Maud was skating. Every December, she went with a group of friends to one of the ice rinks that sprang up round London. This year, it was at Somerset House. The evening was cold and clear. The large, decorated Christmas tree glittered, and the moon was almost full. Floodlights shone on the glimmering oval of ice which people were zig-zagging around, some gracefully, others in a blundering rush that usually ended in a fall.
Maud had learned as a young child. She’d had lessons every Saturday afternoon at the Lee Valley rink and even entered local competitions. She rarely skated now, but she still had an agile, confident gait and she loved the crisp sound of her blade cutting into the ice, the paradoxical sense of control and freedom, concentration with the feeling of being in a dream.
All of a sudden, a figure ahead of her lurched, half spun, arms akimbo, and came crashing to the ground. Maud came to a crisp halt and looked down. A face stared up at her.
‘Maud?’ said Stuart.
‘Hello.’
‘What are you doing here?’ He was still lying outstretched on the ground, his soft brown hair messy, his cheeks glowing.
‘Skating,’ she said, and he grinned up at her, seeming quite happy to stay where he was.
She held out a hand and pulled him to his feet, where he tottered slightly and grabbed on to her.
‘I’m not very good at this.’
‘It takes practice.’
‘Will you show me?’
She took him by the arm and slowly they made their way round the rink, past her friends and his. They didn’t speak, except for her to tell him how to push with his skate, how to balance and hold the glide.
‘Thank you,’ he said when they’d completed the circuit. ‘In about ten years, I’ll have got the hang of it. How come you make it look easy?’
‘I learned as a child. Then you never quite forget – like riding a bike.’
‘I’m not really an arsehole,’ he said.
‘Good to know.’
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Now?’
‘They’re selling mulled wine.’
‘All right.’
They stepped off the ice and teetered across to the kiosk where Stuart bought two paper cups of mulled wine. Maud bent her head to breathe in the cinnamon and cloves and allspice. When she lifted it again, she saw Stuart was watching her.
‘What?’ she asked.
He looked embarrassed.
‘You look different.’
‘In what way?’
‘Less stern.’
‘Do I look stern?’
‘At the evening class, anyway.’
‘You haven’t been for a bit.’
‘No. I had flu and then last week, I got a puncture on my way and it would have been almost over by the time I arrived. Did I miss much?’
‘The introduction to contract law.’
He groaned.
‘You’ll catch up.’
One of her friends called to her from the rink, beckoning.
‘Can we do it again?’ Stuart asked, seeing she was preparing to go.
‘What, skate?’
‘Meet.’
‘I’d like that,’ she said.
Then she rejoined her friends, and Stuart watched her as she flew round the ice, slender and strong, her curly blonde hair rippling, her face alert, a frown on her thick brows but a tiny smile on her lips.
That night, in bed, Felix nuzzled against Nancy and started rubbing his hand slowly up and down her spine. She pretended to be asleep.
The following day, she said that she had a banging headache. She stayed in bed all day, the curtains closed, and every time Felix came into the room she closed her eyes and breathed evenly. He would stand by the bed for several minutes. Her skin crawled when she thought of him staring down at her. Rage and fear shifted heavily inside her. It took all her will to keep lying there, unmoving, her face wiped clean of all expression.
But she just had to wait it out. Tomorrow she would be free.