Читать книгу I Know You - Annabel Kantaria, Annabel Kantaria - Страница 21

I know where you went on your first date

It couldn’t have been more Disney if he’d tried. It couldn’t have been more of a cliché; wouldn’t surprise me if he flew over specially when he heard you were in New York.

The Rockerfeller Center, New York City, December.

‘You are assured magical memories that you will cherish forever,’ says the website. Ten out of ten for the perfect date. A public space, nothing too pushy, nothing presumptuous, a little fun, and the potential to go out for a drink afterwards, should it go well.

As if it won’t go well.

‘Meet me at the Rock,’ he says. ‘Dress warmly.’

And, of course you wonder if he’s taking you skating. Why else would he want to meet at the Rockerfeller Center in the weeks before Christmas? Does he know you can skate? I doubt it, because he hasn’t done his research, has he? Not like I have. He imagines you clinging to him; him holding you up as he sweeps you around the rink: manly, strong. Could there be a more perfect first date?

And I have to give it to you: you look adorable. Just the right note of sweet and vulnerable and sexy all wrapped up in black leggings and a longline twinset of cashmere sweaters in the palest of shell pinks, with a scarf and gloves, your cheeks rosy with cold and your hair flying. Yes, the rink’s smaller than he thought, not as glamorous – not quite the setting he’d imagined from the movies – but it doesn’t matter. The lights in the adjacent skyscrapers twinkle as dusk falls and he sweeps out onto the ice in the shadow of the enormous Christmas tree.

But you: you hang back. Of course you do. You watch as he demonstrates skating forwards, a wobbly turn, backwards, another turn, a bit of speed and then a show-off hockey stop that showers you in a spray of ice crystals.

‘Come on!’ he says as you stand beside the ice. ‘Don’t be scared! It’s easier than you think. I’ll look after you!’

And then you step onto the ice, not at all like Bambi: like an Olympic figure-skating champion. You laugh, and then you’re off around the rink, fast, graceful, confident, your hair flying out behind you while he picks his jaw up off the ice. You do a high-speed turn, your hair whooshing into your face, then you look back at him and laugh again as you launch into a leap, a spin, and then a beautifully executed salchow. I know you do it again because he gets a photo this time. It’s there, on Instagram: your silhouette in mid-air looking every inch the ice princess. You’re so proud of that picture, aren’t you? You roll it out regularly for Instagram’s #throwbackthursday. Eight times, so far.

‘I love skating!’ you call, and he ploughs over towards you, conscious only now of how unrefined his own moves are. But it doesn’t matter. He’s made you happy. ‘I’ve always wanted to skate here!’ you say, catching his hand and squeezing it. ‘It’s a dream come true!’

But is that the moment that seals it? Is it as simple as him booking two general-admission tickets to this tourist-trap of a rink?

I believe it is. By the end of the session, he knows he wants to marry you.

It’s enough to make me puke.