Page 54 of Big Nick Energy
I hear her clapping on the end of the line and it’s amusing to sense her excitement. ‘It’s fucking Christmas is what it is. All that love glows in the air this time of year. I’m so happy. But yes, France is a go, and deadlines? Are we still on for those first weeks in January?’
In fact my social life has suddenly ramped up so that might be a no, but how do I tell her? ‘Of course.’
‘And I want updates. Not blurry photos on Instagram that mean I have to call you up to find out what’s happening. Please. Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Bye, lovely girl.’
She hangs up and I stand underneath a tree, pulling my winter coat around me. Does Facebook still let you update your relationship status? Because my God, it is so complicated. I do like Old Nick, very much, but New Nick pops up in my thoughts every so often. I guess my worry, therefore, is whether there’s an honest thread running through any of this and it all makes me a little nervous.
I’m here today to map out the rest of the book-drive schedule with Nick now that I don’t have a car and he’s going to be taxiing me around in his van. We could have done this on the phone, I feel, but he insisted I come round. I think back to what Lucy said. He lives at home so I may meet family, I may have to interact with other people. Is it also strange that I’m preoccupied with what he may be wearing? What does New Nick wear at home when he’s relaxing? Pyjamas? If it’s a onesie, I will laugh. I head down the garden path to this house, a three-floored terrace in a leafy suburb of St Margarets, terracotta tiles on the porch and, naturally, two potted Christmas trees flanking the door, lit up and sparkling. I ring the doorbell before stepping back. Maybe I should insist we do this by text to avoid any embarrassment. Or perhaps I can… The door opens and I look at an empty space in front of me before looking down.
‘Hi!’ The little girl in front of me has a big bush of curly brown hair and is wearing Christmas-tree pyjamas.
‘Hi! I’m… is this where Nick lives?’ I ask her.
‘UNCLE NICK!’ she squeals, still not taking her gaze away from me. ‘UNCLE NIIIIIICCCCCKKK!’
There’s a banging of doors as a familiar figure appears in the hallway. I smile because this is not what I imagined Nick to be wearing at home. He’s in a black t-shirt with jeans, but he also has a superhero cape on and a pair of cat ears on his head. He quickly removes the ears when he sees me and puts a hand through his hair. He looks at his watch. ‘Monkeys, I didn’t see the time. You’re here.’
‘I am,’ I say, still hovering on the porch, smirking at the way he said monkeys to hide his swearing.
‘Are you moving in?’ he asks plainly, looking at the wheeled suitcase behind me.
‘I also wanted to drop off some books. I’ve been busy wrapping these ones at home. I took the bus.’
‘Oh. Yeah, I forgot you didn’t have your car. You should have got an Uber,’ he says, as if I’m a little stupid.
‘I like the bus.’
‘I like the bus too,’ the little girl says, and I am glad to have a public transport ally.
‘Can I leave them here?’
‘I guess,’ he replies.
The little girl looks at the interaction between us curiously. He takes the suitcase from me and our hands graze for a second. I can also see he has a fetching glitter candy cane tattoo on his lower forearm. I smile but don’t quite know what to say next. This is weird, isn’t it? I notice that the little girl winds her way around her uncle’s legs expecting a formal introduction. Maybe she’ll help me make this less awkward. I bend down and put out a hand for her to shake. She giggles at the formality. ‘I’m Kay, by the way… it’s lovely to meet you.’
‘I’m Sofia.’
‘Like Sofia the First?’
She curtseys to confirm as much. I bow to be in the presence of royalty. ‘I love your hair,’ she says, and instinctively reaches out to touch it. ‘It looks like pasta.’
‘Pasta covered in tomato sauce, maybe?’
I love how cheeky and infectious her giggle is. I look up and clock Nick staring down at us. ‘Do you like pizza?’ she asks and takes me by the hand into the house.
I glance at Nick, who’s smiling and shrugs his shoulders. ‘Seeing as you’re here… you’re very welcome to have pizza with us if you want.’
Well, I am here and maybe this is the polite thing to do, especially when Nick has been so generous with his time in the last few weeks. Sofia clings on tightly to me and leads me down the hallway of the house, lined with family photos and all those little idiosyncrasies that make a house a home: jacketspiled on bannisters, shoes thrown off by the stairs, pots of keys and scrapes and bumps that show you a family lives here. Sofia leads me through a door and it’s a strange thing, I don’t think I expected this at all. In this very large kitchen with a huge range cooker to the side and a Christmas tree (naturally) by the bay window, there seems to be a pizza-cooking workshop solely manned by children. I count five heads altogether and they all turn to look at me as we enter the room, Sofia’s hand still firmly in mine.
‘Hi!’ I announce, looking at everyone in turn.
‘Everyone, this is Kay. She’s here to discuss a few things. Be nice, please,’ Nick says in surly tones, but it’s funny, the kids almost laugh at him for it, the teen girl at the counter mimicking him.
‘Didn’t you come to the farm once?’ a teenage lad asks me, and I recognise him as the grumpy elf from the first time I visited. I put a hand up to wave.
