Page 61 of Last Christmas in London

‘Crikey, you’re fast,’ he said. Although, looking around the rink, we were moving slower than the two-year-old sitting on a skate aid, chasing their older sibling.

‘Go on then. What did this cost you?’

‘Nothing much,’ he said vaguely.

I narrowed my eyes. ‘Simon.’

He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, before finally saying, ‘I gave up my New Year’s Eve busking slot.’

My jaw dropped.

‘I was going to perform in front of the church again about one o’clock – you know, when all the bargain hunting shoppers are going mad, and they’re starting the New Year celebrations a little early so everyone’s a little extra-generous.’

‘That sounds like a good slot.’ A seed of guilt was developing in me.

‘It is,’ he admitted. ‘But there will be others about the city. I’ll book a new one.’

‘What about raising money for charity?’ I asked, stopping for a rest as we made it halfway around the rink. Simon sighed with relief and gripped the side fully, finally standing straight.

He paused and looked away. ‘I’ve been busking nearly every day this Christmas, after work and before work, so it’s not like I haven’t raised a ton of money for charity already. In fact, I’ve raised nearly triple what I made last year.’

‘Really?’ I asked, surprised to find that people were feeling that generous, even at Christmas.

‘Well, it used to be that I only busked at the weekends, and maybe one afternoon in the week. But now I…’ He stopped again and laughed, a little embarrassed.

‘Why have you been busking every day then? Particularly if you’ve got work as well.’

He hesitated. And then – very slowly – he looked at me. It was a look of a thousand words, though it took only a few seconds for me to translate it.

Finally I got it.

He’d been busking… to see me.

My breath caught in my chest and my mouth went dry, not uncomfortably so, just enough to stop me from speaking and putting my foot in it.

I took his hand again. ‘Come on,’ I said confidently, not sure what else to say. ‘You’ve got to let go this time.’

‘The marshal said one full round and then let go,’ he argued petulantly.

‘I dare you,’ I said cheekily, gently tugging him from the wall. ‘You’ve got this. And I’ve got you.’

He took a second and then slowly lifted his hand an inch above the side of the rink, grabbing it again almost immediately, before letting go fully.

‘There you go!’ I cheered.

‘Don’t you dare let go of my hand!’

‘Let it gooo, let it gooo,’ I began to sing wickedly, lifting my fingers from where they rested on his wrist.

‘No!’ He lunged for the wall, overbalanced and…

Whump!

We both hit the ice in a tangled heap.

‘Oh my God!’ I gasped, half-laughing, half-gasping for breath. ‘That was so bad.’

‘It’s not funny,’ he groaned.