Page 37 of Big Nick Energy
He pushes himself off the railing and skates off, waving at me, beckoning me over. This feels right, this is how being with someone should be, but I can’t help but feel guilty that in the back of my mind, the other Nick sits there almost looking on.Why have you popped into my head at this precise moment?I don’t think that Nick would ice skate. I can’t imagine him going round in circles having fun. Would he stand at the side, refusing to participate? I didn’t hug him after that day in the library. I was almost scared to touch him, so I shook his hand, which makes us official social acquaintances. I find him very attractive, but I find Henry Cavill attractive and I happily admire him from afar. I have no idea what he thinks of me but I saw that look of horror he gave me as I was eating that hog roast roll and had sauceall over my face like a feasting Christmas zombie. We’ve made a half-arsed agreement to possibly work together with this book drive, and that’s it.
‘Come on!’ Nick shouts at me from over the way, waving his arms around trying to keep his balance. I skate over, guiding him to safety, tripping slightly, my arms flailing to regain my balance.
‘See what I mean, physical comedy,’ I joke. ‘So what do you want to do after this?’
‘The hand in my pocket obviously triggered something then,’ he says, as we set off across the ice together, following the crowd of people.
‘No, I mean food?’
‘There’s a Jägermeister tent. I think they do raclette if that’s your bag? If not, there’s a French bistro across the way.Le Manger. It’s a patisserie by day but does a mean steak-frites at night too. I’ve been there loads with…’
He doesn’t finish his sentence, I assume because he’s been there with someone who isn’t me. I should be glad that he doesn’t bring that person up but I am curious, and a look returns to his face that I’ve seen before. It’s wistful, sad even, and I want to take that look away or at least find out who could have evoked that emotion. I know he’s not been single for the eight years since we broke up at university but the topic of conversation hasn’t really come up about that space in between.
‘I can do steak-frites,’ I say, to continue avoiding that conversation. ‘I might have to have an early night though; I’ve got to be in the library early in the morning, quite a lot to get through.’
‘I’m sure the kids will survive without story time for one morning – call in sick,’ he says casually.
I look over at him and pause for a second before answering. ‘It’s another event. It’s a book drive that I’ve set up – peopleare donating their old books and I’m re-gifting them in the community.’
‘You’re giving out old books for Christmas?’ he says, pulling a face. ‘Do you want me to ask my company? Maybe we can sponsor it so you can give out new books?’ he says. ‘We do it all the time for school fairs and stuff.’
I keep skating, trying to get out of the way of a particularly uncoordinated individual but I can’t help feeling a little hurt.
‘There is something about re-gifting that’s nice though, right? Repurposing a book so it can find a new owner?’ I suggest.
‘They’re not dogs, they’re just books,’ he scoffs. ‘Leave it with me, I’ll make some calls. Don’t create work for yourself.’
I don’t reply because I’m not sure what to say. I have a lot of love and pride for the book drive and it hasn’t felt like work. It feels like something good in a season of consumerism.
‘Or maybe you could help? Come down, join me on visits? You might be surprised,’ I say, trying to get him involved, to let him see what I actually do.
‘I’m not sure I can fit it in around work but you crack on,’ he says. It’s a weird, casual rebuttal of my invitation but it sits there uncomfortably, similar to indigestion. Do I say something? I really should be able to voice that hurt but I can’t. Luckily we’re both ice skating so it’s easy to avoid eye contact. It’s simpler to keep moving.
‘You should write more, you know?’
‘I am. I’ve got some deadlines for the New Year.’
‘You should make more time for it. Don’t waste your talent,’ he remarks.
‘I’m contracted to write the rest of the series of bear books, it’s going OK,’ I say. What is he hinting at? That he thinks my ambitions aren’t lofty enough or that my library work is a waste of time? I think what he’s saying is well meaning but it unsettlesme; I try so hard to be an author, but sometimes I do find it hard to validate my writing or define my success.
‘Maybe I can see if Phil and Meribelle can talk to their contact at Penguin.’
‘Maybe. I mean, I have an agent who does that for me.’
He squeezes my hand. ‘Well, make sure she’s looking out for you financially. That she’s getting the best deals for you. You deserve the world.’
And it’s a compliment. But it almost isn’t. I don’t want to ruin this perfect moment, the romance of this date, with a conversation about me, my career and what I do and try to do with my life. It feels better to push that down. We can talk about that another time. And out of nowhere, I can suddenly hear the soundtrack ofBoleroin my head, drowning out his words, and the festive music being piped in from above. It makes me think of Nana and I wonder what she’d make of this conversation if I told her. I used to report back on dates – have her squealing with laughter when things had gone horribly wrong. I remember telling her about when this Nick dumped me in the pub. She told me to post him prawns in a padded envelope. She’d love the ice skating but there would be parts of tonight she’d be less keen about. And for one clear moment I hear her voice clear as a bell in my head, saying, ‘You’ve got a good heart, Kay Redman.’ I think about another Nick who echoed those words. I push the thought aside. Not now. I just look up, at the stars trying to peek through the clouds, swaying my arms from side to side as we keep skating, continuing to go round and round in circles.
SEVENTEEN
I love the library, I do, but there are moments when I don’t and that’s right now. I’m here on my own at night and, because of my overactive imagination, I worry that the ghost of a Georgian noblewoman who was tragically strangled to death by her cheating husband is going to appear and start haunting me, asking me to avenge her death. That’s the problem with having a library in an old building that creaks and has corners that seem to suck the light out of the room.
I keep wrapping the books on the table next to me, looking at the pile that seems to be growing, not shrinking. I was right. This idea of the book drive was great in theory and spirit but I have overwhelmed myself with the task. I over-advertised and people have flooded me with their old books. And not just good books, we get bags of random free books people got with their Happy Meals, colouring books that have already been coloured in, Shakespeare that’s been annotated. It’s sorting the wheat from the chaff, wrapping each book and then preparing for these events I’ve planned. I did not think this through, at all. I rest my head on the table, trying to work out how I’ve let this snowball, but then hear a squeaking sound in the depths of the library. Maybe we have mice. Not friendly Cinderella mice, urban micewho will come and eat my face. I grab a pair of scissors from next to me on the desk. I should have asked Olga to stay. I should really learn self-defence. To protect me from urban mice and Georgian ghosts. A knock on the door raps loudly, piercing the silence, and I scream, holding the scissors aloft.
I pop my head through to the foyer and see someone standing there, holding something large and pointy. I squint a little, another sign I think I might need glasses, but then realise who it is.You? New Nick?I don’t recall us arranging a meeting and this is the second time he’s done this, pop up when I least expect it and when I haven’t had time to plan an outfit. Today I’m in a jumpsuit with Converse, what Olga calls my ‘fun mechanic’ outfit. My curls are bundled on my head, my lips and skin dry and tired from a day of work and the central heating in this place. He knocks again. I put down the scissors and quickly get lip balm from my handbag before scurrying over to unlock the door. He waves at me through the glass panels.
‘Hi?’ I say as I open the door, the cold prickling my face.
