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The Family Game(5)

Author:Catherine Steadman

My eyes catch the time blinking high on the side of an office building. I need to finish this call. Rockefeller Center is right ahead and Edward will be there waiting.

‘Oh, and I forgot to say: the publishers want to have a meeting about the paperback edition this Wednesday afternoon. At their main office. Does that work?’

Ahead, the glittering frontage of Saks comes into view opposite the entrance to the rink and I realize the rain has stopped.

After I agree to the time and hang up, I pop my phone on silent, pull off my winter hat and shake out my hair, checking my reflection in a shop window. Edward and I have already been together a year but I can’t image a time when I won’t still get those date-night nerves.

Tonight will be special, I feel it. I’m being introduced to a family tradition and God knows I could do with some of those. Orphans don’t tend to have many.

As I round the corner of Rockefeller Plaza, my breath catches. The scale of their Christmas decorations bringing me to a stuttering halt.

In front of me is a tunnel of pure light created by the forms of angels heralding, golden trumpets raised. It’s all colour, light and warmth. And beyond them, the famous tree rises up into the New York skyline. I’d read in the paper this morning that it’s over eighty feet tall, but standing beneath it now, that number finally sinks in. It’s the largest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen. I stand slack-jawed as I stare up. Around me a few other kindred spirits look up, transfixed, as the rest of New York jostles past us. Eighteen thousand lights twinkle golden into the night air, thick with the scent of Nordic pine and the delicious aroma of Christmas treats wafting from the vendors dotted about the plaza.

A hand grasps my shoulder and I whip around to a familiar touch. Edward. He’s wrapped up warm against the chill in a cashmere scarf and coat, his hair tousled, his eyes smiling.

‘You scared the shit out of me,’ I lie, too embarrassed to say I would know the feel of him anywhere.

‘Sorry,’ he chuckles. ‘I called your name but I guess you didn’t hear.’ He nods up to the tree, slipping his arms around my waist as I lean back into him, his warmth against mine. ‘It’s really something, isn’t it?’

Beneath the lights of the tree, on the sunken ice-skating rink, we watch as people glide effortlessly across its pristine surface, bobble hats on, scarves bundled. Among the young, old New York is still present, an elderly gentleman in a full suit and hat, two women of equally advancing years wrapped in thick furs, their hair set hard as rocks.

‘I’m a terrible skater,’ I warn Edward later as we fasten our skates and hobble out of the enclosure towards the ice.

‘Lucky I’m here, then,’ he grins, pulling me tight. He backs out onto the ice first and offers me both his hands for stability. I take them, my breath held in concentration as he glides us out into the middle of the rink. It’s not that busy, a handful of new skaters slip and weave around us and after a moment my muscles loosen into his rhythm, his movements reassuring and fluid. He was an athlete – I suppose he still is.

Christmas music blares merrily over the ice rink’s tannoy and as a new song begins, Edward loosens one of his hands from mine. ‘May I have this dance,’ he intones, grinning as he slowly spins me. I realize the song they’re playing is ‘Fairytale of New York’ by The Pogues – its craggy lilt kicking in as we slip and slide across the ice, grinning like idiots. One verse in and everyone on the ice is gliding in time with the jaunty tune as above us one of the more vocal market vendors starts to sing along with the lyrics, his accent an appropriate lilting Irish brogue. Other skaters instinctively join in, merrily blasting out the odd phrase, tongue-firmly-in-cheek, but we’re all singing. And just for a microsecond, New York is made of magic. And I find myself thinking, God, I love Americans. British people just aren’t like this; our toes curl at the slightest inkling of real sentiment and yet here I am, singing, dancing, on ice. Everyone’s caught in the moment as the song crescendos and we belt out the chorus. Edward releases my hand again and I wobble slightly as he swoops down in front of me, one wet knee on the rink. He’s got something in his hand and suddenly my stomach tightens with soul-capsizing embarrassment as I realize what it is.

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