Page 68 of Big Nick Energy
‘Of course, every last one,’ I joke.
I wonder if he can tell that I’m trying to force this joke out of me. Because something has shifted.Because you’re not simply good looking, you’ve got a good heart and a kind mum who gave me a little cardboard box filled with ravioli with a wooden fork and a little separate container with cheese to sprinkle on top because she didn’t know how much cheese I would want.All the cheese, Natalia. All of it. I can’t do this to him anymore. Ifhe’s done that big a gesture, I need to do the same and at least give him my honesty.
‘Listen, after this… when we’ve given out the books, did you want to…’
‘We should probably help them put the tables away?’ he suggests. ‘I offered to help that old lady carry her jams too.’ Of course he did. This would be far easier if he was awful and unhelpful.
‘I meant, maybe we should get a drink?’ I say.
His face softens. ‘I’d like that.’ I feel an immediate pang of guilt because what I need to say is that there’s another Nick on the scene and I don’t really know how to break that to him. ‘What sort of drink though?’ he asks. ‘I think we use the term quite generically now but were you talking about a pint or a coffee from the petrol station?’
‘I was thinking alcohol. There’s a little pub over there,’ I say, pointing across the square to a cosy little pub with a thatched roof and etched windows, smoke funnelling out of its chimney, Christmas lights glowing inside. Or maybe it would be easier to do this on a Shell forecourt.
He turns towards me, eyebrows slightly raised in surprise that I may be asking him on a date. Haven’t we done this already though? We got a hog roast and shared a bench. We’ve sat in my library late into the night wrapping books. He rescued me out of a Christmas tree netting machine once. ‘Then that sounds great. A drink sounds perfect.’
I can’t look at him because I have no idea what that drink will entail but it immediately fills my heart with sadness that I will have to let him down, that I’ve not handled this situation very well at all.
‘It’s… actually, I?—’
But before I can finish my sentence, a man arrives at the table, a little breathless and panicked. ‘Mate, I couldn’t ask youa favour?’ he says, his hands gripping the end of the table. He points towards a woman stood by a lamppost, pushing a pram to and fro with what sounds like a very unhappy baby inside. To the side of the pram are two kids, mid-tantrum, one of them on the floor, his back arched as if he’s possessed.
‘Of course,’ Nick replies.
‘We just can’t wait for Santa anymore. The queue is massive and my kids are tired and could you just…? Are you the sort of Santa who’d be able to chat to my kids, hear their lists, you know? I’d pay. Can I buy something off your stall?’
I see the fatigue in the man’s eyes and summon up a smile. ‘The books are free, your kids are very welcome to take some.’
‘But I can also help,’ Nick says. ‘I mean I don’t look like traditional Santa with the beard or anything.’
‘Seriously, I’ll take anything at the moment. Tell them you’ve gone on a diet or something,’ he says, taking out his wallet.
‘Yeah, put that away. What are their names?’ Nick asks, straightening out his fur robe and reaching down to a hessian sack, poring over the books on the table and selecting three.Look at you. It’s like we’ve told Batman there’s a problem in Gotham and you’ve put on your outfit and are stepping up to the plate.He’s a hero, a saviour, this man’s kids are going to sleep well tonight because of him.
‘Louie, Anya and George in the pram,’ the man says hurriedly.
‘Last name?’
‘Bailey.’
‘You named your kid George Bailey?’ Nick asks.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Nothing. I’ll need more, key facts on each of them.’
‘Louie’s into capybaras, Anya plays football, George is literally weeks old,’ the dad reels off, and I hover by my stall, watching as Nick approaches them, just within earshot to hearwhat’s happening. He stands over Louie and I see the little boy’s face turn and look up at him.
‘Ho, ho, ho.’ Yeah, we still need to work on that. ‘What’s happening, Louie? Why are you on the floor?’ he asks curiously. The little boy jumps to his feet, while his sister peers around from behind the pram, looking up. It must be like looking up at the moon. They’re both silent. Not going to lie, Mum is looking over as well and then back at her husband as though this is a terrible plan.This man is not some old grandpa and you might be shitting all over their Christmas dreams.
‘Who are you?’ Anya asks.
‘I’m Santa.’
‘No you’re not,’ she replies quickly. I like this girl. Never stop questioning things, little one.
‘Well, there’s only one Santa but he has lots of people out there who represent him, who keep an eye out. Louie, Anya and George, yes?’ Anya is silenced to hear her name. She comes out from behind the pram. ‘The Bailey family. Hi, Mum.’
‘Hi Santa,’ she says, her voice a bit shaky.
