Chapter 25
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 watching my 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.’
His smile broadens into laughter. Our eyes glance to the next table over where a man has ordered champagne in a silver bucket. ‘That’s either an early Christmas gift or…’
‘He’s shagging his secretary and is trying to make it up to the wife.’
The synchronicity in how we finish each other’s sentences is strangely arousing and makes me lean into the table.
This is the sort of conversation that might keep me in this.
An older couple sit at the bar and toast each other.
‘They go to the ballet every year, a non-negotiable. A little Christmas tradition…’ Nick goes strangely quiet at that point, looking at them dolefully. ‘And their names are…’
‘Tom Collins and a Bramble?’ Not the names I’d have chosen for that couple but the waitress arrived just in time.
I was also right about the drinks in this place.
Mine is half-crushed ice and a mint plant sprouting out the top.
She puts the glasses down and Nick raises his to clink against the side of mine. ‘To us.’
It’s a simple toast but one that makes me smile. Did the older couple at the bar prompt this sentiment? Either way, it feels apt to toast us, a version of us that could exist in the future. ‘What do you think people say about us then?’
‘Obviously, we are stunning and people are hugely jealous of the chemistry,’ he jokes.
‘Obviously. They adore your tailoring.’
‘And I reckon people can see the history, the story. I like that we have a story.’
And I understand what he means completely. He reaches over to hold my hand and rubs a thumb over my knuckles affectionately.
‘Nick?’ I am snapped out of our moment by a blonde lady standing beside us, a glass of red wine in her hand.
‘What are you…’ She swings around to look at me and I see poker-straight blonde hair, blue eyes and a way her lips curl to a disapproving pout.
She’s in an olive backless dress which shows me she’s not wearing a bra.
I get no warmth from her; it’s a cold front with super-frosty edges.
I know her but I can’t think how. Nick’s demeanour changes to see her too and he moves his hand away from mine and sits up straighter in his seat.
He’s gone from casual and flirty to rigid, a snarky look to his eyes that I can’t quite read.
‘Oh, hi… yeah, we’re here to watch the ballet.’
‘The ballet? Seriously?’ the lady says, one eyebrow raised.
So she knows him. Ouch. Is this an ex? To find out I’d have to ask or get out my phone to do some side-by-side comparisons with old Facebook photos but that might not go down well.
‘Why not? This is Kay. Kay, this is Neve.’
I know that name, I really do know that name.
This is an ex. This is an ex from New York because I’ve seen a photo of them on top of the Empire State Building.
You have really good hair. Don’t say that out loud.
She looks at me but doesn’t seem to want to engage in pleasantries.
I will assume that Nick dumped her on account of her lack of manners then.
She’s judging, I can feel that gaze scanning my face, looking for zits, warts, an extra nostril, anything that can place me beneath her, and for that, I hate her immediately.
I hope that wine stains your teeth and you don’t find out all evening so in all your photos, it looks like you’ve been sucking off a Smurf.
‘It’s good to meet you,’ I say, not really sure why I’m lying or feeling so angry. She nods back at me and her lack of etiquette immediately riles Nick. I’m secretly pleased he’s so defensive of me in this moment.
‘Well, enjoy. If I don’t see you before, have a good Christmas,’ Nick replies, not quite smiling.
She doesn’t reply. She just gives a slight shake of the head and walks away.
I can’t hide the look on my face as she does so.
I see Nick turn to watch her go, then he turns back to me.
‘Absolute bitch.’ He takes a long sip of his drink and looks over his shoulder again.
‘Am I allowed to ask?’ I mutter.
‘An ex.’
‘I thought she might be. She’s…’
‘So far up her own sphincter, she can breathe out her own mouth?’ he says.
‘I was going to say a bit Grinchy, but that also works,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood and then I see Nick’s face relax, and he laughs loudly, enough for a few people to look up.
Loud enough that someone at the end of the bar might be able to hear.
I know his game. Oh my, is she scrunchie lady?
Because that computes in a big way. There’s a story there, right?
That would have been a long relationship, something that travelled miles and obviously didn’t work out, but this is not the right time to fish for details and kill the mood.
He sits, still slightly pensive. ‘Do you believe in fate, Kay?’ Nick asks me, stroking the side of his glass.
‘I believe the universe has a plan,’ I say. ‘I think it’s funny we met, broke up and reunited at Christmas. The timing is pretty impressive.’
‘I’ve been starting to think that. Perhaps we were reunited for a reason.’ He smiles broadly. ‘Plus, Christmas seems to be the common theme here. That means we’d have to give our kids festive names.’
‘You and the kids, stop it already. I’m not even ovulating,’ I joke.
‘Holly and Ivy.’
‘Mariah and Rudolph.’
Again, he roars with laughter. ‘That would be cruel.’
‘But funny.’
‘And this is what this is, right? Fun?’ He looks down for a moment at my arm. ‘Is that a… tattoo?’
I stare down at the candy cane tattoo on my arm that after a few showers still remains on my skin. We’ll blame the six-year-old creative director for that one. ‘It was a library thing, I joined in with the kids,’ I explain, immediately feeling guilty for lying.
He chortles almost in disbelief. ‘Fun.’
And there’s that word again. This is fun.
But sometimes we veer into this being more than that, and that’s when I find I can’t read him.
What happened with the frosty blonde, Nick?
Why did it not work? Where is this going?
Why do you keep the scrunchie? And for a moment, I don’t see present-day Nick in his suit, I see a boy I spent a year with in Bath, a boy I fell desperately in love with.
A love that didn’t exist in these fancy clothes and surroundings.
Someone who used to wait outside my lecture theatre with a doughnut in a white paper bag.
It was summer spent in the park, lying on the grass sharing headphones and getting slightly pink tans.
Eight years ago, eight years apart. Could this be revived into a long-term thing?
‘Fun, always.’