Page 3 of Big Nick Energy
‘In Christmas week? It’ll go quick,’ I say.
He looks at me for a moment too long. ‘What if that space was…extended?’
‘The whole Christmas break? Three weeks?’ I guess. ‘Did you cave? Are you going skiing with Olly and Si?’ I ask him.
Nick takes another lengthy sip of his drink and looks me in the eye. ‘Or what about longer?’
It’s then that I realise what’s happening. A year means that you can read words in people’s eyes, the way their face isn’t creased with laughter anymore. There’s a whole host of emotions in his face instead, a whole different shade of blue that speaks guilt, fear, sadness.
‘Nick, are you breaking up with me?’
But as I manage to utter that sentence, a microphone is thrust in my face. The words are loud, echoing through that space, the music muted in my honour. The whole pub freezes and turns to look at us, sitting opposite each other at this dark wooden pub table.
‘Not quite,’ the host says, forcing a laugh, realising he has a duty to save this. ‘Would you like another go?’
I look at him. ‘Tis the season to be jolly,’ I say blankly.
The man’s jollity has turned into silent caution. ‘You are correct and this means you can go to the bar and get a free drink.’ He slides a sort of token in front of me and waits. In fact, the whole bar still looks at us, waiting.Sod the quiz, we have drama in the corner of the pub and that is worth the cost of our quiz entry fee tonight.Nick, who looked uncomfortable before, now looks as though he’s in the stand of a public court.
‘You can do better!’ a drunken voice sounds from across the pub, and a small table of women cheer.
Don’t react, Kay. Don’t.But I feel so empty, so confused. Something surges up in me, and I pull the microphone, still in the quiz host’s hands, towards me. ‘Why?’ I ask Nick. No one in this pub cares about that meat hamper anymore.
‘You must have felt it too?’ he mumbles quietly, choosing not to broadcast the moment.
‘Felt what?’ I question, the microphone whining with feedback. I feel a whole pub lean forward to try and eavesdrop.
‘Like we’ve grown apart.’
‘What did he say?’ someone at the back of the pub asks.
‘They’ve grown apart,’ the host says, leaning into the microphone. Nick looks mortified but I will admit, the tables glancing over in anger and judgement are helping here. Because since that day I met Nick here, I’ve laid down roots and let our branches intertwine. I let him into my life, we’ve felt the sun on our leaves, we’ve experienced the rain and the cold, but all the while it was together, always growing together. To put it bluntly, he was inside me last night, so I don’t really understand this at all.
‘Seriously, can we go somewhere else to do this?’ Nick says, leaning over. Dave and his friends next to us are sitting with their arms folded, piercing him with their stares.
‘No,’ I say into the microphone, my fingers clenched tightly around my wine glass.
That table of ladies cheers again. ‘He’s a cliché, babe!’
I can’t think straight right now, I’m just trying to keep it together. I’ve been completely ambushed, in the very place where our relationship started, and I can’t figure out if he’s being cruel or whether he wanted to give this moment some full-circle significance. But if he’s going to ambush me with bullshit reasons about why our year-long relationship is over then he can be waylaid too.
He inhales deeply, looking me in the eye. The host points the microphone at him. Nick looks at it distastefully. ‘We’ve been together for a year and it’s been amazing,’ he tells the pub. ‘But I feel this… you and I… has come to a sort of organic end.’ A lady a few tables down scrunches her face up and shakes her head at him. He needs to stop it with the plant metaphors. But maybe that’s my influence rubbing off on him. ‘In a few months, I’m going over to New York to do my MBA. She wants to travel. I think now’s the time to work on ourselves.’
‘CLICHÉ!’ someone shouts. ‘You just want to get out of buying her a Christmas gift, you cheap git!’
I look down at the table, my bottom lip wobbling, and I take a large gulp of my wine to steady myself. I guess however he did this it was always going to hurt, it was always going to feel as if my heart was bleeding emotions that were seeping into every part of me.
‘Ask him if there’s someone else?’ a woman shouts.
He puts his hands in the air and stands up. ‘There is no one else, I promise. I’m so sorry, Kay.’
He shakes his head and covers his face with his hands; if he starts crying, I will throw something at him. I suspect most of the pub will. I feel dumbstruck, nauseated. The Christmas decorations in this place sparkle and wink at me. I wish they wouldn’t do that.
I grab the microphone again. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ I hate myself for asking that question, but I’m simply trying to figure this all out.
‘No. And it’s not you?—’
I put a hand up. ‘Don’t finish that sentence.’
