‘Matt Buckley, as I live and breathe!’ she exclaims, her face slightly ruddy from the cold air. ‘How the bloody hell are you?’
‘I thought that was you,’ he replies, going in for a hug. ‘I’m good, how are you? Jesus, it’s been years!’
I watch in amusement as Matt seems to regress back fourteen years to the cocky, cumbersome teenager he once was, joking about his school years and their mutual friends. By the way they’re coyly looking at each other, it’s obvious they used to have a thing. Fucking hell, can’t I have just one day where I don’t feel like Matt’s third wheel?
‘I’d better run,’ Kirstie eventually says, taking her thief dog by the leash. She removes the stolen stick from his mouth and hands it to Matt. ‘So lovely to see you! Say hi to your mum and dad for me.’
‘Will do,’ he replies. ‘Take care!’
As Matt watches her walk away, I notice his eyes glaze over, just for a second.
‘Uh-oh,’ I say, snapping him back to reality. ‘Don’t fall too far down the rabbit hole, mate.’
He smirks. ‘Nah, I’m good. Just, she still looks bloody amazing. Kirstie was my first. . . real. . . girlfriend—’
‘And by “real” you mean you boned? Popped your cherry, stamped your v-card, bumped her ugly?’
‘Shut up! There was nothing ugly about it. She was the hottest girl at school: smart and funny and popular, and oh my God, she did this insane thing with her tongue—’
‘Whoa, mate! I really, really don’t need to know.’ I mime vomming and Matt shoves me.
‘Seriously, though. Weird to see her with a wedding ring on – she’s an actual grown-up now. In my head she’s still sixteen. She was the only girl I ever loved. . . you know, except for Karen.’
Karen’s name works its magic and there is an awkward silence as we trudge along.
‘Ghosts of girlfriends past and all that. . .’ Matt finally says with a sad smile, and I wonder about what Mrs B said last night.
‘Could be worse, Matt – mine just ghosts me.’ I smirk, trying to lighten the mood.
Matt laughs and flings the stick again for an impatient Harvey. ‘Your luck will change, mate. Maybe you should try Tinder or something?’ he suggests. ‘Meet someone who isn’t a shirt-stealing sociopath, or a part-time elf.’
‘Tinder? Not only no –hellno!’ I reply, taking over stick duties. ‘Don’t you remember the girl with the neck tattoo? It was literally prison ink – and I was genuinely scared for my life. She asked if I wanted to see her knife collection. And then there was the one who tried to mount me at the cinema. I was asked to leave halfway throughJohn Wickbecause she wouldn’t get off my lap. And those were just the ones I met up with. There were the hundreds who rudely ignored my carefully crafted openers. Like what was so off-putting about my face that they couldn’t spare a “Hey”? Online dating is way too brutal. How people actually manage to sort through the psychos and the hookers and find relationship material on Tinder will never fail to astonish me. But, I’m not even that bothered right now. I need to focus first on getting a job sorted, now that my reign as Saint Nick is over.’
‘I was just talking about a shag, not a full-blown relationship, mate. I think all that babysitting and Santa shit has killed your mojo. Your right hand must be knackered. You need to get back out there.’
Rather than remind him that my mojo is still very much alive and creating havoc – between fraternising with horny ice-skating instructors and dodging overly friendly elves, it’s been an eventful month – I just tell him he’s probably right and that I’ll look into it, knowing full well that I absolutely won’t. My brain won’t stop taunting me with thoughts of Sarah – her mouth, her smile, the way it felt when she hugged me at Christmas dinner. He’s right about my hand though – if I’m not careful I’ll get a repetitive strain injury. That would make for an incredibly awkward doctor’s appointment.
When we return to Nick’s parents’ house, they’ve prepared a huge breakfast which is very welcome. Countryside walking always makes me ravenous, like that feeling I used to get as a kid after swimming. Fortunately, every meal at Matt’s house is like a Hogwarts banquet.
‘I haven’t put ketchup on your rolls, sweetheart,’ Maureen tells Matt as she places an enormous plate of pastries on the table beside the towering stack of bacon and vat of scrambled eggs. ‘I know how particular you are. Nice walk, Nick?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ I reply. ‘I’d forgotten what fresh air smelled like. It’s cold out there though, I think my face is frozen.’
‘Oh, that reminds me,’ Matt’s mum informs us, ‘Lionel and Kitty are coming over at two and Kitty has had a little too much Botox—’
‘She looks like she’s had a stroke,’ Matt’s dad interjects. ‘I’d avoid mentioning it.’
‘Oh, it’s not that bad, James,’ Maureen protests. ‘She just looks like she’s had a dental block. Hopefully it will have settled by the time we go on our cruise.’
‘When are you off?’ I ask through a mouthful of bacon roll. God, I love being here.
‘Twenty-ninth. Just a little jaunt round the Canary Islands for New Year.’
‘Who’s taking the dog?’ I ask, watching Matt carefully move his mushrooms away from his scrambled eggs.
‘My sister Yvonne,’ she replies. ‘If she spoils him as much as she spoils those foxes, he’ll have a ball.’
‘She has pet foxes?’
