Page 2 of Big Nick Energy
He leaned into me and I flinched a little. ‘I asked if your name was short for anything,’ he said.
Oh. ‘Katherine – but everyone calls me Kay.’
‘I’m five foot ten in case you were interested.’
‘Interested in you or your height?’
He grinned. ‘You are very funny.’
I hate to say that was all it took but that was, pretty much, all it took. I remember someone at the other end of the bar ordering six complex cocktails so it felt less awkward to relent and engage, to let my defences down. I mean, it helped that he wasn’t horrible to look at; he had the sort of face that creased into a different shape when he smiled, which he did often. I like a face where I can read the laughter so clearly. He asked me if I was a fan of Christmas and then he offered to buy me a drink. It was a sincere gesture, not lecherous, bordering on gentlemanly, and in the student population of Bath I’d rarely seen that. It was in the spirit of his name, he said.
‘You haven’t told me your name…’ I told him.
‘I believe I have. I’m Nick.’
I thought back to his opening line. ‘Oh, I thought you told me you were thick.’
That now-familiar smile spread across his face. ‘Would you like to find out?’
I cocked my head to one side. ‘Are you talking about your penis?’
He roared in reply. ‘God, no. I meant do you want to know if I’m stupid or not.’
And with that there was a certain look, a real definite possibility that this had legs. ‘So you’re Saint Nick, are you?’
‘Yes, I am.’ I felt an instant warmth as he said that. I liked the festive vibe but also that he felt good, safe.
‘Then I will have a rum and Coke, Saint Nick. Would it be cheeky of me to ask for nuts too?’ I said.
‘You can have nuts too. It’s Christmas after all and I always deliver.’
‘Always?’
‘Always.’ There was a certainty in his look, the way his eyes came to life, fixed on mine.
The memory makes me smile as I unwrap my scarf from my neck and ruffle out my auburn curls. That initial chemistry, the buzz of it is still imprinted into my mind and fired up all over again, just from glancing over to the bar where we met.
‘Can you believe it’s still raining? It feels as though it’s been raining for months,’ a voice says from behind me, and I recognise it instantly. Nick. He puts an arm on my shoulder and kisses the back of my head before I turn to greet him. He hasn’t changed since we first met; still the same shaggy blond hair, woolly jumper and jeans, the usual pint of stout in his hand. ‘Sorry. Lectures overran and then the landlord paid us a visit,’ he says, hanging his coat on the back of his chair.
‘It’s fine. I’ve been enjoying the quiz.’ I see Dave and his mates have clocked Nick and they raise their pints at me. I hope they got the question about Dr Seuss right. ‘Did you get your essay in on time?’ I ask, leaning over to put a hand in his.
‘Yeah. By the skin of my teeth,’ he replies, taking a long gulp of his drink.
I can see the stress etched in Nick’s face. It’s been a long term and he’s had a lot of coursework, while I’ve been in endless tutorials on Virginia Woolf during the day, and working shifts in the uni bar in the evenings. Christmas will be a welcome break, a time to be a couple again, see family and drink our woes away. Our time at university has evolved in this last year – we used to come here for wild nights in large groups of people from halls, evenings that would lead us into nightclubs and down empty streets at three in the morning, getting told off for setting off car alarms and urinating in people’s gardens (not me). But now, this pub feels more like our local, a place of special significance in our relationship.
‘I was thinking back to when we first met here,’ I say affectionately. ‘When I couldn’t hear you tell me your name because of the noise.’
He half smiles. I thought that was a particularly funny moment of note, but maybe not. God, he is stressed. He takes his hand out of mine. ‘God, I don’t think I can do this.’
‘The pub?’ I enquire. Maybe it’s the noise. ‘We could go back to mine, it’s cool.’
He rubs his hands down his thighs and exhales slowly. Behind him, the man in the Christmas suit starts to rove around the pub with his microphone for a music round. Finish the Christmas lyrics. I can see why that might induce stress.
‘Is this about Christmas? I know you’re upset I can’t make it to yours, but I really want to spend it with my nana. A bit of space at Christmas wouldn’t be awful.’
He shakes his head, a little too seriously for my liking. There’s the stressor.
‘A bit of space?’ he asks me.
