Page 15 of Big Nick Energy
‘You’d be surprised. I bet many of your year copped out and became teachers, lawyers… you always wanted to write books. I’m glad you’re doing that.’
The kindness and support in his words make me melt a little in my seat. ‘And you became a finance person…’ I say.
He chuckles under his breath. I hope he knows that it’ll take a lot more to impress me. ‘Yes, a finance person. That’s what it says on my name badge.’Please don’t try to be funny.I watch as he takes a sip from his latte and a bite out of a gingerbread snowman. He leans back in his chair, beaming at me. There is eye contact briefly and I have no choice but to return the gesture. I’ve forgotten how a smile transforms him, how it makes his eyes crinkle, how it is instantly magnetic and charming.
‘So how did you know about my books?’ I ask him curiously.
‘I checked in. It was good to see you doing so well. Don’t tell me you didn’t do the same,’ he says, smirking.
‘Of course I didn’t. That was a very long time ago. I moved on and pretty much forgot about you. Actually, when I saw you in that market, I almost called you Rick.’ He laughs, loudly.You bastard.‘I saw you with someone else in your pictures?’ I ask, not knowing if that’s perhaps a step too far because, yes, I did look once. Maybe twice.
He stops for a moment, that smile hiding away from me. ‘We were together but not anymore. Her name was Neve.’ The way he almost spits out her name makes me think it didn’t end well. I won’t dig. He sighs but then returns to the conversation. ‘For a few months there was a musician fella, you went to his gigs.’
‘Doug. He played the drums.’ He had questionable political beliefs and I once saw him kick a cat. ‘We weren’t together long. Stalker.’
‘Takes one to know one,’ he says.
We gaze at each other over our mugs, sitting there in silence for a moment, sipping at our drinks, the windows of this place misting up. ‘We were super young when we went out, eh?’ he says, breaking that silence. ‘I’ll always be sorry about the way I ended it all.’
‘In the pub, during the quiz,’ I say, remembering the pretty savage way that pub turned on him.
He grimaces to remember it. ‘I mean, it was particularly spectacular though. Someone threw a packet of nuts at me. I got a bloody lip. Every time I went in there after, people would heckle me.’
I try not to laugh. ‘There were positives. I won a meat hamper that night.’ It’s true. After he left, I was persuaded to get quite drunk and finish my night helping three middle-aged men win apub quiz. They gave me the hamper as recompense for my very public shaming. The chipolatas were outstanding.
‘I can’t excuse my behaviour. I was a dick back then.’
I take a sip of my hot chocolate because I don’t know how to react. He’s right, but I wasn’t expecting him to own his behaviour with such clarity and magnanimity.
‘Then I am grateful for the apology. Wewereyoung,’ I say.
‘And whatever happened, I had a lot of affection for you. We had a good year.’ I sit incredibly still as he says that. I guess it’s easy to say in hindsight, but he’s right; there are good memories, and they are the ones I return to when I think of him. ‘And I regret never telling you that much, just walking out that day.’
I feel a surge of emotion. This is the sort of closure we all need at the end of a relationship, but I’m unprepared for it, today or at any time. ‘You missed out.’ He missed out on someone who would have been his biggest champion, a hilarious sidekick. I also make the best cookies.
‘Yeah,’ he says wistfully, taking a deep breath. He looks totally at ease in my company. ‘Seeing you now, I totally get that.’
It feels wildly lifting to hear him say that. ‘I appreciate the sentiment and the gesture.’
‘That’s very formal,’ he replies jokingly.
‘It’s because we’re grown up now. I’m trying to be mature. You’re in a suit.’
His smile broadens. ‘I am.’
‘Do you have plans for Christmas?’ I ask.
‘And that’s a very mature line of conversation.’
‘Well, that’s me now. I’m not that same girl who used to live off pasta and sauce and water down my juice.’
He grins again. ‘I didn’t think that for a second. I’m spending it with my family.’
‘And how are Marjorie and Lester?’ I ask. His eyebrows lift again, as if he’s impressed that I have remembered their names. He forgets that’s what I do. I remember the names of all my primary-school teachers, the names of mums of friends I used to have tea with. It’s my pub trick. ‘Has your mum made her Christmas pudding yet?’ It was a family recipe with a mountain of dried fruit soaked in a whole bottle of rum. I was invited to a strange ritual at their house where I was asked to stir it.
‘She has. They are well, thank you.’ He leans over the table. ‘And your parents? Your nana?’
‘All good. I won’t tell Nana you bought that teapot for me,’ I say. ‘She wasn’t a fan at the end.’
