“You’re doing great!” Seb calls out to his friends, and they all wave back. For a few moments I watch Briony on the rink. She’s wearing a short white twirly skirt and a fur hat and she looks amazing, but her skating is abysmal. It’s actually worse than average, I decide, after watching her critically for a few minutes. She needs to slow down and stop flailing her arms, for a start.
Do her boots not fit? Or is she simply showing off too much? As soon as I’ve had this thought, I realize I’ve got it. She isn’t even thinking about what she’s doing; she’s posing in front of her friends, most of whom are guys, I notice. They’re all well dressed and calling out names like “Archie!” to each other. Jake would love them.
“So, I wanted somewhere nice to give you this,” says Seb, interrupting my thoughts. He hesitates, then reaches into a Tesco canvas bag and pulls out a parcel. It’s medium-sized, quite light, quite nondescript. No branding or gift bag or anything like that—just plain brown paper. I have no idea what it is.
“Open it!” says Seb. “Just my little thank-you,” he adds casually.
“Well, you didn’t need to,” I say, smiling with mock disapproval as I tear open the wrapping paper. “There was really no need. But I’m very—”
My words dry up on my lips as the paper comes off. I’m staring at the object in my hands, my head spinning in disbelief.
“My hairbrush?” I manage at last.
“Safe and sound,” says Seb, looking satisfied. “Restored to its rightful owner.”
I turn it over in my hands, my throat tight. I’m flashing back to the day Mum and Dad gave it to me, on my sixteenth birthday. The way it looked in its presentation box, all smart and new.
“I thought I’d never see this again,” I say dazedly. “I thought I’d— Wait.” A new thought grips me. “How? How did you get this?”
“Good vigilantes never tell,” says Seb in mysterious tones. “This will go with me to the grave.”
“No. No.” I shake my head vigorously. “You can’t turn up with this, with this”—I brandish the hairbrush at him—“and not tell.”
“OK.” Seb capitulates at once. “Actually, I’m longing to tell. Our story begins when you let slip the name of your hairbrush’s abductor,” he says in dramatic tones. “Sarah Bates-Wilson. At once I knew I could track this villain down. She still lives in a ground-floor flat,” he adds more conversationally. “Which was handy.”
“Did you break-and-enter?” I stare at him, aghast. “Oh my God.” My gaze drops to his foot. “But you couldn’t have!”
“I knew my injury would hamper me,” Seb continues in his dramatic voice. “I therefore enlisted an accomplice: my faithful sidekick Andy. We hatched a plot in which I would distract Sarah B-W at the door, asking her questions about her political views, while he crept round the back. Her bedroom window was open; the hairbrush was on the chest of drawers. It was a matter of mere seconds for him to reach in and pinch it,” he ends with a flourish.
I’m silent for a moment, digesting this.
“What if the window hadn’t been open?”
“We would have tried again another day. We were lucky,” adds Seb, in his normal voice. “We’d only gone along to case the joint. Getting the hairbrush first go was a bonus.”
“I don’t know …” I stare at the hairbrush, feeling suddenly conflicted. “I mean, this is amazing, but … you broke the law.”
“She broke the law first,” points out Seb. “She stole your hairbrush.”
“Yes, but … you broke the law!”
I’m clutching stolen goods in my hand, it occurs to me. Oh my God. If Dad taught us anything besides Family first, it was Stay on the right side of the law.
“I didn’t break the natural law,” says Seb with assurance. “Think about it, Fixie. All those companies legally siphoning off money offshore to avoid paying tax. All those executives legally awarding themselves mammoth pensions while their workers get nothing. All abhorrent. I go to jail for restoring your hairbrush to you—and they don’t?”
He sounds so certain, so honest, so good, that I feel a bit of confidence seeping back into me.
“The law doesn’t always know what it’s doing,” he adds for good measure. “Humans have a far greater instinct for what’s right in life than lawyers do.”
“The law is an ass,” I volunteer. I heard that once, and I’m not sure where it comes from but it seems appropriate.
“The law is a wuss, if you ask me,” counters Seb, “but that’s another story. Or maybe it’s politicians who are wusses.” He grins at me disarmingly, his green-brown eyes shining. “Don’t let me get onto my hobbyhorse. You’ll die with boredom.”
“I won’t!” I laugh.
“Oh, you will,” he assures me. “Many have.”
“Well, anyway … thank you,” I say, giving the hairbrush a loving pat. “Thank you for breaking the law for me.”
“Anytime.” He grins. “It was fun.”
A thought occurs to me and I reach into my bag. I pull out the coffee sleeve, and Seb laughs with appreciation. I take out my pen and start to write Paid, but Seb puts a hand on mine.
“Paid in part,” he says. “Only in part.”
“Don’t be silly.” I roll my eyes.
“No, I mean it. I haven’t even begun to pay you back,” he says, and now there’s a serious tone to his voice. “What you did—”
“I told you. It was nothing.”
“You saved my life,” contradicts Seb. “In some cultures we’d be bound together forever now,” he adds lightly. “Bonded for life.”
And I know it’s a joke, but my stomach stupidly flips over—and suddenly I’ve lost my cool. I can’t find a witty answer. I gaze back at him, at his honest handsome face, and he’s silent too, but unreadable. And I’m thinking desperately, Say something, Fixie, for God’s sake, say something—when there’s a cry from the rink: “Yoo-hoo!”
We both turn our heads and there’s Briony, waving to catch Seb’s attention. She sees me and her face instantly tightens and Seb calls out easily, “Remember Fixie?”
“Of course! How’s it going?” says Briony, her smile dazzling and her voice so acid it could strip paint.
“Fine!” I say. “I should go,” I add automatically to Seb.
“Don’t go! You want to skate?” he adds, bringing a ticket out of his pocket. “I can’t use mine, obviously. Go on, have a go!”
I stare at the ticket silently, all kinds of thoughts shimmering around my brain. The music is thudding and the lights are twinkling and Seb is asking me if I want to skate.
It’s kind of irresistible.
“Sure,” I say at last. “Sure. I’ll have a go.”
—
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.