Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
‘I don’t get this film. I don’t get why the kid doesn’t just tell the police he’s home alone.
It makes no sense. They would get social workers in.
They’d look after him instead of him having to fight off these thieves,’ Nick says as he looks at his large flatscreen television, so huge I can pretty much count all of Macaulay Culkin’s teeth when he screams. ‘Pass the Sellotape, babe.’
I’m at Old Nick’s flat, doing a bit of last-minute gift wrapping and trying my best to get into the season, to prove that being here is the right decision.
This is Nick. Nick from back in the day, who you used to spend hours with, literally days at university where you’d go out on Friday and go back to his and sprawl over his bed, eating Domino’s and tubes of Pringles.
This is a safe love with history, potential.
That said, did he used to sit here and judge films like this when we were together?
This is Christmas canon. You don’t get to sit here and pick holes in Home Alone.
Because Harry would unlikely survive the flamethrower to the head if we’re looking at what’s wrong with this.
‘How do you get your corners so straight?’ he asks me, grappling with a small jewellery box.
‘A lifetime of wrapping books. Here, let me sort that for you,’ I say, reaching over. He seems reticent to hand the gift over, but I take the box and open it to see a pretty pendant in the middle.
‘For my sister,’ he says. ‘That’s her birthstone. Garnet.’
‘The man has an excellent eye,’ I say, though I am curious if birthstones are the only gift he knows to give.
‘Well,’ he says, gesturing in my direction. I blow him a kiss. I fold down the edges and then wrap the box in twine to make it look presentable. He watches me and then balances the box on his hand. ‘You’re amazing, thank you.’
He gets up to get another bag of gifts as I sit back, looking out at the river.
Nick hadn’t really bothered with making this place too Christmassy so I got him some decorations, lights and a small potted tree (not from the other Nick’s farm obviously).
Out across the way, the scene shows a scattering of coloured lights from other flats and houseboats in the twilight landscape to let us know Christmas is here, the river is still, the sky clouded over with snow expected in the next few days.
‘More wine, madam?’ he asks me.
‘Always,’ I tell him. He pours me a glass and clinks my glass.
Tonight, it’s another casual version of Nick.
He’s not in a suit but jeans and a t-shirt with bare feet, and this whole set-up feels like a grown-up version of us from eight years ago except we’re not watching films on a laptop, sharing a large bottle of cider.
I quite like how there’s still a tube of Pringles on the coffee table though, along with some posh charcuterie and a large box of Celebrations.
I’m also sitting here as myself, in leggings and a jumper, no make-up on and my hair bundled on top of my head.
There are throws on the sofa, a fake fireplace fired up along the wall.
He lines up a selection of toys along the sofa, ready to wrap them for his nephews.
‘Hey, I’m sorry I never followed up on the book-drive thing, by the way. I did mention it at work and they said it was too small a venture to invest in, even for charity. I did try though,’ Nick says, as he works out the best way to wrap the football in front of him. ‘Did it go well?’
I shrug my shoulders, trying to push the other Nick out of my mind.
The Nick who went the extra mile to help me wrap those books, deliver them and then ended up buying multiple copies of my own.
It’s not a comparisons game, it can’t be.
‘It was fine. Remember Lucy, my friend from school? She works at a Christmas-tree farm and they lent me someone to help.’ Look at me, super vague but also imparting some truth there.
‘Lucy works on a Christmas-tree farm? Is she the angel on top of the trees, shouting obscenities at everyone?’ he says, chuckling at his own joke.
‘She’s doing meet and greet stuff in costume, it’s a fun place,’ I say.
‘This is why Christmas is becoming more and more ridiculous. Next there’ll be farms where you can name and kill your own turkeys but they’ll turn it into an “experience”.’
I try and summon up a laugh but inside I feel slightly protective about the North Christmas Tree Farm and their very special brand of family magic. I take a large sip of wine to try and remove them from my mind, to bring myself back into the room.
‘So, I just need to ask about this whole Christmas Eve thing. If you think it’s too much then I can stay away, I know your dad almost invited me out of obligation,’ I say frankly.
Nick pulls a face telling me he thinks otherwise. ‘Don’t overthink it, hun. Just come along, grab some food. You’ll know a lot of them. It’s not a big thing.’
‘It isn’t?’ I say, an eyebrow raised.
‘You’ll actually be doing me a favour. It’ll save me from my family asking questions about my love life. Then I can point to you.’
‘So really I’m just a cover to avoid awkward questions then?’
‘The prettiest cover there ever was,’ he says, a sparkle in his eye. I’m charmed, but also curious what this party has in store.
‘Well, if you’re free on Christmas Day itself, I’ll be at my place with Nana if you wanted to pop in. I know you’ll be busy but you’re welcome to come for mince pies.’
He’s distracted by the television at this point but turns to me, nodding.
I don’t quite know what that means but if this Nick is my choice then it makes sense to firm this up, to understand what all this fun might lead to.
‘And I thought that maybe after Christmas, in the break, you and I could possibly go somewhere for the weekend? Surely the next stage of fun is a mini-break?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah? I may have to go to New York on the twenty-seventh though, for a few days. Work are doing a thing and New Year’s Eve in New York is mega.’
Was that an invitation or an excuse? ‘Oh, yeah…’
‘We could do something when I get back. Maybe Paris?’
‘Yeah. You can get good deals in January.’
‘I could take you up the Eiffel Tower?’ he mentions.
‘Oi oi,’ I say, and he laughs loudly. ‘There’s fun and there’s fun.
’ He looks me in the eye, grinning, and I’m transported back to a bar in Bath just before Christmas where a boy tried to chat me up, giving me a look that told me he was serious, that he wanted to take this further. ‘Can I ask you a question, Nick?’
‘Uh-huh,’ he says, gliding scissors through the wrapping paper. That piece is far too small for what he has planned but I won’t say anything.
‘What do you remember about us at university? I keep having flashbacks to it, moments, trying to piece it all together. It was so long ago that I can’t remember all of it.’
‘It was good, no?’ I’m not sure how he’s managed to qualify that year with a single word. ‘We had fun back then too. You educated me on films. Before I met you, I’d never seen The Shawshank Redemption.’
‘It was lucky I came along then,’ I say.
He sits there, his scissors and hands hovering over the coffee table. ‘I remember we had sex on a washing machine once? At that house party, the one where that bloke surfed down the stairs on a tray and then left a hole in the wall,’ he says, chuckling to himself.
I try and laugh along but is it terrible that I can’t remember that? Were we clothed? Was that washing machine on? ‘I remember you had those jeans with the patchwork pocket. Do you still have those?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say curiously. He’s going to have to give me more than a memory of a pair of patchwork jeans. ‘I remember you were very gentlemanly, smart, it felt easy to be with you,’ I say, trying to prompt him.
He looks at me. ‘Yeah, it was easy. You were easy,’ he smiles. ‘You know what I mean. You’re not like other girls.’
OK, this is warming up. I hate to do this but a few days ago, another Nick floored me with his compliments, he made me back into an armchair in an empty library and sob quietly with just a few sentences, so I need to do this to know I’m choosing the right Nick.
‘Some girls are pure histrionics, nothing’s ever good enough, there are terms and conditions, complications, nothing is ever black and white.
So yeah, in that way, you’re easy. I’m glad you get it.
’ He says this plainly, one eye on the film, the other battling with Sellotape, never quite looking me in the eye.
I sit there and take another sip of wine. I don’t quite know what I’m feeling but I think it could be nothing, absolutely nothing. What do I get? You? Us? Who are these other girls who I’m assuming you’ve dated in the interim? I’m both wildly unamused but confused by all of what he has just said.
‘Oh, remember that one time we went to the zoo in Bristol? We saw that monkey that was the spitting image of Will Ferrell. Remember how funny that was?’
My face is completely creased with confusion now.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. And for a moment, I do worry that I have romanticised this.
I thought back to key moments, physical intimacy, conversations that would last for days.
Does none of that stick in his mind? Why can’t I remember this monkey?
And suddenly, a flashback jumps into my mind.
Not just one, a few. Moments where I waited for him outside lectures and he forgot about me and I shrugged it off.
A time when he regularly drank all of my apple juice straight from the carton and said he’d buy me more.
A time when he told me he had a cold sore forming so he wouldn’t be able to go down on me or kiss me but if I wanted to go down on him then that would be fine.
A Valentine’s card that was a note written on the back of a coaster.
And then a break-up. A conversation in a pub where he decided we would go off and do his own thing.
I remember how blindsided I felt by all of that, but we broke up, and I nursed that heartache alone and without question because I was ‘easy’.
‘How upset were you when we broke up the first time round?’ I ask him.
‘Pretty hurt,’ he says, bobbing his head around to gauge the feeling. ‘I was young though and confused. In your late teens, everyone’s a teeny tiny bit self-obsessed.’
‘Some more than others,’ I comment, smirking.
‘I’ve changed though, no?’
I nod. I think he has. I hoped he had.
‘I like that you haven’t. I really like that.’ But I have. Haven’t I? We both have. And there’s a reason I’m here. He’s shown me kindness, generosity. He’s still handsome and the sex is good. It’s more than good. This could be good. ‘You’re great.’
I’m great. I think that is all I’m going to get here.
I turn my head to one side, now starting to wonder if I’ve drunk too much red wine.
I don’t think you’re wrapping that gift very well either.
‘So tell me, what exactly does Kevin’s dad do, because that house is massive? I’m counting six bedrooms at least.’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘I really don’t know.’