Page 9 of Big Nick Energy
She takes my hands and starts humming a bit of Manilow to herself. I dance with her on the spot and spin her round. I think whatever the future holds, I have to make this happen now, don’t I? We both separate, dancing on our own, a strange version of disco-salsa.
A cough in the background, however, gets our attention. It’s the lady showing us round, formal and well-presented in a suit and gold name badge.Please don’t think we’re strange and tell us there’s no room at the inn now.
‘I’m so sorry…’ I start to say.
‘I take it the dancing is a good thing?’ she says.
Nana nods. ‘Am I allowed to dance here?’
‘We actively encourage it as a means of keeping fit. We have classes.’
Nana looks at me and smiles sweetly. ‘Then me and my granddaughter will see you in the New Year.’ She grabs my arm and squeezes it tightly, pulling me in as close as she can.
FOUR
LONDON, DECEMBER 2025
‘Are you sure those deadlines aren’t too tight? Two books by the first week of January?’ my agent, Davinia asks, as she sips on her Christmas cocktail, the glass frosted with salt and sugar.
Davinia always brings me to places way out of my comfort zone. I’d be happy sharing plans over a Nando’s, but she always tells me to come to these flash-fusion London eateries – the kind with lots of different glasses to drink from, seasonal specials and menu items with tiny printed numbers that could either be the calorie count or the price. But then that is Davinia. She has the sort of publishing flair I thought would infuse into my bones once I became an author, that laissez-faire cool where she can sit there and nibble casually at her edamame, in her black designer co-ord and her dark sculpted bob, while telling me about trends in children’s literature. I, meanwhile, am the anti-chic. I’m clashing leopard print with bright tights and Doc Martens and I’ve put a whole dumpling in my mouth that was far, far too hot. I may need surgery on my tongue after this.
‘As long as it fits in with the illustrator’s schedule then I’m fine,’ I say. I mean, it won’t be. I’ll be very relaxed until just after Christmas and likely spend that last week of the year in a mildpanic, in my pyjamas, my flat filled with paper, words, regret and leftover trifle.
‘Then…’ she says casually, downing the rest of her drink, ‘I love you. I say that a lot, I know, but you’re by far my easiest client. You write your lovely bear books, you deliver, people buy them, you don’t go all pass-agg in your emails,’ she says, blowing me a kiss. ‘Plus you always send me cookies.’
‘Don’t the others send cookies?’
‘Lordy, no. There’s one… I won’t give names but he sent me a basket of kombucha. What the hell am I going to do with that?’ I want to say drink it but instead I smile as a waiter comes over with the bill and she doesn’t look at the total, which makes me think she’s definitely not solely living off her cut of my royalties. Ever since I signed with Davinia five years ago, my series of bear books have been out in the world, and sales are steady if not setting the world alight. There was a point when it all first happened where I imagined merch and a BBC kids’ series that would pay for my retirement. Yes, I thought I might be in my chaise longue phase of authordom by now. But no. I do still take pics of my books when I see them in shops. I move them to the promo tables when no one’s looking. I get fan mail but also I write at the kitchen table, and I have another job to keep the lights on.
‘I’ll keep working on the rights deals. I have strong hopes for France and Sweden but once we have a series of ten then that will help.’
‘Then I will work towards ten,’ I say.
‘You are a dream,’ she says, studying my face. ‘And what about you, my lovely girl? Tell me what else you have going on in your life?’ This is why I hold on to Davinia dearly. Not that agents were rushing to sign me but there’s a maternal streak in her questions about me and my life which shows that she cares. It’s why I gravitated towards her.
‘Everything’s OK, Davinia.’
She pouts at my response, pushing at the bridge of her brightly rimmed glasses. ‘And you’re spending Christmas with your grandmother? How is she?’
‘She’s doing fine… good days, bad days, but it’s to be expected.’
I’ve always confided in Davinia about Nana’s circumstances, as when I first signed with her, Nana sent her a thank-you card and gift along with photos of me as a child. They still exchange Christmas cards. Davinia cocks her head to one side to hear news of her, aware that what’s happening to her fading mind still hurts my heart.
‘Remember to reach out to me if you need help there. You know I have a soft spot for Doris.’
‘I will.’
‘And what else? Give me more.’
I’m not sure what she expects me to say. I could lie and say my days are full and exciting and read like a young social media influencer. I love London, I do occasionally go out, but I also enjoy sitting at home and scrolling through my phone. Do I tell her I’ve just found out about Korean skincare? I’ve joined a gym, they’ve got Lady Gaga spin classes. I don’t think that’s what she wants to hear. My pause intrigues her. ‘You see, I took another of my young twentysomething authors out to lunch the other day. She ordered five cocktails and sat there and told me about a ridiculous weekend she spent in Bratislava and then whipped out her new tattoo. But you’re just… OK.’
I shrug. ‘I really am OK. You see, I write, I work… at the library. I’m organising a charity book drive,’ I say excitedly.
‘That’s lovely,’ she intervenes. ‘Admirable stuff.’ That’s definitely not what she wants to hear. That’s the polar opposite to a mad weekend in Bratislava.
‘And I go on exceptionally bad dates. I do have a life,’ I argue.
‘How bad?’ she asks me. ‘I’ve been married for too long, I crave hearing your young-people stories.’
