“Which paper?” Garen asked—not that it mattered, because the answer was No.
“The one about the Romanian orphans and attachment disorders.”
“Mmm. It was fascinating.” He hoped it really was fascinating and she hadn’t sent him a boring paper just to test him.
“What did you think?”
For once, Garen’s notorious forgetfulness came in handy. “That was, like, two weeks ago. I cannae remember the details.”
“They studied Romanian orphans adopted into the UK.” She slid her crescent-moon pendant back and forth on its necklace chain as she spoke. “These kids exhibited symptoms of disinhibited attachment, even the ones adopted as young as six months old.”
“Uh-huh.” He minimized the video chat and opened Facebook, knowing that once Karen started banging on about orphans, she’d never notice he’d stopped paying attention. “Remind me, what’s disin—”
“Disinhibited attachment. Apparently it’s when kids are unusually friendly with strangers. They’ll talk to any adult they meet, even hug them or climb into their laps.”
Garen checked his notifications, placing the list just below the computer’s camera so it would appear as though he was looking at his sister. “So being friendly is bad now?”
“The point is, these adopted kids don’t attach themselves firmly enough to their new parents because they got so little attention from any one person when they were babies. Orphanages have very high turnover of employees, you know.”
“Mmm. Yeah.”
“The kids think they can’t depend on their parents to stick around, so they latch onto every adult they see.”
At the top of Garen’s Facebook feed was a new video his friend/ex-boyfriend Steven had posted of his cat jumping in and out of a box. It called to mind something conveniently relevant. “I’ve got a mate with a cat like that. He was left in a crate by the side of the road when he was four weeks old—the cat, not my mate.”
“I assumed.”
“This cat was ten times friendlier than all the other cats at the shelter. So my friend adopted him. And when visitors would come to his place, the cat—Torpedo is his name—would be all over us, begging for attention like a dog. It was so cool.” On Garen’s screen, Torpedo’s video looped in such a way it appeared he was jumping backward. “After a few months, though, Torpedo started acting cautious with strangers, even running away, which is normal for a cat. The vet said it was because he’d figured out his new owner wasn’t going anywhere, so he didn’t need a hundred best friends.”
“Aye.” Karen’s image tilted as she slouched against the back of the couch, balancing her laptop on her knees. “He’d formed a stable, secure bond.”
“Which I guess is good, but I miss the old Torpedo. He was really fun to petsit.”
“I remember the babysitters loved you, too,” Karen said. “You were so friendly and trusting, and you never cried when Mum and Dad left the house.”
Garen squirmed in his seat, wishing so many video chats with Karen didn’t turn into an exercise in self-examination. He’d always considered his outgoing nature to be a strength, and here she was trying to turn it into a pathology. He knew his sister had her own issues to deal with—like finding it hard to get close to people—but he didn’t feel a need to fix her the way Karen seemed to want to fix him.
Before he could reply, Garen heard keys rattling in the front door. “My flatmate’s home! You can meet him.” Relieved to change the topic, Garen turned from the laptop and waved to Simon as he entered the foyer. “Come say hiya to my sister.”
“Okay. Just a moment.” Simon removed his coat, then his shoes, leaving the latter beneath the coat rack.
Oh. Garen had noticed the shoes’ presence there but had never considered the reason. He looked below the table at his own feet, dismayed to see them still bearing the black trainers he wore for work. “Oops.”
“What’s wrong?” Karen asked.
“Nothing. Here he is.” He angled the laptop screen so Simon didn’t have to stoop to be visible. “This is my sister, Karen. No jokes about her name. She’s the humorless one.”
“I am not!”
“Hi, Karen.”
“Hiya, Simon. Thanks for looking after my brother when he was ill. I hope he wasn’t too annoying.”
“He’s a joy,” Simon said, with no irony whatsoever.
“Are you an actor paid to say that?” she asked. “Cos you’re very convincing. You could win a BAFTA award.”
Simon laughed. “Talking of films, did you know there was a documentary featuring your brother?”
Garen’s face flushed. “I’m not exactly featured.” Two seasons ago, Shawlands Rink had hired a local film crew to document Team Riley’s journey to the national championship.
“Not technically,” Karen said, “but you did get more than your share of footage by hogging the spotlight.”
“I cannae help it if the camera loves me.” He poked Simon in the side. “How did you happen upon that documentary?”
“I looked up curling on YouTube last night,” Simon said. “I guess it detected my location and showed me your video.”
“So you are interested in curling.” Garen pressed his palms together in an exaggerated entreaty. “Does that mean you’ll come tomorrow?”
“Notice how my brother’s asking you in front of me,” Karen told Simon, “to add extra pressure.”
Simon sighed. “I’ll go—if we’re home for Liverpool’s kickoff.”
“Ya dancer!” Garen smacked his hands together. “No running tonight, I hope? You need to rest. Curling’s a lot more exhausting than it looks.”
“It’s already too dark. I’ll join a gym next week—I’m way overdue for my weekly long run.” Simon tugged his tie loose. “Besides, I’m kinda shattered for some reason.”
After his sister and flatmate said goodbye and Simon had left the room, Garen turned the laptop back to face himself.
A single word from Karen popped up in the chat window: CUTE!!!!!
Thanks. Must be my new shampoo, he replied.
Your flatmate, ya knob.
Oh him. I suppose he’s all right. Still, he couldn’t hold back a grin, and he knew he was probably blushing. He also knew Simon might find it suspicious they’d stopped talking, so he asked her, “You’re coming home for Christmas, right?”
“Obviously,” she said. “I know how important it is to you.”
“It’s not important to you?”
“Of course it is. I miss having Mum and Dad for the holidays too.”
“It’s not like they’re dead.” He voiced one of his biggest fears. “You know, if Brexit goes poorly, Mum might never be allowed back into the UK.”
“She’d be allowed in, Garen. She just might not be able to live there permanently. But that’s worst-case scenario. I’m sure the government will get it sorted.”
He barked out a laugh. “This government? I take back what I said about you not having a sense of humor.”
“Ha ha. Anyway, I’ve got two weeks off for the holidays, so I’ll stay through New Year’s.”
“Yaaaas! This’ll be the best Christmas ever.”
“You say that every year.”
“I know I do.” Garen turned his head at the sound of Simon leaving his room. His flatmate hummed a happy tune as he headed down the hall toward the kitchen. Soon the scent of bread or muffins or even cupcakes would be wafting through the air, and Garen would join him for a beer while scrounging through the fridge for stir-fry components. Or maybe, since it was Friday, they’d order a takeaway and watch a film.
For the first time in the three weeks since Luca had moved out, this flat felt like a home.
Garen turned back to his sister. “And every year I’m right.”
Chapter 6
50 Days Until Christmas
Simon’s fingers and toes were tingling with anticipation as he stood in the Shawlands Rink “warm room”—a big lounge adjoining the ice, basically—liste
ning to a bushy-haired old man give a detailed safety briefing.
“The ice is three things,” Craig said, counting on his fingers. “Cold, hard, and slippery. So never run, even if you’re trying to sweep a fast stone. It’s not worth a fall and a trip to A&E. Also, the stones weigh over forty pounds—nineteen kilos for you metric-using kids—so don’t pick them up. Ever heard the term ‘flat-footed’? That came from someone who dropped a curling stone on his toes.”
Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd of new curlers, as well as a few eye-rolls among those wearing official Shawlands name badges—veteran club members like Garen, Simon supposed, who’d probably heard Craig’s jokes many times.
As Craig explained how points were scored, Simon peered through the wide window at the rink. The ice was divided by thick lines into six long adjoining “sheets,” each of which featured a large, bullseye-shaped “house” at either end. It looked like the paint forming the lines had been laid down several inches beneath the ice. Simon marveled at the precise effort that must have gone into creating such a space.
“Excited?” came a whisper to his left.
Simon looked down at Garen. “I hope I do all right.”
“All that matters is you have fun,” Garen said. “And that you avoid the sausage when breakfast is served. David tends to burn them, and yet somehow they’re always undercooked in the middle.”
Simon noticed something was subtly different in Garen’s stance. “You seem taller all of a sudden.”
Garen pointed to his curling shoes, which looked like thick-soled black trainers. “Insulation keeps our feet warm but also gives us a wee lift.” He offered a gleeful grin that made Simon’s toes tingle even harder.
A few minutes later, they filed out of the warm room and into the cavernous, brightly lit rink. Simon tugged his knit cap down over his ears to ward off the biting chill. Voices bounced between the ice and the high ceiling with a quality he’d never heard before, adding to the sense of adventure.
Simon took a cautious step out onto the ice, expecting to slip. But he had slung rubber “grippers” over the soles of his trabs, and the ice surface had been pebbled with frozen water droplets. The pebble was meant to help the stones glide, but it also made the ice easier to walk upon.
The class split up into small groups, each led by a volunteer instructor. Garen divided Simon’s group in half and had them stand on opposite sides of the fourteen-foot-wide ice sheet. Then he led them through a drill of short “throws” back and forth to each other across the sheet.
Simon was fascinated by the physics involved, how the stone could get from Point A to Point B by traveling not in a straight line, but in an arc, the angle of which was largely determined by the force of the throw.
“So that’s why they call it curling,” said the lady beside him wearing a cozy-looking fuzzy green hat.
Simon returned her smile. “It’s starting to make sense now.”
“Okay!” Garen clapped his hands to get their attention. “Now for the fun and scary part—sliding out of the hack.” He walked to the near end of the sheet and stood beside a contraption resembling a starting block.
Garen demonstrated how to get into throwing position, with one foot perched in the hack and the other atop a flat, foot-shaped slider. Then he crouched down, grasping the squarish plastic stabilizer with his left hand and the yellow-capped stone with his right. Simon tried not to stare at Garen’s hips as they rose, then rocked back slightly.
But his breath left him as Garen shot out of the hack in one smooth motion. He sailed forward in a bent-knee posture, perfectly balanced on his left foot, his right leg extended straight behind him like the tail of a bird.
After coming to a stop, Garen stood and turned to them. “Any questions?”
Will you do that again? Simon thought. He’d watched Garen curl in the documentary, but it was pure magic to see it in person, to witness his body folding so naturally into a position that was so…well, unnatural.
“Who’ll be going first?” Garen asked as he pushed the rock back toward the hack with his foot. “Simon?”
“Oh. Erm, sure.” Simon took the slider and stabilizer from Garen, then went to the hack and placed his right foot on its sloped surface. “Let me see if I can remember without you reminding me.”
“Ooh, showoff. Gie laldy, then.”
Simon crouched down, took hold of the rock’s handle, then raised his hips. This is so awkward with long legs. He drew back, moving his left foot parallel to the hack. Shit, that slider thing is slippery.
There was nowhere to go but forward. In his mind’s eye, he replayed Garen’s slide, trusting his body to imitate that image.
Simon launched himself out of the hack. For a moment, it felt like flying. Then the slider shimmied under his left foot. Without panicking, he corrected his balance, and his slide continued until he slowed to a stop near the blue line.
I did it! Simon stood, removing the slider from under his foot.
“That was brilliant!” Garen said. “You sure you’ve never curled before?”
Simon nodded as a warm glow spread from his innards up to his face and shoulders. He stepped back up onto the carpeted catwalk, wishing that warmth would spread to his feet. The freezing air seemed to be jabbing his soles and heels with tiny needles.
“Excellent start!” Garen said to the next curler, who had toppled over at the end of her slide. Then he addressed the whole group. “The thing about balance is—and I never knew this until I started curling—it’s not just in your head. It’s in your core and in your thighs.” He patted the body parts in question. “As you’re sliding out of the hack, focus on keeping them involved, about halfway between super tense and totally relaxed. And now, a bonus secret.” Garen leaned forward and waved everyone to come closer. “Do this in your everyday life, even walking across a room. Use more muscles to do everything and see how much more stable you feel.” He spread his arms. “It’s a travesty we were never taught this in PE class, aye?”
While he waited his turn to throw again, Simon watched his flatmate with a touch of awe. Compared to the instructors on the adjacent sheets—all lifelong curlers, Simon assumed—Garen put people at ease by relating their struggles to his own.
And his physical grace was a joy to behold. As Garen glided over the ice, his hair streamed behind him like a horse’s mane. He pivoted on his sliding foot with ease, his balance never faltering. It amazed Simon that the man who could trip over a ball of dust at home was pure stability out on the ice.
Eventually the twelve groups combined into six and started throwing stones the full length of the sheet. Simon was the first to land one inside the house, prompting back slaps from his fellow newbies. When he knocked another rock out of the house, the crack of granite and whoops of onlookers gave Simon a zing of adrenaline he wanted to feel again and again.
They took a half-hour break for breakfast. Simon collected his food from the volunteer-staffed buffet, then sat at a circular wooden table of eight with Garen and a few of his friends, including his best mate, Luca. The club members’ beaming smiles and welcoming waves made it clear the term “warm room” wasn’t just about ambient temperature.
“Has Garen started decorating the flat for Christmas?” Luca asked Simon once the man in question had left the table to give tips to a group of kids.
“You mean apart from the snow globes and holiday toiletries?” Simon asked.
Luca grinned as he swallowed his final bite of buttered crumpet. “Wee warning: He installs a semi-major decoration—like a wreath or garland—every weekend beginning the first Saturday after Halloween.” He tapped the table. “Which is today, by the way.”
“Has he always been this way about Christmas?” Simon asked him.
“Only since Granny McLaren died five years ago,” Luca said. “They were really close.”
“He said most of his decorations were hers.”
Luca nodded. “And after she died, his dad moved to Spain with Garen
’s stepmum. Garen’s mother had already moved to Germany with her new family, and his sister’s been teaching in Eastern Europe for ages.” He sighed. “That lad’s got a million friends, but sometimes there’s no substitute for family.” He looked at his own sister across the table and raised his voice. “Though some of us would love to swap out the family we’ve got.”
Gillian flashed her brother a middle finger behind her arm where her seven-year-old daughter couldn’t see.
As he got up to fetch another cup of coffee, Simon noticed his ankles felt strangely stiff. Then he realized something even more alarming.
He tapped his shoe against the leg of his chair. “That’s odd.”
“What’s odd?” asked Gillian, squinting as she tried to adjust her ear-warmer headband over her mop of short, dark hair.
“My feet are still freezing from the ice.” The pins and needles now felt alight with cold fire.
“Are you wearing warm socks? Even with my curling shoes I still wear two pairs at once.”
“I’m only wearing one pair,” he told her. “They’re pretty thick wool, though.”
“Just try and keep moving,” she said. “And stand on the catwalk between shots.”
“Ta for the tip.” Simon rubbed his aching lower back as he headed for the coffee station. Maybe an invigorating tempo-run tomorrow would work out all this stiffness.
He poured himself a refill, then examined the nearby wall of trophy plaques and club photos, the oldest of which dated back to the late 1800s. Simon had vaguely known that curling had been invented in Scotland but hadn’t realized its popularity had remained steady for centuries.
As he went to take another sip, he noticed that like his feet, his fingers were cold and tingly despite being wrapped around his hot coffee cup.
At the back of his mind, a terrible possibility reared its head. He’d just recovered from the flu, and now his extremities felt…wrong.
Surely this was all due to the chill of the ice rink. Even his backache could be explained by the sweeping he’d done during practice—leaning over to brush the ice was a strain for someone of his height.
Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice) Page 8
