‘Are you OK, Lyd? What happened? Should we call the police?’
Fortunately for all of us, Max Mesmero’s nose wasn’t broken and he decided not to press charges, as long as I agreed to pay for the damage done to his front door when Des broke in.
So I left his house fifty quid poorer and still terrified of flying.
I hate Wednesdays. I used to think it was because Wednesday is as far from last weekend as it is from the next one. That may well have been true once upon a time, but nowadays the weekends aren’t that great either. Whatever the reason, I was having an attack of the usual Wednesday blues when Trudi called round after work.
Trudi and I go way back. We were at school together a hundred years ago, or so it seems. The boxes I was rummaging through were full of shared memories and proved to be a fine source of entertainment.
‘I can’t believe you’ve still got all this stuff!’ She flicked through the rough book that was on the coffee table, stopping at the list. ‘Ah, there it is! I threw mine out years ago.’
‘I’d forgotten you had one too.’
‘Oh yes! We wrote them together, one wet lunchtime when we had to sit in the library.’
It was coming back to me now. ‘Yours was much more sensible than mine, though. All about passing exams and earning loads of money.’ I laughed. ‘Actually, you did pretty well on both of those, didn’t you?’
‘Your exam results were better than mine, and the money never seemed to matter to you.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it did much. I just wanted to be happy …’
‘It’s never too late, Lyd. Now you’ve found your list again, you can make it all happen.’
‘That’s what Des said.’
She squealed with amusement then, as she picked up a copy of Go Girl!, the magazine I’d been addicted to thirty years ago.
‘Josh Greenwood!’ she shrieked. ‘You still have all the pictures of him! You were totally obsessed.’ She leafed through the pile of battered posters on the coffee table. ‘So what are you going to do with them? eBay?’
I stared at her in amazement. ‘How can you even think it? I could never part with them. He’s still on my “most wanted” list.’ I smoothed the creases out of an ancient picture, cut from a magazine so long ago. It had always been my favourite and for years it had occupied the place of honour on my bedroom wall, right where it would catch my eye as soon as I woke up in the morning, fresh from dreaming about him! Glossy, black hair framed a perfect face with brown eyes to die for, dramatically outlined with black eyeliner. His dark shirt was open to the waist revealing the band’s name, ‘Luvsik Kitten’, tattooed above his heart. How my teenage hormones used to race! Trudi studied the picture with me.
‘Hmm! He was pretty, I suppose, but he was never my type,’ she said.
‘I seem to remember you always liked older men.’
‘Cary Grant and Frank Sinatra, that’s right. Real men.’
‘You sound like my mother sometimes!’ I laughed.
‘So how’s it going with your list? Are you ready to fly around the world yet?’
‘Not quite. The hypnosis thing didn’t work out. I don’t want to talk about it.’
But of course, an hour later, after we’d shared a bottle of wine, I told her all about it.
‘I’d love to have been there,’ she said, hardly able to contain her giggles. ‘I can just imagine it!’
‘I bet you can’t. I felt such an idiot. Scared of a thunderstorm, and then Des rushing in like some kind of superhero and punching the guy …’
‘That’s rather sweet really, having your own personal bodyguard. Anyway, when am I going to meet your Des?’
I felt a blush rising from the base of my neck, but I didn’t really know why. ‘He’s not my Des; he’s just … Des, and I suppose you can meet him any time you like.’
‘OK, so he’s not your Des, but I’d still like to meet him. Bring him over tomorrow night.’
‘We can’t come tomorrow. It’s our writing group on Thursdays.’
‘OK, the pub a week on Saturday?’
‘Maybe. I’ll ask him. Anyway, I’ve given up on the flying for now.’
‘So what’s next?’ She was looking at the list. ‘Skating?’
‘I suppose so, but that’s even scarier than flying.’
‘It’s easy. I’ll teach you. We can start on Monday after work if you like.’
Oh dear, I’d be lucky to get out of this without a few broken bones.
* * * * *
Trudi was waiting for me in the car park at the Ice Cube, her skates slung around her shoulders. She looked me up and down as I got out of the car.
‘I’m glad you took my advice about the leggings.’
‘I hate the things. They make me look huge. I wish I’d worn jeans.’
‘Jeans get damp when you fall and then they’re too heavy to move about in.’
‘You’re not exactly inspiring me here.’
‘Everyone falls over sometimes, especially beginners.’
Standing up in skates was a nightmare. For the first time in my life I realised why it takes babies so long to learn to walk. I don’t think I’d ever considered it before. My ankles didn’t want to co-operate at all and kept trying to bend at angles they weren’t designed for, and that was before I got onto the ice.
‘This is never going to work,’ I moaned as I lurched towards the barrier and leaned against it. I don’t think I can even make it to the ice.’
‘Of course you can. It gets easier.’
Clinging onto the barrier for dear life I followed Trudi towards the opening that led onto the rink, aware that the place was full of future Olympic stars practising their routines. Well, it seemed that way to me, anyway. Loud music blared out all around, and I watched in awe as people glided effortlessly across the ice. Trudi was halfway around and I hadn’t even stepped out.
How hard can it be? I thought, as a little girl of about seven years old flew past me. I put one foot forward, then the other, but somehow my hand was still welded to the rail. I was sure everyone was watching me, and I was on the verge of retreating when Trudi completed her circuit and stopped in front of me.
‘Take my hand,’ she yelled, above the noise of the music. I reached out for her and hesitantly let go of my support. All was well, for precisely five seconds, until my brain realised what was happening, then my feet took off in opposite directions and my backside made contact with the ice for the first of many scheduled encounters. As I struggled to my feet, aided by Trudi and some passing teenagers, the music changed and I tottered over to the barrier again to the unmistakable strains of Ravel’s Bolero.
Eat your heart out, Jayne Torvill. Given another ten years I might just give you a little competition. I laughed at the idea and straightened up. The dream would have to be modified a little – instead of dancing on ice, I’d have to settle for walking on ice. After