Page 70 of Big Nick Energy
‘Kebab,’ I whisper.
‘Donner,’ he says confidently.
‘I hope you have a nice Christmas fake Santa,’ she says, reaching over to kiss him on the cheek. ‘You smell nice.’
He smells of limes today, doesn’t he? I sometimes know that smell when I’m near, when I hug him or get close to him. It smells like fresh laundry in a basket of citrus fruit. I watch as he fist-bumps Louie and then bends down to wave at the baby in the pram, before crouching down to let their mum take a photo.
‘We also have some books for you…’ he says, reaching into his hessian sack and handing them out. ‘I wrapped those ones especially.’
I watch as they take the brown paper packages, their eyes lighting up because it’s a gift. All of this is a gift. And just like that, the fatigue and tantrums of a few minutes ago have melted away. They’re happy, they’ve rediscovered their Christmas spirit. I immediately think about how this man is perfect dad material. This is awful. I need to stop thinking that.
They run on and their dad turns and offers Nick a hug. ‘Thank you, Santa.’ He stays there for a moment too long, as if the inner child in him might need this moment and Nick allows for it, patting his back. He lets go and walks away and we turn to the table where a line seems to have formed. Nick and I look at each other. Time to give away some books, Santa.
‘Could you go in my pocket and grab my keys?’ Nick asks me as he carries a couple of boxes to the car.
It ended up being a longer evening than either of us anticipated. Nick was fake Santa for about thirty kids. He chatted to them, he learnt their names, he was frigging adorable. And I handed over books, watching, trying to convince myself that I felt nothing for this man at all. It was like having a herd of puppies at my feet. They’re definitely not cute. Not one little bit.Please don’t make me put my hand in your pocket. But he’s waiting. I won’t put the whole hand in. I’ll put two fingers so the contact is minimal. I get them out and press on his key fob, opening his car boot for him.
‘Are you OK? You look cold? I have a coat if you need it?’ he asks. He puts the box in the back of the truck then steps closer to me, putting his hands to my shoulders and rubbing them up and down. My body tenses up. ‘Sorry,’ he says, stepping away almost immediately.
‘It’s fine. It’s just this cheap cardigan underneath, that sort of friction might cause…’
‘Combustion?’ he smirks.
‘Yes. I’d burst into flames right here and that would be…’
‘Messy,’ he says.
‘I was going to say inconvenient.’ My teeth are chattering slightly through my laughter. He’s parked down a quiet street off the square, the lowlights of the streetlamps shining down on usbut plunging the rest of the street into darkness. Down the road, the market winds down. It’s been a lovely night to be among this small community, to meet families, curious old people, and to give them something free, without money, commitment or for anything in return. I enjoyed seeing the surprise in their faces, their gratitude, their joy. It’s why I felt compelled to do all this. I gaze up into the clear sky, the stars twinkling down, and take in a deep breath of the cold night air.
‘That was a good night, thank you for the capybara save,’ Nick says, smiling and leaning against his car, looking at me.
‘Haven’t you heard the song?’ I ask. Do I sing him the capybara song? Of course I do. I even make up moves because my charisma knows no bounds.
He looks at me curiously. ‘Did you just make that up?’
‘No! It’s a thing on social media.’
‘I don’t do that.’
I look down, shaking my head, remembering. ‘Well, now you know. Firstly beavers, now capybaras. We seem to run an excellent line in talking about small furry animals.’
He smiles. ‘Did you hear that baby’s name too? George Bailey.’
‘It’s a Wonderful Life.“You want me to lasso the moon, Mary?”’ I say, doing my best Jimmy Stewart impression. He seems impressed that I’d get the reference, less so by the impression, standing there biting his lip as I laugh to myself. ‘Don’t pretend that you don’t find me amazingly hilarious.’
He shakes his head at me, trying not to smile.
‘The rest of that was excellent though. Well done, fake Santa.’
‘Well done, fake wife.’
‘Excuse me, please don’t refer to me with a label. It’s fake Mrs Santa,’ I say, putting a finger in the air, trying to downplay the wife comment.
He takes a moment to catch his breath. ‘You still up for that drink?’
‘I am. It might warm me up.’
‘You’re still cold?’
