I Owe You One: A Novel(83)

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The first few laps I make are like taking out an old musical instrument, tuning it up, playing the notes slowly, alert for defects and flaws. My body’s older than it was, but it’s still strong and taut. I still have muscle memory. You don’t train for that many hours and not know what you’re doing.

As I cut across the white surface, I try not to think longingly of my old skates, hanging up at home, and instead make the best of what I have: a crowded public rink, strange skates, and ice that’s already getting wet from people falling over on it.

I don’t care. I’m loving this.

I whiz past Briony, turn round, and see her gawping at me as I skate backward. I turn again, make sure I have enough space, then lift a leg in an arabesque. And I’m stiff—really stiff—but my leg still obeys, even if it’s screaming, “Whaaat? Seriously? But we don’t do this anymore!”

Poor legs. I send them a quick message, saying, Do this for me and we’ll have a hot bath later.

I head into the center of the ice and do a simple spin. Then a faster, flashier spin, ignoring the tremble that begins halfway through. Come on, legs, you can do it.… Then, for the first time, I dart a look at Seb. He’s gaping at me in such openmouthed astonishment that I can’t help laughing and doing a few dance steps. I feel so light out here; I feel so happy.…

And suddenly it hits me: I’m performing. I’m blossoming. Because there’s someone I want to perform to.

All the other skaters have moved to the sides of the rink, giving me space, nudging each other and applauding. I’m aware of the staff conferring and pointing in a group and I know they’ll come and chuck me off any moment. And I’m not going to hog the ice, I’m really not, that would be obnoxious … but there’s room enough now to spread my wings. To jump. To do a big jump.

“Dancing Queen” is playing through the speakers, and it’s not the music I did my junior free program to—but even so, I find myself falling into its familiar patterns. The intricate footwork sequence I practiced, what, a thousand times? My feet are performing it without my brain even switching on. And now I’m out of that sequence and building up momentum for the jump. I’m sweeping in more powerful circles, focusing my mind, remembering the calm voice of Jimmy, my coach.

My thighs are burning and my heart is thudding as I prepare, and even as I’m taking off I’m thinking, This is crazy! I’m going to break my ankle, my neck …

As I’m rotating in the air, I feel a moment of sheer terror. I can hear the silence. I can feel the drawn-in breaths. I catch a glimpse of the staff, all turned to watch. And then, like a miracle, my skate lands cleanly, and the whole place erupts in applause. My leg is shaking horrendously, my ankle feels like putty, and every muscle in my body is protesting—but I’ve done it, I’ve nailed it, only fourteen years too late. Everyone is still clapping and cheering me and I’ve never felt like such a show-off in my life.

And I’ve never felt so good in my life.

I make a little curtsy to the crowd and skate off, unable to wipe the ecstatic smile off my face, replying, “Thank you!” again and again as people say, “Well done!” As I reach the gate to leave, I suddenly come across Briony, standing in her twirly skirt, clinging tightly to the barrier.

“Nice skating,” she says, shooting me daggers. “Didn’t know you were such a pro.”

And I know I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t … but I can’t help myself.

“Yeah, well,” I say, and give Briony exactly the same pitying look that she gave me in the hospital. “I kind of think if you’re not going to do it properly, you shouldn’t even try?”





Eighteen




I’m still in my surreal glow as I return my skates, put on my everyday boots, and go to find Seb. As I approach him, he’s clapping and nodding, an astounded grin at his lips.

“Well,” he says as I get near. “So that wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Oh yeah,” I say nonchalantly. “Did I mention that I used to skate?” I meet his eye and we both start laughing, and then I wince and rub my thighs ruefully. “I’m going to pay for this tomorrow.”

“I have some crutches you can borrow,” says Seb, and I grin, then pick up the hairbrush.

“I’ll go now. But thank you again. You have no idea how precious this is.”

“What is it?” comes a familiar foghorn voice behind me, and I turn to see Briony approaching. She must have given up on the skating. She grabs the hairbrush out of my grasp and peers at it with a frown. “What’s this?”

“It’s the present I told you about,” says Seb. “The thank-you for Fixie.”

“When you said ‘hairbrush,’ I expected something nice,” says Briony, wrinkling her nose. “Not this. I mean, Seb, where did you get this from, Oxfam?”

He didn’t tell her the whole story, I register. And I’m about to explain that it has sentimental value, when Seb exclaims, “Can’t you for once in your bloody life say something nice, Briony!”

Immediately he looks a bit shocked at himself—as though he hadn’t been planning to say anything at all, and then that came out.

“Nice?” Briony lashes back at him. “What nice thing am I supposed to say about this? It’s hideous!”