Chapter 9
NINE
I’m waiting outside the Natural History Museum in London, looking through the thick iron railings, wondering if I have got this completely wrong.
Nick told me to meet him here. I assumed we were going ice skating because the seasonal rink appears to be open; the bright white of the ice, the fairy lights, the Christmas tree and the tinkle of music filters through.
That would be an excellent, festive, first official date.
Both of us wrapped up warm, holding hands, gliding around under the shadow of one of London’s finest buildings.
But no, he said that we’re having drinks.
I was told to wear something nice. Men don’t know what those words mean, do they?
It runs the gamut from black trousers and a top to black tie, so I went with a dark-green jumpsuit.
With my hair, I’m always aware I look a little like Poison Ivy but hey, at least it’s seasonal.
Did I get this wrong? Was it a bar or hotel opposite the Natural History Museum?
I look up at the building towering over me.
I’ve always loved it, the way it brings back memories of school trips, how back then the grandeur and majesty of it would take my breath away. I search for my phone in my clutch.
I’m outside.
So am I.
Is he though?
‘Boo.’ I jump in fright then laugh to see Nick behind me.
I put a hand to my chest to calm myself.
He takes my hand tenderly and steps back, looking me up and down.
‘Gorgeous,’ he says, a hand reaching for my face, and he pulls me in for a kiss under the streetlights.
His cheek is soft against mine, I feel the warmth of his breath and the gentle touch of his lips.
I relax immediately as he puts an arm around me, both at the contact and knowing I read the dress code right.
We part and I check him out, realising he’s in a tux with a black tie, his haircut is fresh and he has one hand in his pocket, posing as if he’s on the red carpet.
It’s very swish and debonair. I’m suitably impressed.
‘I hope you’ve not hired this out on my account,’ I say.
I really hope he hasn’t because all we’ve done so far is indulge in a few dates that have led to some pretty energetic sex.
We’ve traded a few cheeky texts, but whatever this may be is still in its infancy, baby steps before we decide if it’s a good idea.
‘God, no,’ he says, as we walk through the gates and proceed up the path to the stone stairs at the front. He puts an arm around me to shield me from the cold. ‘There’s an event I had to attend here, and I had a plus one. I thought it might be nice.’
‘A wedding?’ I say, worried that I haven’t brought a gift.
‘No, just a small work drinks thing. Is that OK?’
I smile. I think so. It feels big for a date but I guess I’m also flattered that he thought me a suitable partner to introduce to his colleagues.
We walk through the doors where others are queueing to go in, the ladies in a selection of cocktail dresses and what I hope aren’t real fur coats.
He puts his hand into mine and squeezes it tightly.
It’s a reassuring feeling and I squeeze back.
However, when the crowd clears and we walk through reception, I stand there for a moment to take it all in.
Holy balls. This is not a work drinks thing.
I had that with Helen and Olga back in the first week of December.
We went to a bar that had tapas and wore novelty earrings, and Helen wowed us all with her conversational Spanish that she’s been learning on Duolingo.
This is an event. In the main hall of the museum as you walk in, a blue whale skeleton sits there regally, and all around the room are tables festooned with candles in jars.
Lights and verdant greenery hang from the large stone archways that frame the galleries.
A large tree at least twenty feet high sits near the back stairs, glowing with warm light and velveteen decorations.
Amongst the well-dressed are waiters in bow ties and gold antlers carrying silver trays of champagne and assorted hors d’oeuvres, while a swing band plays a selection of classic Christmas songs on a stage to the side.
I laugh under my breath as I stare at it all, wide-eyed.
‘Your coat, madam,’ a waiter says, handing me a small cloakroom ticket.
‘Yes. That is my coat and… thank you,’ I say as he takes it away.
It’s an H&M overcoat, my name is written on one of the tags as I’m a touch possessive like that about my coats but no one needs to know that.
I let out a breath, very glad I didn’t go for the black trousers and fancy-top option tonight.
‘You OK?’ Nick asks, looking over at me.
‘A small work drinks thing…’ I say, repeating his words and raising an eyebrow.
He smirks. ‘Are you impressed?’
‘I will be if they have those little Yorkshire puddings with the beef.’
I walk past an ice sculpture of Santa. I think that may be a vodka luge.
This is not how I usually do this place.
I usually come here for an afternoon and learn random facts about fossils, catching the light through the large circular stained-glass window that now sits dark and lifeless above us.
I’d be sitting on the stone steps and people-watching with a café flapjack.
‘You got fancy in your old age,’ I say to Nick as he walks alongside me. He smiles broadly, effortlessly stopping a waiter and taking two glasses of champagne, handing me one. I will take it this isn’t a seven-pound bottle of Prosecco from Aldi. I take a prolonged sip. Of course it isn’t.
‘That went down well,’ I say, a little too loudly.
He smirks. That is our conversational currency at the moment, these small moments of banter that hark back to that moment when we first met. I shake my head at him, my eyes continuously drawn to this boy I used to date, who’s blossomed into quite the man.
‘I guess I thought I could do that later. Bringing it up now seems a little premature,’ he whispers into my ear. His hand goes lower down my back, resting above the curve of my hips. ‘We could find a little dark corner.’
I now regret wearing the jumpsuit. ‘Somewhere near some old bones.’
He laughs loudly and I’ll admit that even though I don’t think it was even in the vicinity of my best jokes, it’s a kick to amuse him. ‘Is that what we’re calling me now?’
‘An old bone? Well, if the shoe fits.’ He slaps me playfully on the backside and I jump, sticking my tongue out at him. ‘I will hold you to that, Saint Nick.’
‘Oh, there will be nothing saintly about it.’
He stands dangerously close to me, his arm wrapped around me, and I look at his face – so familiar and so strange at the same time.
Who are you? There is a deep attraction there.
I think it was always there when we were younger, but he seems different to the person he was eight years ago.
Back then he was young, a little selfish.
I survived our break-up because that’s what young hearts do, but have things changed enough for us to give this another go?
Does this also feel right because it feels a little wrong?
‘Colesy! How goes it?’ a man suddenly says, approaching us. Nick lets go of me, takes the man’s hand and shakes it vigorously. ‘Tough day on the markets, do you know how the FTSE panned out?’
I smile, clutching on to my glass to hear the poshness of the accent and because the topic of conversation goes well beyond my sphere of knowledge. The man is similarly in a tuxedo, accompanied by a lady partner with sleek blonde hair and a stunning black backless dress.
‘Mad day but I’m not talking shop now, Phil. It’s time to drink. This is Kay. Kay, this is Phil and his wife, Meribelle.’ I wonder if she’s named after the ski resort or the Nintendo game anime character? I’m going to think neither. I put out my hand and shake theirs to introduce myself.
‘This jumpsuit is gorgeous, is it vintage?’ Meribelle asks. If that’s how we’re describing ASOS then let’s go with it.
I nod. ‘You’re very kind. Your dress is also beautiful.’
‘Oh, this old thing, last season’s Gucci,’ she says. I feel a lump in my throat as she says this because I picked up my clutch on a food shop at Tesco last year. This isn’t my crowd, not one little bit, but I try to keep up appearances. ‘Are you in finance too?’ she asks.
‘Oh no, Kay’s in publishing,’ Nick intervenes.
I frown before quickly correcting my expression and giving a polite smile.
It’s not a lie per se but I stop for a moment to get that story aligned in my head.
I guess we haven’t really traded in much chitchat since we reconnected.
He knows I collaborate with an illustrator and write the occasional kids’ book.
Does he know I spend the majority of my time in a community library though?
I’m a beast with the Dewey decimal system.
Can I unleash that knowledge now? It pains me that maybe this won’t be of any worth to them.
There is another reason why he may have lied though, and I’m unsure how I feel about that.
‘Wow,’ Phil says. ‘Any of the big five?’ he asks.
To hell with it, I’ve had a drink and it’s a fancy night. ‘Penguin.’
‘Do you know Roger Miley? He’s one of their editorial execs? We climbed Everest with him two years ago.’
‘Oh yes, Roger. How’s his knee?’ I say. I have no bloody idea who Roger is but, truth be told, if I’m being asked to participate in this game then I want to have fun with it. Please don’t tell me Roger doesn’t have knees.
‘His knee?’ Meribelle asks. ‘He’s always been one of the fittest people I know.’
Shit. ‘Oh yes, I believe he hurt it playing in a pickleball tournament. I think he strained his patella.’
‘I’ll have to send fruit,’ she says. Well, at least Roger will have got something out of this.
I want to move this on but I smile at Nick who seems to be in a light panic that I’ve brought pickleball into the conversation. Do I bullshit about Everest now? I’ve seen pictures of it but that might be harder to fake and I’ve only had one drink.
‘Kay mainly works in acquisitions and commissioning at Penguin,’ Nick tells them. I turn my head swiftly to look at him. I do? OK, I can drag this out. Do I have to talk about Roger again?
‘Yeah, mainly liaising with agents and new talent.’
‘Anyone to look out for? Who’s the next big thing?’ Meribelle asks. ‘I’ll have to tell my book club.’
‘Well,’ I say, nodding and thinking what gets loaned out the most in our local library, ‘fantasy with erotic leanings is always going to sell big. I think the romcom is going to start making a strong comeback.’
Phil snorts immediately. ‘Fodder fiction then for lovelorn idiots.’
I stop in my tracks. ‘You say that but it accounts for a large proportion of the market. Nothing wrong with people wanting fiction that’s hopeful, bright, that soothes the soul.’
‘Well, you would say that if you’re getting all the profits,’ Phil says, guffawing in reply.
I reckon Nick can read in my eyes that I instantly dislike this man.
Can I hit him? Nick may remember that I hit someone in a pub once when we were together because he told me Jackie Collins was crap.
I bet Phil reads fictional war books, speaks in tactical talk and has slightly masochistic tendencies that come out in the bedroom.
Still, I keep smiling along with this charade.
‘Colesy, brandies later and we can talk about that merger offer,’ he says to Nick, doing a strange click of the fingers and pointing action at him.
‘It was lovely to meet you,’ Meribelle says, putting an arm to mine. She’ll feel this jumpsuit is synthetic won’t she?
They walk away and Nick turns to me sheepishly. ‘I am sorry.’
I fake a laugh. ‘Publishing?’
He sees the confusion in my face. ‘I panicked and I didn’t want them to judge you. They’re a bit high and mighty with all their Everest and Gucci talk.’
I feel a swell of disappointment that he would feel the need to keep up with the Joneses, but maybe I need to accept his excuse that he was trying to be protective.
I take a sip from my drink and look out into the room again.
Behind him the swing band break into song and people congregate on the dancefloor, including one man in a white tux jacket.
‘He looks like Marty McFly’s dad,’ I say.
‘Who?’ Nick asks, looking at me. And for a moment, I remember something that didn’t quite click with us.
He never had a huge amount of pop culture knowledge.
I am very much a film quotes and song lyrics kinda girl and that never translated with him.
He used to look at me as if I was speaking in tongues.
When I visited his family, they were very highbrow, happiest with a BBC4 documentary on the origins of space or Greek philosophy on the TV.
There is time and space for both, I feel.
I think it’s good pub quiz knowledge to amass as many random facts as possible.
‘Back to the Future,’ I say.
‘The one with the car.’
I nod, smirking. He senses me mocking him. Well, he’s told complete strangers a lie that shows that he doesn’t think my profession is good enough for public consumption. I think that makes us even.
‘Can you tell the next people that I’m a screenwriter and that I summer with Scorsese in Sicily?’ I say. ‘It’s a bit more glamorous than pickleball with Roger.’
He laughs again as someone walks past with a platter of tiny Yorkshire puddings, each topped with a perfectly cooked piece of rare steak and horseradish. ‘You were saying,’ Nick says.
‘He delivers again.’
‘Always,’ he says, whispering into my ear.