The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (4)
“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 just over a year, but I can’t imagine 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 the 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. Color, light, and warmth. And beyond them, the famous tree, rising 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. 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 says with a smile. “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, bundled in scarves. Amid the young, old New York is still present, an elderly man in a full suit and hat, two women of equally advanced 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 toward 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 loudspeaker, 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. 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.
Oh, please, no.
This is too much. He can’t be doing what I think he’s doing. I swallow hard. People are looking at us now, smiling at us, clapping for us, and I keep smiling because what the hell else can I do.
God knows I want him to ask, but this, here, is too much, too public. I feel my panic rise as he opens the box and starts to speak and suddenly the world around us fades away. I feel tears come and my voice catch and he’s taking off my glove and sliding a ring onto my finger. A small crowd has formed on the walkway above the rink and they’re cheering and whooping as the song ends and “Chapel of Love” blasts out into the chilly air around us. The lights twinkle in time as I struggle to take everything in.
Edward pulls me close. “I love you, Harry,” he whispers. And for a second nothing else matters, because when I look into his eyes, I know it’s true. This is him trying to give me new memories, strong, bold, undeniable memories. This is him sharing his life, his past, and his future with me. I touch his face, so handsome I often marvel at being allowed to. His lips are warm on mine and the city around us disappears. The sound of cheering muffled by his hands over my ears.
Later in the rink’s Christmas café, I inspect the ring on my cold-numbed finger while he fetches us hot toddies. The stone glimmers in the light, the color caught between a rich claret and a warm brown. I’ve never seen anything like it. A ruby, I imagine. Large, deep, expensive. The setting, and cut, old. It must be an heirloom, yet the fit is perfect.