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“Chestnuts, Mr Kingdom? Fresh off the brazier!”
Before Peter could gather his wits, Sidney Snell thrust a steaming paper cone towards him—delivering it not so much like a Christmas market vendor, but rather like a man presenting the Crown Jewels and daring you to refuse them.
“Don’t know if you knew,” he added, with a wink Peter fervently wished he hadn’t seen, “but I’m a dab hand with hot nuts, I am!”
His threadbare Santa hat sat at a decidedly tipsy angle, the white pom-pom—looking somewhat plucked and worse for wear—bobbing with evangelical fervour as he barked,
“Rooooasted chestnuts!” at an unsuspecting couple who had made the tactical error of pausing within his line of sight. “Come and get ’em while they’re hot!”
The bellow landed uncomfortably close to Peter’s ear, making him flinch before he recovered with a somewhat tight-lipped smile—the one he usually reserved for clients determined to represent themselves in court.
“Um—yes. Thank you, Mr Snell, that’s, um, that’s very… kind.”
He reached for the cone, gingerly pinching the rolled edge between thumb and forefinger as though it might explode, which, given Sidney’s track record, was not entirely outside the realm of possibility. The paper was warm and slightly greasy to the touch, releasing a sweet, charred aroma that lingered pleasantly in the frigid air between them.
“Pound fifty, Mr Kingdom, if you please,” Sidney declared cheerily, his pudgy hand already extended, palm up, in the universal gesture of commerce.
Peter’s brows climbed to vanish beneath his unruly fringe—only to immediately draw together again in a puzzled frown. For a fleeting moment, his expression wavered somewhere between polite bafflement and dawning realisation—the sort of look worn by someone who has just discovered that roasted chestnuts, apparently, did not fall under any officially recognised festive goodwill clause.
He rallied quickly, however, his hand disappearing into his bulging trouser pocket for what became a somewhat prolonged and slightly undignified rummage. Alongside the soft clink of coins came the jangle of keys, the telltale crinkle of a toddler biscuit wrapper, and—inexplicably—Sophie’s dummy.
He pulled it out, blinked at it, then gave a small shrug and carried on. At last, he produced a couple of coins and handed them over with a sheepish quirk of his mouth.
Sidney accepted the money with cheerful solemnity and tipped it into the cavernous front pocket of his grubby apron—an apron that stretched valiantly across his ample middle, suggesting he was not only a dab hand with chestnuts, but quite possibly mince pies too.
“Thank you kindly, Mr Kingdom,” he said with a genial nod… and immediately accosted another pair of startled passers-by with fresh steaming cone.
“Chestnuts!” he bellowed. “Jus’ off the brazier! Proper job—best you’ll get in Norfolk, that’s a fact!”
Just then, Annie stepped up beside Peter. She was wrapped cosily in a dove-grey puffer jacket, freckled cheeks pink from the cold, her long, coppery curls peeking out cheerfully from beneath a chunky knitted hat. She looked perfectly at home amidst the festive bustle, glowing as warmly as the fairy lights strung overhead.
At her side, three-year-old Henry was practically vibrating with excitement in his navy duffel coat, toggles neatly fastened—though his hood, in classic toddler fashion, had somehow ended up inside out, flapping about his back like a woollen shark’s fin. His mittened hands flapped too, in wild, uncontainable glee as he bounced on the spot, the sheer thrill of it all clearly more than one small boy could handle.
“DADDY’S GOT NUTS! DADDY’S GOT NUTS!” he crowed gleefully—and at full, uninhibited volume—earning the immediate attention of two nearby teenage-girls, who glanced from him to Peter and back, before collapsing into helpless fits of snorting laughter.
From her pushchair, not to be outdone, eighteen-month-old Sophie—rosy-cheeked and half-buried beneath a knitted blanket adorned with prancing reindeer, one of Auriel’s more ambitious knitting projects—kicked her booted feet and declared, with the booming conviction of someone making a public service announcement,
“DA-DA’S NUTS!”
The words were delivered with all the certainty of someone convinced they had said something utterly profound… and at a volume that suggested the entire town needed to hear it.
Peter’s face darkened to a rather unflattering shade of beetroot. He cleared his throat.
“Right,” he muttered to no one in particular, eyes dropping to the cobbles as though willing them to rise up and grant him a swift and merciful exit.
Annie pressed her lips together, doing a heroic job of not laughing outright. She leant in and bumped her shoulder gently against his arm.“You do attract the most charming admirers,” she said, her voice brimming with fond amusement.
Peter exhaled wearily—the sigh of a man thoroughly undone by circumstance… or, more precisely, by his irrepressible offspring.
“It’s, um, it’s a gift, clearly.”
“DADDY’S NUTS ARE HOT!” Henry announced helpfully… and loud enough to turn a few nearby heads. He reached up and gave the steaming paper cone a cautious pat with one mittened hand.
Peter winced, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grimace of exquisite parental agony.
“Yes, darling,” he managed, looking and sounding rather pained by now, “the, um… the chestnuts are quite hot indeed.”
He cast Sidney a dutiful smile—strained but game—muttered something that might have passed for thanks, and began to shepherd his little family away before his most devoted client and, apparently, also part-time chestnut vendor, could launch into a full-scale TED Talk on the lost art of chestnut roasting and the elusive magic of achieving “just the right crack and blister.”
“Let’s, um… let’s move along, shall we?” he said, perhaps a touch too brightly, already bending to take Henry’s hand. His eyes flicked to Annie in silent appeal—hoping she would take pity on him and go along without comment, or at the very least refrain from smirking quite so broadly.
They hadn’t made it more than three steps before Sophie—clutching her pink-handled sippy cup and kicking at Auriel’s festive blanket with renewed vigour—drew in a mighty breath and declared, at full parade-ground volume, just in case any remaining corners of Market Shipborough were still unaware of the situation,
“DA-DA’S NUTS HOT!”
A nearby pensioner—mid-bite and clearly not expecting to be shouted at by a toddler—flinched so hard he very nearly dropped his bratwurst. He cast Peter an affronted look, as though personally appalled that such vulgarity had been allowed within earshot of his sausage.
At the confectionery stall, a cluster of teenagers, doing their level best to look cool in the cold, promptly dissolved into fits of giggles and laughter.
Annie turned to Peter with a look of open amusement, her eyes glinting impishly.
“Darling,” she said sweetly, “you’re causing quite the stir.”
“Yes,” he said weakly, his tone hovering somewhere between mortified and long-suffering. “Yes, I, um… I’d rather gathered as much, thank you.” He didn’t say any more, but the beleaguered shake of his head—and the way he briefly pinched the bridge of his nose—suggested he was perhaps quietly appealing to the heavens for strength.
Annie gave his arm a gentle squeeze, and they drifted deeper into the market square. Peter still clutched the paper cone of chestnuts in one hand—like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with incriminating evidence—while holding Henry’s mittened hand in the other. The warm, sweetly charred scent wafted up from the bag, curling into the crisp evening air and mingling with the gentle tang of woodsmoke from the bratwurst grill nearby.
All around them, the square shimmered with festive bustle. Strings of golden fairy lights criss-crossed overhead in slightly drooping arcs, casting a soft, amber glow over the milling crowd. Shiny garlands of holly looped gracefully between lampposts, their waxy leaves glinting as though brushed with frost, each garland anchored by yet more fairy lights blinking reassuringly against the deepening dusk.
Somewhere above, hidden speakers played a soft instrumental carol—one of those melodies that tugged gently at the memory, like something heard long ago while helping decorate the tree, fingers sticky with mince pie filling and tinsel snagging on woolly sleeves.
A fine dusting of snow coated the cobblestones and rooftops, catching the early-evening light like crushed sugar. Against this wintry backdrop, a cheerful muddle of stalls lined the square, each glowing like a tiny world of its own. One overflowed with wooden toys and hand-painted train sets, their bright colours gleaming beneath the soft glow of fairy lights strung along the awning. Another was piled high with thick, hand-knitted hats and scarves in every shade imaginable—cosy, woolly offerings that looked more than capable of fending off the sharpest Norfolk winds. A third was crammed with tin stars and scented candles, nestled among clusters of felt gnomes with pointed hats and fluffy, woollen beards. Nearby, a vendor ladled mulled wine into paper cups, sending up fragrant ribbons of steam. The tang of citrus and clove drifted on the breeze, wrapping itself around passers-by like an aromatic scarf.
At the heart of the square, beneath the vaulted stone arches of the medieval Butter Cross, Petra’s Year One class was midway through the snowflake dance to ‘Frosty The Snowman’—a flurry of small children in tinsel halos, gauzy angel wings and somewhat wobbly concentration. Their tiny arms lifted and twirled with the solemn intensity of a royal ballet… though to Peter’s eye, it looked more like a flock of overexcited sparrows attempting take-off in a strong headwind—charming, chaotic… and ever so slightly hazardous.
Beatrice stood front and centre, phone raised like a seasoned war correspondent, elbowing the odd parent out of the way for a better shot.
Peter, Annie, and the children arrived just in time to witness Petra launch into what could, if one were to feel extremely generous, be classed as a pirouette—albeit one with a strong undercurrent of interpretive flailing.
“Did you see that?” Beatrice declared beaming, elbowing her brother in the ribs with all the subtlety of a snowplough. “Perfect form!”
Peter made a non-committal noise—the kind that suggested agreement without committing to any actual opinion. Petra’s pirouette had, in truth, been more of a centrifugal lurch that nearly felled two adjacent snowflakes, but he knew better than to open his mouth when his sister had entered full proud-mum mode—an emotional state known to deflect all criticism and most forms of reality.
Annie slipped her arm through Peter’s and nestled in beside him. He instinctively dipped his head—an unconscious adjustment he always made to better match her height whenever she drew close.
Her curls brushed his cheek as she leant in, voice low and amused against his ear.
“Impressive evasive manoeuvres from the other two snowflakes…”
Peter followed her gaze to the makeshift stage, where the other children had sensibly edged toward the perimeter, giving Petra a wide berth as she spun in exuberant little circles, arms flailing, seemingly immune to her teacher’s increasingly frantic hand signals.
“Mmm,” he said dryly. “Future ballerinas. Or, um… possibly stunt doubles. Hard to say.”
Annie’s lips twitched, but before she could reply, something beyond the Butter Cross suddenly caught her eye—a soft gleam at the far end of the square. She straightened to get a better look, then broke into a smile.
“Oh, Peter,” she breathed, tugging at his sleeve. “Look!”
Peter followed her gaze—and immediately went very still.
At the edge of the market square stood a temporary ice rink, tucked beneath a canopy of fairy lights strung between several, tall wooden posts. It looked like something lifted straight from a Victorian Christmas card. The ice itself shimmered beneath the soft glow, catching the last streaks of twilight and turning the whole rink into a glistening sheet of silver enchantment.
“Ah. Um—yes,” he said faintly, the words clearly meant to sound appreciative, though his entire demeanour suggested he would much rather prefer to admire it from a safe distance. “Very lovely. From over here.”
“We should skate!” Annie exclaimed, already half-turned towards the rink, her eyes now positively twinkling with excitement.
Peter took a cautious step back, hands raised before him in quiet alarm.
“Um—no,” he said, a note of dread creeping into his voice. “Absolutely not. That way lies catastrophe. And possibly a fractured coccyx.”
“Peter—”
He sighed and gave a sheepish shrug, his mouth quirking into an apologetic half-smile. “If you must know… I, um, I have—well, I have a rather complicated history with balance.” His hands lifted in a small, helpless gesture, as though balance were an elusive concept best left to others. “And frozen water. Separately complicated, in fact. But combined, they’re, um… positively catastrophic.”
Annie’s brow arched in unconvinced amusement. “You ride a bicycle.”
“Um, that’s different,” he said quickly. “Bicycles have brakes. And they don’t actively conspire to humiliate you.”
“Ice doesn’t conspire, Peter.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” He gestured meaningfully toward the rink—just as a teenage boy went down in a spectacular tangle of limbs, scarf, and flailing pride. “There. Case in point. Ice—one. Human dignity—nil.”
“Oh, come on,” Annie insisted with a grin. “It’ll be fun! I used to skate all the time when I was little. Mark took me to Watford Ice Arena nearly every weekend.”
Peter’s fingers toyed with the paper cone of chestnuts, shifting it from one hand to the other and back again in a quiet display of tactical dithering. His gaze flicked downward, lashes lowered, the very picture of polite reluctance.
“That’s, um… that’s lovely,” he said at last. “Truly. You should absolutely go. I’ll observe—from a safe and respectable distance. Possibly with a hot beverage.”
“Peter Kingdom—” Annie planted her hands on her hips and tipped her chin back to meet his gaze, eyes narrowing in playful challenge. “Are you scared of ice skating?”
Peter blinked down at her, scandalised.
“Scared? No. Cautious? Absolutely.” He shrugged, adding, “I’m a solicitor,” as though that ought to settle it. “I, um, I have a professional obligation to maintain the structural integrity of my limbs. Clients tend to lose confidence when their legal counsel is hobbling about on crutches.”
Annie gave him a look that landed somewhere between fond and entirely unimpressed. “You’re stalling.”
“I’m being prudent.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
Henry, who had been following the exchange with wide-eyed fascination, suddenly declared at full volume,
“DADDY’S SCARED!”
Peter looked down at him, thoroughly betrayed. “Yes, um… thank you, darling. Invaluable contribution.”
Not to be outdone, Sophie gave a delighted little kick from the pushchair, sending her knitted blanket sliding onto the snow-dusted cobbles. She clapped her mittened hands and chirped,
“DA-DA SCARED!”
Beatrice, who had been half-listening while still attempting to capture Petra mid-spin, finally lowered her phone and gave her brother a look of long-suffering amusement.
“Honestly, Peter. It’s bloody ice skating, not base jumping.”
Peter scowled. “With my coordination—or rather, lack thereof? That’s, um, that’s debatable.”
But Beatrice was already one step ahead. “Go on, then, you two,” she said briskly, seizing the handle of Sophie’s pushchair with one hand and reaching for Henry’s with the other. “Someone ought to have a bit of grown-up fun today—might as well be you. I’ll take these two home with me. Petra and I will stick on a Christmas film, make hot chocolate, and see who falls asleep first—me or the children.”
Henry perked up at once. “With marshmallows?” he asked hopefully, his arms flapping excitedly—rather like a tiny emperor penguin preparing for take-off.
“With extra marshmallows,” Beatrice confirmed with a solemn nod.
“Yay!” Henry gave a delighted bounce that nearly unseated his Fair Isle bobble hat.
Peter opened his mouth to protest, but Annie was already turning to Beatrice, eyes alight with excitement. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t mind?”
“Positive. Go on—have fun.” Beatrice gave Peter a sidelong look, the kind usually reserved for toddlers mid-tantrum, then added to Annie, deadpan,
“Just try not to let him break anything crucial.”
Annie grinned. “Don’t worry,” she said breezily. “I’ve got plasters, biscuits, and a basic grasp of triage. What could possibly go wrong?”
Peter shot her a look that suggested he had a few thoughts of his own on that topic—most of them decidedly catastrophic in nature—but she ignored it with the serene confidence of someone who had already made up her mind. Bending down, she first straightened Henry’s lopsided hat, then tucked Sophie’s reindeer blanket more snugly around her—then kissed them both goodbye, quick and fond.
Peter reluctantly did the same, though he lingered a moment longer—perhaps silently willing one of the children to fling their arms around him and plead for Daddy to come along for hot chocolate. But alas, no such reprieve came. Henry was already bouncing beside Beatrice, chattering about marshmallows, while Sophie, ever the tiny chaos agent, was attempting to water the cobbles with the last of her apple juice.
Clearly, Daddy had been soundly dismissed.
Petra reappeared just then, her tinsel halo slightly askew and one angel wing slipping down the sleeve of her anorak. She scampered over, cheeks flushed from her performance, and wriggled in beside the others with the unquestioning certainty of a child returning to her rightful place.
“Later, you two,” Beatrice called cheerfully over her shoulder as she turned the pushchair and set off down the pavement.
Henry trotted happily alongside her, now wittering on to Petra about hot chocolate and cartoons. Sophie, meanwhile, gave a regal wave and bellowed “DA-DA’S NUTS!” once more at full parade-ground volume—much like a tiny town crier, albeit one with a rather limited vocabulary.
Peter winced, just slightly, as a few amused heads turned. “Thank you, my tiny herald,” he muttered under his breath.
Then he watched them vanish into the festive throng with all the quiet, forlorn drama of a man bidding farewell to his last line of defence.
Annie slipped her hand into his.
“Come on—this’ll be fun!”
Peter let out a theatrical sigh—long-suffering, faintly tragic. “You’re enjoying this,” he said accusingly, casting her a sideways glance.
“I am,” Annie said brightly—and before he could summon another protest, she rose on tiptoe, bracing a hand against his chest for balance, and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. Warm. Deliberate. Just a little smug. She had to stretch for it, and he instinctively dipped his head to meet her.
Peter blinked, visibly caught off guard. “Oh. Well—yes—alright, but that’s, um, that’s very… unfair.”
Annie beamed, entirely unrepentant. “I know.”
She tightened her grip on his hand, and with a cheerful tug, set off toward the rink, pulling him along behind her. “Let’s go!”
Peter gave a resigned huff, his feet complying despite his better judgement. “Still a dreadful idea,” he mumbled, valiantly attempting to recover his footing—figuratively, for now.
Five minutes later, they were perched side by side on one of the weather-bleached wooden benches beside the rink, their breath mingling in the frosty air. Peter was hunched over, meticulously lacing up his rental skates with the painstaking caution of a man defusing a bomb—one boot nearly done, the other still cradled in his lap like a particularly untrustworthy parcel. The skates smelt vaguely of old socks and regret, and he regarded them with weary resignation, fully expecting to end the evening flat on his back, dignity scattered like loose change.
The rink itself shimmered with a kind of quiet magic. Overhead, fairy lights cast a golden haze across the ice, while soft snowflakes spiralled from the inky sky, catching in hoods and eyelashes, pooling in the folds of scarves. From hidden speakers above came the gently crackling strains of ‘Winter Wonderland’, the tune slightly warbly but endearingly festive, as skaters moved in loose circles—some gliding, others clinging to the rail with white-knuckled determination.
Near the centre, a gaggle of teenagers was attempting daring spins and unwise jumps, more elbows than elegance, their bravado far outstripping their balance. A small girl in a pink anorak shrieked with laughter as her father glided behind her, hands at her waist, guiding her carefully through the bustle of skaters.
An elderly couple followed close behind, hand in hand, skating in easy tandem with the unspoken understanding of two people who had long since figured out how not to fall—at least not at the same time.
Peter watched them with the faintest flicker of envy—not that he’d ever say so, of course. They were upright, coordinated, and entirely unbothered—three things he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be once he stepped onto the ice.
Annie, already laced up and flushed with anticipation, rose from the bench and stepped confidently into the rink.
She moved with the unhurried ease of someone slipping back into an old habit—testing the glistening surface with a few graceful glides, arms outstretched for balance. It was, Peter noted with immediate and painful clarity, quite obvious she had indeed done this before.
Meanwhile, he was still hunched over his skates, tugging at the laces with grim determination, as if attempting to secure his dignity by sheer tension alone.
“Nearly ready?”
Annie’s voice was light and teasing, her eyes practically twinkling with festive mischief.
Peter glanced up warily. “Um… define ready.”
She skated a slow, elegant arc just within his view. “You know, ready, as in skates on. Standing upright. Not actively fleeing.”
He sighed—the long-suffering, theatrical sort usually reserved for tax season or death by public humiliation—and pushed himself gingerly upright. His knees wobbled. Both hands latched onto the wooden barrier in a white-knuckled grip that brooked no argument. He peered down at the ice as though it had personally betrayed him.
“Right,” he muttered, eyeing the glistening surface with no small degree of loathing. “Here lies Peter Kingdom—brought low by a treacherous municipal leisure activity.”
“It’s just frozen water,” Annie said encouragingly.
He gave her a deeply sceptical look. “Frozen water that, um, that wants me dead.”
“Peter, it doesn’t want anything. It’s water.”
“Malevolent water,” he muttered darkly, eyeing the rink as though it might sprout teeth and lunge at his ankles.
Annie bit back a laugh and pushed off with enviable ease, gliding into a slow, sweeping circle. Her colourful knit scarf trailed behind her like a festive ribbon, and the fairy lights overhead caught in her coppery curls, casting a gentle glow about her, almost as if the entire rink had conspired to put her in the spotlight.
Peter watched her for a moment—quietly impressed, somewhat bewildered, and, if he was honest, more than just a little daunted. She moved with the unselfconscious grace of someone who had practically grown up on the ice, while he was still considering whether his knees could be trusted not to betray him.
“Come on,” Annie called, arms outstretched in gentle encouragement. “I’ll catch you if you fall.”
Peter glanced at her. Then down at the ice. Then at the barrier he was still clinging to with the white-knuckled resolve of a man resisting both death and poor decision-making. He drew a deep breath, as though preparing to walk a tightrope over a pit of crocodiles.
“Right. Fine. But if I die, I’m, um… I’m leaving a strongly worded note.”
“Noted,” Annie replied sweetly, gliding back a little with maddening ease.
He stepped onto the ice and—
Both feet promptly shot in opposite directions.
It was, in its own way, quite the spectacle—a full-body flail so theatrical it appeared to defy both dignity and basic physics. His free arm pinwheeled like a startled scarecrow, his legs veered into something dangerously resembling the splits, and for one harrowing moment, he seemed to hover—mid-air, mid-regret—like a particularly gangly heron caught in a high-stakes game of charades.
Annie lunged forward with a gasp, seizing the front of his coat in a valiant attempt to steady him, but Peter’s momentum was considerable, and what followed resembled less a rescue attempt than a clumsy interpretive dance about marital trust.
By some miracle—and possibly divine intervention—they didn’t go down in a tangled heap. Peter lurched upright at last, collapsing against the barrier with the grateful desperation of a man who had just survived an exorcism. Annie, still hanging to his lapels, looked up at him—pink-cheeked and visibly trembling with the effort of not laughing directly in his face.
“You’re all right,” she managed, barely keeping it together. “I think.”
Peter clung to her shoulder like a baby koala in business casual—if baby koalas were six-foot-five solicitors and eucalyptus trees were five-foot women trying not to fall over laughing.
“I’ve got you,” she said, though her voice trembled with barely contained giggles.
“This is, um, this is quite undignified,” Peter muttered into her scarf.
“Mm-hm,” she agreed. “Just a little.”
“I’m a professional.”
“Yes, you are, darling.”
“People respect me.”
“They do.”
He made a low, despairing noise—somewhere between a sigh and a wounded whimper.
“This is, um… this is how it ends, isn’t it?” he murmured bleakly, casting her a look of tragic resignation. “Crumpled at your feet like a broken deckchair.”
Annie finally lost the battle and dissolved into laughter, her whole body shaking. “Peter, you haven’t even let go of the barrier yet.”
He lifted his head—just enough to confirm that yes, indeed, he was still tethered to the rink’s edge with one hand and his wife with the other, precariously suspended between dignity and disaster.
“Ah,” he said, sheepish. “Yes. Um… strategic positioning.”
“Right.” Annie wiped her eyes, still grinning. “Okay. Let’s try this properly. Let go of the barrier.”
“But—”
“Trust me.”
He looked at her for one long moment, as though weighing up the odds of survival. Then—very, very slowly—he released his death grip on the railing. His hand hovered uncertainly in mid-air, fingers twitching like they hadn’t quite agreed to this plan, poised to lunge back to safety at the first hint of betrayal from the laws of physics.
“Good,” Annie said, taking both of his hands in hers with the calm authority of someone who had clearly done this before. “Now. Bend your knees.”
Peter obliged. Slightly. A millimetre, perhaps.
“More than that.”
He bent a fraction further, every muscle in his body visibly resisting.
“Peter,” she said, biting back a grin, “you look like you’re auditioning for Swan Lake. Relax.”
“I am relaxed,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You’re about as relaxed as a plank of wood.”
“Yes,” he replied, with as much dignity as he could muster, “but a, um, a very dignified plank of wood.”
Annie snorted softly, adjusting her stance and tightening her grip on both of his hands. Her hold was firm, steady. “All right. Now just… glide. Push off with one foot.”
“Which foot?”
“Either foot.”
Peter hesitated, frowning. “What, um… what if I choose the wrong one?”
“There is no wrong foot, Peter. Just push.”
Peter pushed. In a manner of speaking. It was less of a glide and more of a startled shuffle-lurch, as though one foot had launched a mutiny and the other was scrambling to maintain order. He pitched forward into Annie, letting go of her, arms flailing, hands making a wild, desperate grab for her shoulders.
She caught him—again—with the patient amusement of someone well accustomed to catching him, in more ways than one. “Okay,” she said brightly, steadying him. “That was… a start.”
“Perhaps the council should have required indemnity waivers,” Peter muttered, trying to regain his balance. His ankles wobbled like a newborn giraffe attempting ballet.
“You’re overthinking it,” Annie said patiently. “Just feel the ice.”
Peter gave her a deeply unimpressed look. “I am feeling it. It, um… it feels terrible.”
“Come on,” she encouraged. “Try again. Knees bent, weight slightly forward, and just push off gently.”
They tried again. And again.
Peter shuffled.
Peter lurched.
Peter performed a sort of sideways wobble that defied both rhythm and reason. Twice he nearly went down—only saved by Annie’s quick reflexes and his own surprisingly tenacious grip on her forearms, which by now were bearing the brunt of both, his affection and his mild panic.
At one point, to his increasing alarm, he found himself inexplicably moving backwards.
Which was particularly distressing, given that he hadn’t yet mastered forwards.
“How—” he spluttered, heels skidding as he tried and failed to stop, “—am I going backwards? I, um, I didn’t authorise this!”
Annie let out a surprised laugh as she was tugged a few steps in his wake, her skates catching for a moment before she found her footing again. “You did that all on your own,” she said, tightening her grip with a grin. “I think your feet are staging a mutiny.”
“I most definitely did not,” he insisted, flailing slightly. “I’m being dragged. By momentum. Or gravity. Or, um—something.”
“Okay. Let’s try that again,” Annie said, her tone all patience and playfulness as she began to skate backwards again, drawing him forward with her. “Only this time, I’ll do the steering.”
Peter sighed. “Brilliant,” he muttered. “I love being towed like a reluctant sleigh.”
Her laughter rang out, warm and unbothered. “Oh, relax, Peter.”
“You’re showing off,” he grumbled.
She raised a coppery brow. “Of course I am. What’s the point of having a hidden talent if I can’t use it to impress my husband?”
Peter gave a theatrical sigh, his skates wobbling dangerously beneath him. “I’m glad one of us is enjoying this.”
“I most definitely am,” she said brightly, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. “Now stop thinking so much and just skate.”
He looked at her—wide-eyed, dubious, clinging still to a last shred of reluctance—then glanced down at his skates, as though hoping they might offer an escape clause. They didn’t.
Annie’s gaze was steady, her hands warm in his, her confidence gently infectious.
And then—slowly, incrementally, miraculously—something shifted. Peter stopped obsessing over which foot to move and when, and simply… moved. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t smooth.
It was roughly akin to a teetering shuffle with delusions of grandeur. But it was skating. Honest-to-goodness, actual skating.
“There you go!”
Annie beamed, her whole face lighting up with excitement. “See? You’re doing it!”
Peter dared a glance down at his feet, mildly astonished to find them—against all odds—cooperating.
“I—I’m skating—”
“Yes, you are!”
“This is, um…” He wobbled slightly, recovered with a flail, and cleared his throat. “Not entirely dreadful.”
Annie laughed, and together they began another slow circuit of the rink’s perimeter. Peter was still gripping her hands as though dangling over a cliff, but he was upright, he was moving—and, most impressively, he hadn’t yet fallen.
The snow was coming down more steadily now, soft as sifted icing sugar, dusting their shoulders and hair. The fairy lights above cast everything in a warm, golden glow, and somewhere overhead, the speaker began to play ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’.
All around them, people skated and laughed and swooped by in a cheerful blur of woolly hats and colourful scarves.
Annie continued to skate backwards, pulling him gently along, and Peter allowed himself to be led, his grip loosening slightly as his balance began to improve.
He found himself watching her—really watching her. The way the soft snow had settled lightly on her knit hat and exposed curls. The pink flush of her cheeks. The crinkle of her freckled nose whenever she laughed.
Her eyes sparkled beneath the fairy lights, and she was smiling at him in that particular way that never failed to make his chest feel warm and tight all at once.
“You’re staring,” she said, arching a coppery brow, though the corners of her mouth tugged upward in gentle amusement.
Peter’s gaze didn’t waver. “Can you, um, can you blame me?” he said softly. “The view’s rather lovely.”
Annie’s smile shifted, gentler now—quieter somehow—as she squeezed his hands. “Smooth talker.”
He gave the faintest shrug, his expression bashful but undeniably fond. “I, um… I do try to rise to the occasion. Occasionally.”
They made another slow loop, Peter gaining a tiny bit more confidence with each cautious push. He was almost starting to enjoy himself.
Almost.
“I think,” he said at last, with the careful optimism of a man about to tempt fate, “I might try a proper glide on my own.”
Annie arched a sceptical brow. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. How hard can it be?”
Famous last words.
He released her hands, planted his weight on one foot, and pushed off with what he hoped resembled confident authority.
For approximately five glorious seconds, it worked.
He glided.
He was gliding.
He was actually—
His skate struck a rough patch of ice, and any illusions of competence vanished on contact.
What followed unfolded in exquisite slow motion. His arms flailed. His legs performed something that could only be described as interpretive geometry. His body executed a half-twist that might have won him praise in Olympic diving, had it not taken place on solid ice.
And then—inevitably, catastrophically—he went down.
He landed flat on his back with a resounding thump that knocked the air clean out of his lungs. For a moment, he lay perfectly still, quietly pondering the choices that had led him to this precise moment—both literal and metaphorical.
Annie appeared above him and leant forward, hands braced on her knees as she peered down at him, eyes wide with alarm. “Peter? Are you—oh God—are you all right?”
He didn’t move. Just continued to lie there, blinking at the snowflakes drifting lazily through the golden glow of the lights overhead. “Dignity,” he said at last, in the mournful tone of someone reflecting on something long since lost, “I had some once.”
Whatever composure Annie had left crumbled on the spot.
A startled snort escaped her—one that quickly unravelled into a helpless wheeze. Doubled over, one hand clutching her ribs, she was laughing too hard to speak at first. “Oh my God,” she gasped at last, her eyes brimming with tears. “That was spectacular...”
“Thank you,” Peter said flatly. “I live to serve.”
“You just—” she snorted, nearly crying now, “you went down like a sack of potatoes!”
“I’m, um—” He winced as he tried to sit up. “—I’m quite aware.”
Annie was laughing so hard now that actual tears streamed down her cheeks. She dabbed at them with the end of her scarf, eyes crinkled with mirth.
“Honestly,” she choked out, “if you’d done it on purpose, you could’ve won gold for freestyle skating.”
“Um—thank you,” he said stiffly, sitting with his long legs stretched out in front of him like a disgraced giraffe. “And on that note, the judge may kindly keep her remarks to herself.”
Around them, a few nearby skaters had come to a gentle halt, amusement written plainly across their faces. One teenage boy offered Peter a sympathetic thumbs-up, while another—grinning like the Cheshire cat—called out, “Nice one, mate!” before pushing off again and gliding away, still chuckling with the others.
Peter let out a long-suffering sigh and leant back on his hands, the ice biting cold against his palms.
“I, um… I probably should’ve worn a crash helmet,” he muttered, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.
Annie, still hiccuping with laughter, finally managed to catch her breath and extended both hands toward him. “Come on, then. Up you get.”
He grasped her hands and let her haul him upright, wobbling only slightly as he found his feet again with all the grace of a newly born foal. His backside was wet and decidedly chilly, and he was fairly certain he had bruised something vital.
Possibly, his ego.
Annie stepped behind him and brushed the snow from his woollen overcoat with quick, efficient sweeps of her hands. “There,” she declared brightly. “Good as new.”
“I think we can agree,” Peter said, gingerly shuffling back towards the barrier, “that I’ve humiliated myself sufficiently for one evening.”
“Aw, but you were doing so well…”
“Clearly not,” he muttered, gripping the rail like it was the last remnant of his dignity.
He stood there a moment, catching his breath, then dragged a hand through his eternally untidy flop of hair, as though it might somehow smooth both, his unruly locks and his battered composure.
“Pub?” he suggested, casting her a hopeful glance. “I think I require one of Ted’s famous Christmas bitters. Possibly two.”
Annie circled him with effortless poise and came to an elegant stop just inches from his chest.
Her cheeks were glowing, her breath a delicate shimmer in the frosted air, and the look she gave him now—soft, knowing, and just a tiny touch wicked—made something flutter rather traitorously in Peter’s chest.
She tilted her head to look up at him, eyes sparkling beneath snow-dusted lashes, the ghost of a smile curving her lips. “Actually,” she said, her voice low and deliciously suggestive as her hands slipped beneath the folds of his coat and came to rest at his waist. “I’ve got a better idea.”
Her fingers wandered lower—slowly, deliberately—and gave his backside a very purposeful squeeze.
“Ow!”
Peter jolted, eyebrows flying up. “Careful,” he murmured, flustered and also vaguely scandalised. “I, um, I’m fairly certain I’ve bruised something.”
“Oh dear.” Her voice was thick with mock concern, though her grin was anything but innocent. She pressed closer—close enough that he could see the delicate snowflakes catching and instantly melting in her lashes. “That sounds serious,” she purred, the words laced with husky warmth. “But you’re in luck. I know first aid.” Her hands slid up to his chest and found his lapels. “And I’m fairly certain Beatrice doesn’t expect us back for at least another hour.”
Before Peter could muster a reply—verbal or otherwise—she tugged him down into a kiss.
There was nothing tentative about it.
It was purposeful and full of heat—claiming him with the kind of unhurried confidence that left no room for doubt.
Her mouth moved against his with firm, deliberate pressure, her lips parting just enough to let him feel the warmth of her breath and the teasing brush of her tongue.
She pressed in closer still, her body moulding to his, and even through the layers of wool and cashmere Peter could feel the soft curve of her hips and the gentle crush of her breasts against his belly. One hand slid to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the cool and slightly damp hair there with a possessive sort of tenderness that made him shiver.
He made a quiet, helpless sort of noise in the back of his throat. His hands, quite without consulting him, found her waist. The skates made balancing precarious, but at that moment he couldn’t have cared less.
Around them, the fairy lights shimmered in the falling snow, casting everything in a warm, golden haze that made the moment feel oddly timeless. Bing Crosby’s voice drifted across the ice, crooning a smooth and sentimental ‘White Christmas’.
It was, Peter thought dazedly, rather like standing in the middle of a snow globe—if said snow globe involved him being thoroughly snogged by his beautiful, maddening and distractingly gorgeous wife.
The group of teenage boys skated past again, clearly more invested in the unfolding spectacle than their own skating technique now. One let out an exaggerated, appreciative whistle that echoed off the boards.
Another jabbed a finger in Peter’s direction and called, “Oi! Get in there, mate!”—as though Peter had just scored a hat trick at Wembley rather than been publicly ambushed into a rather scandalous display of affection on ice.
The magic was broken and they moved apart, though Annie’s fingers lingered at his chest as she cheekily adjusted his lapels, smoothing them with far more care than strictly necessary.
“I could have a look at your injuries, you know…” Her voice was thick with affection—and something far more suggestive. “I think I know exactly how to make it better.” Her eyes locked with his—dark, gleaming, and full of promise. “Home?”
Peter, more than just a little breathless and decidedly pink about the ears by now, blinked down at her. His hair was a tousled mess and his thoughts even more so.
“Good Lord,” he murmured, dragging a shaky hand through his windswept mop before adding, somewhat hoarsely,
“Yes. Um—yes. Home. Absolutely.”