‘What’s wrong?’ David frowned.

‘Not sure,’ I shrugged. ‘I just found him having a meltdown about a wonky tree.’

‘I was not having a meltdown,’ said Ned, looking up.

‘I was talking about Bandit,’ I joked, relieved so see a smile tugging at the corner of Ned’s mouth a moment later.

‘If you’re still worried about the insurance,’ David said to his son, ‘don’t be. I’ve been through everything with a fine-tooth comb and everything and everyone is covered.’

‘What insurance?’ I asked.

‘In fact,’ David continued. ‘I was just checking it all again, to make extra sure and it’s all fine, Ned.’

‘Insurance for the plantation, do you mean?’ I asked again.

‘For the plantation, for the huts, for serving the food, for pretty much everything,’ said Ned. ‘And then there’s Santa’s DBS check which still hasn’t come through.’

‘Yes, it has,’ said David, waving a sheet of paper. ‘It’s here. I printed it off a few minutes ago and Nick’s now getting changed ready to welcome the children.’

Ned let out another long breath and sat back in the chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Bandit rested a foot on his thigh and looked adoringly up at his owner. Clearly, there was a whole lot going on behind the scenes that I knew nothing about and to be honest, I was rather grateful not to have been involved if the worry lines that were currently etched across Ned’s brow were any indicator of how stressful running the place could really be.

Dad had never shown so much as a hint of it, but then he hadn’t launched a venture which could impact the lives of anyone other than his and mine.

‘Nick,’ I said, only just realising what David had said. ‘Seriously?’

My dad’s name had been Nicholas and now we had a guy called Nick taking on the role of Santa. What were the odds? No one could accuse Wynter’s Trees of being anything other than authentic.

‘Yes,’ smiled David. ‘He’s new this year and his wife’s helping out too.’

Dad always regretted that he didn’t have time to don the red outfit, boots and beard, but in order to have managed that he would have had to clone himself. Personally, I was thankful he’d hired someone else for the role. Chelsea would have had a field day if Dad had been Father Christmas too.

‘So, Santa’s here tonight?’ I smiled, dismissing thoughts of Chelsea and remembering the lengthy queues of excited children.