Page 57 of Big Nick Energy
‘They’re an excitable bunch. Sorry. You are very welcome to take that pizza to go if you want. I won’t be offended.’
Is he embarrassed by all of this? Does the cape, the fact he kisses babies and the sheer bedlam of the scene change my opinion of him? Surely that can only be for the better. ‘Don’t apologise for your family,’ I say, watching baby Evie whizz around the kitchen. ‘This is all very…’ Don’t say cute and wholesome. Don’t say homely and warming. But there is something wonderful about a house full of people, full of life and love, and it hits me somewhere in my heart, because I don’t have this. I’m an only child and I’ll go back to a dark, cold maisonette after this that belonged to a family member that I’m slowly losing. So to be in the midst of all this love and noise and festivity in abundance is joyful, a huge hug for the soul. I look through to a large living and dining space. ‘Do you seriously have a tree in every room?’
‘Have we not met before?’ he jokes.
I laugh, watching Nate nudge his niece in the ribs.
‘I have pizza! Merry Christmas,’ Sofia says. She returns carrying a plate very carefully towards the table. A plate with a pizza that has all the olives shaped in a heart. Nick turns around staring daggers at his niece whilst I take a piece.
‘This is the best gift ever,’ I say to little Sofia and she stares at me with tomato sauce all over her face, giggling.
TWENTY-FIVE
There is nothing London does better than theatre. In the West End, theatre is still an event, it feels grand, the ultimate escapism. This is most true at Christmas when you walk along the pavements, skipping across puddles that mirror the glow of the lights, with everyone wrapped up in wool coats, leaping up stone steps to buildings lined with pillars, foyers decked in dark wood, red velvet, glass and a soothing amber glow. There’s a lady there with a giant fur muff. You don’t see muffs anymore, I laugh to myself quietly, as I wait near the box office, watching the crowd.
A family walk past, the youngest daughter with brown uncontrollable curly hair, and I’m reminded of New Nick’s little niece, Sofia. I only stayed for an hour at Nick’s house that evening when I dropped in the books. I think Nick was desperate to get rid of me before the big guns came home to interrogate me. It was an hour of bedlam and very tasty pizza, and it grounded Nick. It showed me the messiness of his life, I could start to join the dots about where he belongs, who he loves in his life and how that love makes him the person that he is. It meant I came away from that house supremely confused about what I felt for him.
‘I’m always late, I’m so sorry.’
I jolt back into the moment as I feel an arm go into my coat and around my waist and the familiar touch of Old Nick coming to hug me and give me a kiss on the cheek.
‘You’re not late. I was early. I wanted to just hang out here and soak up the atmosphere,’ I say, looking up at the corniced ceiling, the people in velvet waistcoats in the concessions stands, trying to block any other men called Nick out of my mind.
‘You look amazing as usual,’ he remarks, looking me up and down and taking in my cocktail dress and long black wool coat. The tenderness of his touch and gaze makes me smile. I think that might be one of the things I like about our dates. Back at university, we had dates that involved Pizza Hut buffets and cheap cinema tickets, but now we’re on these big romantic dates that are incredibly mature, that involve little black dresses, white linen tablecloths and wine lists. I’d never looked at a wine list before. I thought I was still at the age where I went for mid-list every time.
‘So do you.’ Old Nick in a suit will always be such a surprise to me, the way he carries it, and how it’s miles away from the boy I once knew. ‘We are super early though, yes?’ I say, looking at my watch.
‘Because we’re having cocktails first,’ he informs me.
This is what I mean by grown up. I don’t remember a cocktails element to our dates unless they were cheap rum and Cokes in The White Hart. I let him take me by the hand as he walks me over to a lift. How does he know about all of these places? How does everything feel so effortless around him? There’s the way he tells us we’re having drinks, the command in his voice which is hugely arousing. He stands next to me in this lift with its brass fittings and checkerboard floor and reaches for my hand.
‘I don’t think we’re in The White Hart anymore, Toto,’ I mutter.
‘That’s a popular culture reference I actually got,’ he snickers.
‘Thank God. If you hadn’t got that one, I’d have been forced to end this,’ I say. He turns to me and sticks his tongue out. There’s a ping as the lift reaches its destination and the doors open. I thought I was done with being shocked but it’s pretty incredible to see this little whimsical bar stashed away on top of this theatre. It’s flooded with fairy lights and greenery, like a conservatory where tables hide amongst the plants, where everyone sits in their little corners tucked away from the rest of the world. Outside, a gorgeous candlelit balcony overlooks Covent Garden – the place where we found each other again.
‘I thought it best to go back to the scene of the crime,’ he says.
‘That would infer that something bad happened that day,’ I say, as we wind around people to find a table.
‘Define bad,’ he says, putting a hand to my lower back. We find a corner table, a church candle to the centre, backlit by ivy and lights.
‘Oh, I was very good, I was just trying to buy a teapot,’ I jest.
There’s a hugely flirtatious nature to our relationship since the igloo boat incident where everything got a bit steamy on the water. The texts, the emojis have gone a bit X-rated, not that I have minded one bit, but sometimes it feels nice to also slow things down, to have a conversation and get to know each other again properly. So this evening feels perfect, it’s got a lovely old-fashioned romantic twist to it.
‘Drinks for you, sir… madam?’
‘Tom Collins for me and a Bramble for the lady.’
He ordered for me but I don’t seem to mind. He knows what I want. I now just have high expectations for something garnished with fruit, aromatics and a paper straw. I look around adjusting myself in my chair, taking off my coat and noticing him watchingmy every move. I can’t help but marvel at the attention. The lights are low, the music is jazzy and we’re surrounded by similar couples, all infusing the collective dreamy atmosphere. I see a young couple on a table near us, barely touching, sitting awkwardly opposite each other. I ask Nick to follow my eyes.
‘First date?’ I mumble. ‘He went big, possibly too big. She’d have been happy with the IMAX and a Five Guys.’
Nick looks over, smiling. ‘Yeah, he over-egged it and went and booked the ballet trying to impress her. He had to borrow a suit off his dad,’ he suggests. ‘He knows nothing about ballet except he once wore a tutu at a stag do.’
‘She did ballet classes until she was nine. She got wedgies from the leotards.’
