Page 35 of Big Nick Energy
He shakes his head. ‘It’s fine. I think you can follow and like or whatever you do on social media. I’m not one for taking pictures of my food, in any case. It seems to be a curse of our generation.’
I nod. I am a picture taker on occasion but only so I can retain the memory of something particularly pretty. I once ate a blood orange and custard pastry from one of these bakery stalls that is in my favourites folder. We both sit there, quietly eating as I pick crumbs off my coat and scarf.
‘Hank mentioned a book drive before? What is that?’ he enquires.
‘Oh, it’s a crazy idea I had back in autumn. I’m collecting books and wrapping them, handing them out at old-age homes, schools, hospitals. I’ve got visits planned too.’
I go into my bag to get a flyer out and show him. He glances over it.
‘You made this flyer?’ he asks. I’m not sure he should sound so surprised.
‘I’m very good on Canva,’ I reply.
‘I like the fonts,’ he says. Is it terrible that this is the sort of compliment that arouses me?Thank you. I’m a fan of something sans serif with cursive leanings.‘And all those dates? Before Christmas? That’s a lot to take on.’
‘Oh, that’s me. Classic over-achiever. Good ideas…’
‘Good heart…’ he mumbles. As he speaks, he almost recoils as if he may have said too much. I sit there for a moment, reading the genuine emotion in his tone, side-eyeing him as he takes a big bite out of his sandwich.
‘Thank you. I hope it comes together and I can make it work.’ It is a labour of love and the intent is there, but I may have underestimated how much work it would actually take. I put out flyers and posters thinking handfuls of books would come in but what’s happened is that people have seen it as an excuse for a good purge before Christmas.
‘Is there any way I can help?’
‘Well, now that you mention it, I could do with a Santa…’ I say, half joking.
‘Really?’ he says, and I can’t decide whether he was serious about the offer of help. ‘I guess I could, links into my name at the end of the day.’
‘Saint Nick…’ I whisper, feeling a little disloyal as I say it.
‘That’s me. Well, you know where to find me if you need me.’ We both bite into our rolls at the same time. I’m not sure what was agreed there. I hope he didn’t feel obliged to offer help. But then it felt like he almost backed away. I try to work out if he’s panicking that perhaps he’s overstepped, or he’s coming across as a bit indifferent. ‘Or we could contribute in other ways. We give away trees and hampers sometimes from the farm, we could work together. Like a collab, as my sister would say.’
I laugh at the way he says the word ‘collab’ with a snarl on his face. ‘You’re making my innocent, well-meaning book drive sound very boujie.’
He shrugs. ‘It’s an idea. If you want it. If it appeals.’
The problem is, Nick, physically you do appeal. But there is another Nick in the picture and maybe I should bring him up, but I’m still so unsure about what this is – this collab, this set-up by Lucy, this bench picnic.
I take another bite into my hog roast roll, the snap of the crackling hitting once again. ‘Fuck me…’
‘Excuse me?’ he says, slightly shocked.
‘Oh, the crackling. It’s very good, isn’t it?’ I say, half blushing. ‘Crackling is an art form and your friend has mastered it. The number of times you get a bit of crackling and it’s…’
‘Limp?’ he suggests.
‘I was going to say chewy and inedible but if you want to go there,’ I smile. Is this warming up? It could be because I’ve got his friend’s pork in my hands and am extraordinarily sated, but a feeling of confusion overwhelms me. He leans over and picks what is possibly a small piece of onion out of my hair. The contact, the closeness, makes me sit still for a moment, looking over at him, staring at the outline of his lips. ‘You should have brought your horse brush out with you?’ I joke.
‘Perhaps. You’ve also got sauce…’ he gestures. Oh dear, he’s going to get close, isn’t he? Wipe a finger at the corner of my mouth so I look up and into his eyes intently, caving from the contact. I instinctively stick out my tongue to try and stop this from happening. But instead, he offers me up a napkin. ‘Yeah, it’s kind of all over. A full beard of sauce. I don’t know how to fix that. I’ll leave it with you. Do you have any wet wipes?’
I look back at him blankly. No, I don’t.
SIXTEEN
I will hazard a guess that the majority of people who live in England will ice skate with the theme ofBoleroin their heads. I wasn’t born when Torvill and Dean made history in Sarajevo or when they made their comeback in Lillehammer, but they remain cultural icons. Nana loves the figure skating and it was a love that was passed down – I have the fondest memories of afternoons spent in front of her telly in her flat, watching people glide across the ice, throwing each other about, landing as if they hadn’t just been spun around six times by their ankles. We cheered in her living room with the sea-green shagpile and gave rounds of applause to everyone. Once Nana picked a flower out of a vase and threw it to the floor.
Naturally, a passion for the sport doesn’t translate to ability. I can manage to stand on the ice and push myself across it in a measured fashion. Don’t ask me to spin. I can just about change direction and that involves putting my hands in a set position to keep my balance.
‘Seriously, the ones who go in the wrong direction should be fined,’ Nick says, as he goes to put a hand into mine. That’s not the greatest idea as it might put me off-balance, but I like the way he holds me close, pulling my arm into his body.
