Page 12 of Big Nick Energy
SIX
‘It’s fine. The lady can have the teapot if she wants,’ he says, still smiling, a hand casually placed in his coat pocket.
I am speechless. He’s standing there, a Dickensian Christmas shopping apparition. How did he appear out of nowhere? Plus, this isn’t fair. It’s glowed-up Nick Coles – older and wiser, in a really well-tailored navy suit, a dark wool coat, a striped-burgundy scarf wrapped around his neck, his sandy-blond hair well-styled. I remember those eyes.
Clementine is looking at me worriedly, as if she can see that the joviality I had running through me before has gone. Perhaps she’s not sure what that means with so many breakables in the area.
‘I have other teapots if you want to see those? I’ve got a lovely Royal Albert – I’ll throw in a milk jug with it,’ she says, as she and her colleague try and de-escalate the situation. I don’t think there’s a lot to de-escalate. I’m not angry per se. I think I’m in quiet shock. This is a man I’ve not seen for eight years. Last time I saw him was when he dumped me. In the pub.
I shake my head. ‘It’s fine. Let him have it. I’m not going to fight over china,’ I say jokingly. I wave to him and he stridesover to my side of the stall. As he gets closer, a strange feeling of fizziness comes over me. I can’t tell if it’s nerves or excitement.
‘I thought it was you. It’s the hair. Completely unmissable.’
He looks into my eyes, the fairy lights from the stall illuminating the angles of his face. I smile because as much as a face changes over time, there’s still something there to recognise. Eight years, Nick Coles. I’m not sure he gets to open with a line about my hair, though I am happy I used the good conditioner this morning.
‘Nick fucking Coles.’ As I say it, I feel the grin spread across my face.
Opposite us, Clementine and the other woman who works on the stall hold a teapot each, watching. I wish they’d pick up a teacup and saucer and have a sip to break this tension. I don’t know how to follow this up. Is it good to see him? I get the same feeling as when my neighbour’s cat comes into my garden and stares at me through my kitchen window. It’s very unnerving. Why is he here?
‘Can’t believe it’s you,’ he says, studying my face, his gaze falling to the outline of my face, my lips.Yeah, don’t do that.
‘It is me,’ I say, unable to hide a touch of dryness in my tone.
‘You look great.’
I sigh. Unfortunately, he does too. Nick was one of those exes where our break-up was unexpected, and it was deeply painful because my heart was young and naïve. In university, my expectations of love were curated around books and TV and so when I met him, I thought I’d met a forever person. This was what love looked like, it was cutesy, fun, and involved brunch. When it finished I therefore, mourned him dramatically. I cried. I ate a whole tiramisu in my pyjamas. I think about that sad idealistic girl now and cringe. Why did we break up? Is it terrible I can’t remember?
‘You look… healthy,’ I say.
He chuckles. That wasn’t a joke. He works out now, and I can see the better fit and quality of his attire. He smells nice and that is a terrible thing to pick up on so quickly.
‘I forgot how funny you are… Always knew how to make me laugh,’ he says to the ladies at the stall, both of them enjoying the sort-of reunion, a bit of Christmas magic unravelling here.
‘“Knew.” He speaks in the past tense as I haven’t seen him in nearly ten years,’ I tell them.
‘Is there a story there?’ Clementine asks me, hopeful that it’s a good one. Maybe we were separated by war, a desert island, warring families. Maybe this is a love story for the ages.
‘We used to date,’ Nick says, affection in his voice.
‘Before he dumped me in a pub just before Christmas.’ Not that type of love story, Clementine.
Those words instantly transform the hopeful glances of these two ladies into grimaces. They both look at him expectantly, waiting for his explanation. I find this all very good fun.
‘We were young. Hand on heart, I made a terrible mistake,’ he says, though I know that’s directed at me. I try not to react, instead watching the ladies as they warm to his words. ‘I mean, look at her, right?’
I’m not sure what to say. Young love is like that, I guess. Relationships can be brief, passionate, but usually fizzle out on a whim. We had some good times. He was excellent at buying me flowers and cuddly toys. However, he did dump me, that much I remember, and then he disappeared. Time and distance meant he quickly got erased from my mind and I moved on. I still can’t shake that secret thrill at seeing him again though.
Clementine smiles at me. ‘I’d be more inclined for you to have the teapot if he was an absolute wanker,’ she says. I smirk as Nick pouts in her direction. There’s solidarity there if ever I needed it. ‘I can sell him sweet FA if it would be a good way to get back at him.’
‘Or maybe I can buy you the teapot?’ Nick adds. I try not to let my emotion show. Clementine’s colleague on the stall keeps looking Nick up and down. He’s giving off a kindly aura, and I remember that generosity, the way that he would buy drinks for a whole group of people he didn’t know. Clementine looks at me for cues. ‘Is it for your nana?’ he asks. Nick met Nana on a number of occasions whilst we were going out. I’m pleasantly surprised that he remembers her.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you really should have it. Please let me buy it for you.’
He keeps trying to prolong the glance between us. I force myself to be civil. This should be a nice moment but it feels as though he’s trying to buy my affections here. ‘I can buy my own teapot for Nana. Thank you though,’ I say.
‘Well, maybe I can get you something else?’ he suggests.
