the scenic route home from work. The most exciting place I’ve visited in recent months is the dentist. But I don’t try to fill the silence this time. He has to realise that you can’t have a heart attack and carry on as you were. Something has got to change.

‘All right,’ he says eventually. ‘Maybe you’ve got a point.’

He sounds grudging and unconvinced, and I feel a little bit guilty for trying to make him do something he doesn’t want to, but someone has got to be the sensible adult between us, and it’s definitely not going to be him. ‘So you agree? I come out there and help you, and then we put it in the hands of an estate agent and you come home with me in January.’

He doesn’t confirm his agreement. ‘It’ll be fantastic to see you. I’ve booked you on flights for tomorrow, and I’ve arranged a taxi to collect you in the morning and take you to the airport. You’re on a flight into Oslo, and then you get a connecting flight to our nearest airport, and I’ll meet you there. I’ve emailed all the info over.’

It’s so far off the beaten track that I can’t even get a direct flight there. Brilliant. I try to ignore the wave of anxiety that washes over me at the thought of flights and travel and packing. I can’t explain that to someone who flies more regularly than the local sparrow population.

‘Pack warm!’ he says cheerily. ‘But don’t worry too much – we have plenty of extra clothes here for anyone who arrives unprepared.’

‘How many people arrive at a reindeer sanctuary, prepared or unprepared?’ My face screws up in confusion. ‘Is it somewhere people visit? Like a dog shelter or something?’

‘Something like that. I must dash! See you tomorrow! Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!’

I’m pretty sure I hear the chortling of a “ho ho ho” as he hangs up, and I sink back against the cushions and stare at the blank screen of the phone in my hand. Typical Dad. I have no idea how worried I should be. My immortal, effervescent, full-of-life dad has had a heart attack, and yet as soon as I agreed to go, he sounded like his old self again.

Maybe I’m being too hard on him. Maybe he just genuinely needs help and was relieved that I’d agreed. I’m sure once he’s had a chance to think about it, he’ll realise that selling up and coming back to England is for the best.

And it would be nice to be needed. My dad has never needed anything from me. No one ever really needs anything from me. Even the birds I feed every morning are indifferent to my existence.

And I do love working with animals. Helping sickly reindeer doesn’t sound like the worst way to spend a December. I’ve never even seen a reindeer in real life before.

And the idea that it could be my last chance to see my dad wheedles its way in again. The sort of thought that no one likes to think, but if you’ve got elderly parents, you can’t avoid it crossing your mind occasionally. It’s scary enough to make me push myself upright and climb the stairs to find a suitcase I’ve only got because my dad sent it as a Christmas present last year, pack my warmest clothes, and dig out the passport I’ve never used and only have because Dad paid for it and insisted I’d need it one day.

‘Okay, enough wallowing,’ I say to the empty room. ‘I’m going to Norway.’

And that’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.