**Diary Entry – A Winter’s Tale**
The last day of the Christmas holidays, and my mates decided to hit the ice rink. The bitter cold had eased slightly, and though the sun hung low, its glare was sharp, promising warmth to come. The days were finally growing longer.
Oliver and James weren’t the only ones eager to shed the extra pounds from holiday feasting. The rink was packed. Sunlight flashed off the ice, the frosty air sharpened our senses, and cheery pop music blared from the speakers.
Once on the ice, Oliver and James wove between the skaters, blades gliding effortlessly over the rough surface. It was their first visit this season—first, heavy snow had made the rink unusable, then a thaw left it slushy and puddled. Only after Boxing Day did it freeze solid again.
After a couple of laps to warm up, they started mucking about. James spotted a girl in a white puffer jacket and a matching woolly bobble hat. She clung to the railing, legs wobbling, ankles buckling—clearly her first time on skates. If she let go, she’d topple like a felled pine. James felt a pang of pity mixed with amusement.
He glanced at Oliver, who was deep in conversation with a group of girls. James skated over to the rail.
“Want me to show you the ropes? It’s not as hard as it looks.”
No reply—her right foot slipped forward, nearly sending her backward. James caught her just in time.
“Thanks,” she said, and her voice—soft as snowfall—sent a shiver down his spine. His pulse quickened.
“Don’t be afraid. Let go of the rail, or you’ll never learn. Hold my hand instead.” He offered his.
“I’m scared,” she squeaked.
“Falling’s part of it, but I won’t let you. Come on.”
She gripped his hand but kept one on the rail.
“Good. Now push off with one foot and glide on the other. Don’t point your toe—you’ll go flying! There, brilliant. Now the other foot…”
She took a few tentative steps, finally releasing the rail. It wasn’t skating, but James lavished praise anyway.
“Brilliant! Bend your knees a bit. Now try gliding.”
Her eyes sparkled, and when she laughed, the sound sent James’s heart leaping.
She pushed off too boldly, tripped on her toe-pick, and would’ve fallen if he hadn’t steadied her.
“Easy does it.”
They inched along the rail until she groaned, “I’m done! My legs are jelly.”
“First-timer’s always rough. Tomorrow, you’ll feel it. You did great. I’m James, by the way.” He stole glances at her profile—rosy cheeks, thick lashes, lips parted slightly. A warmth spread through his chest, unfamiliar and dizzying.
“Abigail,” she said, and her name—sweet as summer—made his head spin.
She leaned into him, exhausted, and he savored her weight, her breath, the puff of steam from her lips.
At the changing rooms, she collapsed onto a bench.
“Give me your tag; I’ll fetch your shoes.”
She handed it over. “Mind helping with my skates?” she asked when he returned.
Her blue eyes sent another jolt through him.
“I’ve got it.” She bent to unlace them.
James stood frozen, watching.
“There you are!” Oliver’s voice cut in. “Lost you. How’d it go?”
“Smashing for a first try,” James said brightly. “This is Oliver. And this is Abigail.”
“Pretty,” Oliver muttered with a wink. “Skating more?”
“You go. I’ll walk Abigail back.”
“No need,” she said, tugging on her boots.
“Oh, he doesn’t want to leave you,” Oliver teased.
“True,” James admitted. “Fancy a coffee? Warm up with a hot chocolate?”
Off skates, she seemed tiny, fragile. Her smile sent his heart into his throat.
Oliver snorted. “You’re going like that?”
James flushed and scrambled for his shoes.
They left the park, ducking into a dimly lit café adorned with sprigs of holly. Abigail winced as she sat.
“Are you hurt?” James asked.
“My leg. Took a tumble.”
He guessed where—but didn’t say.
“Ice would help.”
“Pretty sure I’ve had enough of that today,” she joked, and they laughed.
“It’ll pass. Practice makes perfect. Fancy another go next weekend?”
In the warm glow, she looked even lovelier.
“I was supposed to go with my mate, but she’s ill…”
They warmed up with coffee, stealing glances, something kindling between them.
They met often after, and on weekends, James taught her to skate properly.
“When do we meet this girl?” Mum asked one evening. “Who is she?”
“Saturday. Don’t fuss—just a normal dinner.”
Abigail was nervous outside his house.
“What if they don’t like me?” Her voice wavered.
“They will. I’m here.” He led her inside.
Mum greeted them warmly. Over tea, conversation flowed—until Abigail met his father’s probing stare.
“Where do you live? Study?” he asked.
“English Lit at uni. Mum’s a teacher—got me into books.”
At that, Dad paled slightly. “Journalism, then?”
“Mum teaches in York. Dad died when I was two.”
The rest of the evening, Dad was silent.
“I think he hates me,” Abigail murmured as James walked her home.
“Quite the opposite. Couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
At home, Dad waited in the kitchen, door shut.
“Son, we need to talk.”
His grave tone unsettled James.
“She looks just like her mother. When I was your age, I was sent to York for work.” He paused. “Her mum was lovely—fresh out of uni. We… well, I was married. Had you. I never saw her again.”
James’s stomach dropped. “You’re not saying—?”
“No. She’s twenty? You’re twenty-five. I was there in August. Not her father.” He exhaled. “But ask her mother’s name.”
“Tanya.”
Dad nodded. “Forget this. Don’t tell your mum—or Abigail.”
“So you cheated. And if she *had* been my sister?”
Dad winced. “Life’s long, son. I loved your mum then, and now. Don’t make my mistakes.”
James sat up late, wrestling with it. If Abigail had been his sister—could he have walked away?
*Thank God she’s not.*
They married that summer, a week after her birthday. If her mum recognised Dad at the wedding, she gave no sign.
Youth never thinks of consequences. But the past casts long shadows—ones you never see coming.
