Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
‘And so this is free?’ a woman asks me, sifting over the table at this village Christmas fair.
She looks at me and Nick suspiciously, waiting for the catch.
Does she have to give a donation? Throw a beanbag?
Give us her email address and sign away her firstborn son?
Thankfully, no. Please have some books, re-gift them, embrace the power of reading.
Please. Because we wrapped a few hundred of these. I got paper cuts.
‘When you say used, how do you know if they’re sanitary?’ she asks. ‘Do you know where they’ve come from? Did you count the pages?’
‘I counted the pages,’ Nick says next to me. ‘Every book was hand wiped too.’
‘Because mites can live in books. I had a friend who caught nits from a book once.’ Nick and I stand there quietly, not reacting.
That would mean your friend wears books on her head like hats.
Nick pushes a book in her direction. ‘Well, given that it’s free…
’ She takes one, putting it in her shopping bag. ‘Thank you.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ Nick says, and we watch her walk away to smell a few candles in the next stall.
Today is a little bit different. I was told by one of my library patrons about this Christmas fair in her little village – an event where the village comes together to create a nativity scene in the town square, school choirs come out to sing and they have market stalls all down the main street.
She offered me a stall space to give away my books so I took her up on the offer.
It’s all wonderfully parochial from the lights to the hay bales and it’s lovely to smell all the food and mulled wine, to see people bundled up and enjoying the season.
I look at the dark inky sky and the stars sit there in formation, almost held up by the cold.
As Nick organises the books on our stall, I glance at him, still not knowing what I witnessed back at his farm.
For the life of me, I don’t know how to bring it up.
I did some quick maths in the car and he’s bought at least two hundred copies of my books.
I checked that on my phone. I don’t religiously check my sales and ratings anymore but I had seen that it had an immediate effect.
Do I thank him? Do I tell him I know? Deep down, there’s a reason he’s done this, and it pains me that it’s more than him wanting to do a nice thing.
It’s because there is more there than just friendship.
On the way over, I was quiet, deep in thought, trying to unravel what it all meant.
I say quiet, I was also stuffing three cannoli in my mouth.
Nick’s mum is a bloody baking genius. The pistachio in the ricotta filling is worthy of a thousand chef’s kisses.
‘Do we really count the pages so they’re all accounted for?’ Nick asks, his breath fogging the air.
‘Of course, every last one,’ I joke.
I wonder if he can tell that I’m trying to force this joke out of me.
Because something has shifted. Because you’re not simply good looking, you’ve got a good heart and a kind mum who gave me a little cardboard box filled with ravioli with a wooden fork and a little separate container with cheese to sprinkle on top because she didn’t know how much cheese I would want.
All the cheese, Natalia. All of it. I can’t do this to him anymore.
If he’s done that big a gesture, I need to do the same and at least give him my honesty.
‘Listen, after this… when we’ve given out the books, did you want to…’
‘We should probably help them put the tables away?’ he suggests. ‘I offered to help that old lady carry her jams too.’ Of course he did. This would be far easier if he was awful and unhelpful.
‘I meant, maybe we should get a drink?’ I say.
His face softens. ‘I’d like that.’ I feel an immediate pang of guilt because what I need to say is that there’s another Nick on the scene and I don’t really know how to break that to him.
‘What sort of drink though?’ he asks. ‘I think we use the term quite generically now but were you talking about a pint or a coffee from the petrol station?’
‘I was thinking alcohol. There’s a little pub over there,’ I say, pointing across the square to a cosy little pub with a thatched roof and etched windows, smoke funnelling out of its chimney, Christmas lights glowing inside. Or maybe it would be easier to do this on a Shell forecourt.
He turns towards me, eyebrows slightly raised in surprise that I may be asking him on a date.
Haven’t we done this already though? We got a hog roast and shared a bench.
We’ve sat in my library late into the night wrapping books.
He rescued me out of a Christmas tree netting machine once.
‘Then that sounds great. A drink sounds perfect.’
I can’t look at him because I have no idea what that drink will entail but it immediately fills my heart with sadness that I will have to let him down, that I’ve not handled this situation very well at all.
‘It’s… actually, I—’
But before I can finish my sentence, a man arrives at the table, a little breathless and panicked.
‘Mate, I couldn’t ask you a favour?’ he says, his hands gripping the end of the table.
He points towards a woman stood by a lamppost, pushing a pram to and fro with what sounds like a very unhappy baby inside.
To the side of the pram are two kids, mid-tantrum, one of them on the floor, his back arched as if he’s possessed.
‘Of course,’ Nick replies.
‘We just can’t wait for Santa anymore. The queue is massive and my kids are tired and could you just…? Are you the sort of Santa who’d be able to chat to my kids, hear their lists, you know? I’d pay. Can I buy something off your stall?’
I see the fatigue in the man’s eyes and summon up a smile. ‘The books are free, your kids are very welcome to take some.’
‘But I can also help,’ Nick says. ‘I mean I don’t look like traditional Santa with the beard or anything.’
‘Seriously, I’ll take anything at the moment. Tell them you’ve gone on a diet or something,’ he says, taking out his wallet.
‘Yeah, put that away. What are their names?’ Nick asks, straightening out his fur robe and reaching down to a hessian sack, poring over the books on the table and selecting three.
Look at you. It’s like we’ve told Batman there’s a problem in Gotham and you’ve put on your outfit and are stepping up to the plate.
He’s a hero, a saviour, this man’s kids are going to sleep well tonight because of him.
‘Louie, Anya and George in the pram,’ the man says hurriedly.
‘Last name?’
‘Bailey.’
‘You named your kid George Bailey?’ Nick asks.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Nothing. I’ll need more, key facts on each of them.’
‘Louie’s into capybaras, Anya plays football, George is literally weeks old,’ the dad reels off, and I hover by my stall, watching as Nick approaches them, just within earshot to hear what’s happening. He stands over Louie and I see the little boy’s face turn and look up at him.
‘Ho, ho, ho.’ Yeah, we still need to work on that.
‘What’s happening, Louie? Why are you on the floor?
’ he asks curiously. The little boy jumps to his feet, while his sister peers around from behind the pram, looking up.
It must be like looking up at the moon. They’re both silent.
Not going to lie, Mum is looking over as well and then back at her husband as though this is a terrible plan.
This man is not some old grandpa and you might be shitting all over their Christmas dreams.
‘Who are you?’ Anya asks.
‘I’m Santa.’
‘No you’re not,’ she replies quickly. I like this girl. Never stop questioning things, little one.
‘Well, there’s only one Santa but he has lots of people out there who represent him, who keep an eye out. Louie, Anya and George, yes?’ Anya is silenced to hear her name. She comes out from behind the pram. ‘The Bailey family. Hi, Mum.’
‘Hi Santa,’ she says, her voice a bit shaky.
‘So you’re not the Santa but you’re also called Santa?’ Anya continues.
‘Yes.’
‘Doesn’t that get confusing?’
‘Sometimes.’
I guess it’s akin to when you’re half-dating two people called Nick. I smile at these small people getting the better of him.
Nick bends down to their level. ‘I’m just here to say hello.
Are you being good tonight?’ They both nod tentatively.
‘I remember when I was little and got tired. Here…’ He reaches into his pocket to find them each a chocolate coin, placing them in their tiny palms. ‘And one for Mummy and Daddy too, because they do a very special job, wouldn’t you agree? ’
He’s magic – all four of them listening, even the baby has quietened. Passers-by stop to look at this spell he’s weaving.
‘So you report back to Santa?’ Louie asks.
‘Yes, I have elf blood.’
‘So you make toys as well?’ Anya asks.
‘I do. We are crafting you some very cool Nike Predators,’ Nick says.
Anya inhales sharply. ‘For me?’
Nick nods, smiling. ‘And we’re crafting some special musical instruments for Louie here too.’
Louie’s dad’s eyes widen in confusion. I cock my head to one side.
‘Why?’ asks Louie.
‘Because you play the capybara?’ Nick says.
I laugh and step away from my table to approach them. ‘Santa, you are funny.’ I turn to him for a moment. ‘A capybara is like a giant bear-pig animal. Like a swimming wombat,’ I whisper, and his eyes widen.
‘I was just joking,’ he says, turning back to Louie.
‘You’re sending me a capybara?’ he says, his eyes lighting up.
‘Is that possible?’ he asks me out the side of his mouth.
‘No, they live in zoos,’ I say quickly, impressed by my own ventriloquism.
‘We’ve sewn you one. A very special one,’ Nick says, Louie’s parents looking instantly relieved.
‘Who are you?’ Louie asks me.