‘That’s what I’d like most in the world,’ she said sadly. ‘That magic back again. You know?’
I knew, of course, but Summer was right – those things can’t be bought.
I bit my lip.
‘I was thinking more of actual things,’ I pointed out. ‘Like … I dunno, a book or a bracelet or a bunch of flowers … for your birthday. And, y’know … Valentine’s Day.’
I felt my cheeks colour as I said the words, but Summer shook her head.
‘You don’t have to get me anything for my birthday,’ she said. ‘Or Valentine’s Day, silly. I’m not really in the mood for any of it. Just be here, Alfie, that’s enough. You’re the only good thing that’s happened to me, these past few months, y’know?’
She put her arms round me then and I hugged her back, and it was like holding a robin in your hands, tiny, fragile, perfect. She was like something wild, something beautiful, something you want to hold on to but know you probably can’t.
It made me more determined than ever.
I want to find something special, something Summer will never forget, something that will re-light the fire behind her blue eyes. I need an idea that says I love you without me actually having to say the words. I am not good at slushy stuff, and I have to tread carefully. I don’t want to scare Summer away.
I have the girl of my dreams, but she’s sick, broken. The spark has gone out of her and even dance can’t put it back, so how can I hope to?
And just as suddenly as that, the seed of an idea takes hold. Summer loves dance, more than anything else in the world. She loves it so much that the pressure of trying out for a boarding ballet school got to be too much; it tipped her right over from talented perfectionist to lost little girl with an eating disorder, trying and failing to hang on to her shattered dreams.
Supposing I could tip things back again? I’ve heard Summer talk about her hopes and dreams often enough, though always in a sad, resigned way. What if I could help her put those dreams back together, help her find her love of dance again?
I’ll give her back the magic.
It will take a bit of planning, of course, but luck is on my side as Valentine’s Day falls in half-term. I call Finch, Skye’s sort of long-distance boyfriend, to see if he can help – he’s in London, so he’ll know how to get things sorted.
‘Nice idea, Alfie,’ he tells me. ‘It’s definitely Summer’s kind of thing. I can book the tickets, no problem … I’ll get Mum to put them on her credit card, and you can settle up when I see you.’
‘Want to come along?’ I ask. ‘You and Skye? It could be a kind of double-date.’
Finch considers this. ‘We’re not as close as we were back in August,’ he tells me. ‘It’s not easy when you live so far apart, y’know?’
‘Might be exactly what you need,’ I say. ‘A grand gesture, something special to show you still care?’
Finch laughs. ‘I was only going to send a birthday card,’ he confesses. ‘Trust you to go all flash on me, Alfie. If you’re doing all this for Summer and I just give Skye a measly birthday card, it’s going to look pretty bad, right?’
‘Pretty bad,’ I agree.
‘OK, OK,’ Finch considers. ‘Maybe I will come along …’
‘Listen,’ I push, ‘you’re one of those arty types, aren’t you? You’ll be going to drama school one day, right, so just think of this as research.’
‘If I hate it, I’m blaming you.’
But then Finch laughs and says what the heck, he’ll do it, and promises to meet us at Victoria Coach Station to help us navigate the Tube. Between us, we get the logistics ironed out.
‘One thing,’ Finch says. ‘Summer will like all this, right? I mean … it won’t bring back memories, make her feel … I dunno … worse? Will it?’
‘Course not,’ I say confidently. ‘She’ll love it!’
I hope.
3
I set the alarm on my mobile phone with two alarm clocks as backup, but nothing really helps when you have to drag yourself out of bed at 3.45 a.m. I ring Tanglewood to check that Skye and Summer are awake too, then shower, dress and battle with the hair gel in an attempt to get my unruly hair to calm down and look smooth and suave, and not as though I just stuck my fingers in an electric socket.
Dad is in the kitchen, glugging peppermint tea, getting ready to be our first taxi driver of the day.
‘She’s a nice enough girl, Summer Tanberry,’ Dad says. ‘But are you sure she’s worth all this trouble?’
‘Totally worth it,’ I reply.
‘Huh. Well, I hope she appreciates all your hard work to set this up,’ he grumbles. ‘And the fact that I had to get up in the middle of the night to drive you.’
When we draw up on the gravel at Tanglewood, Dad toots the horn once and Skye and Summer come outside, wrapped up against the frosty morning in coats and scarves, wide-eyed and hesitant in the yellow light from the car headlamps. They both look amazing. I told them to dress up, and Skye is in a vintage duffel coat with a print dress peeping out beneath, while Summer wears a velvet jacket over a pink floaty dress, the silk flower I gave her the Christmas before last clipped in her hair along with a little bunch of feathers. She looks awesome, and I cannot wait to see her face when she discovers where we are going.
‘Did we really have to be up so early?’ Skye groans, scrambling into the car. ‘Where are you taking us, Outer Mongolia?’
‘It feels like Outer Mongolia here,’ Summer says, shivering as she scoots across the seat to snuggle up against me. ‘Cold. Mind you, I always seem to be freezing lately. So … where are we going?’
‘Exeter Bus Station,’ Dad says, turning out on to the road again. ‘Can’t say more than that – it’s more than my life’s worth!’
‘Why is it all so secret?’ Skye demands. ‘And why am I here, anyhow? Is it so you get to look like some kind of player, Alfie, with two girls hanging off your arm?’
‘Busted,’ I say. ‘You know me too well, Skye Tanberry.’
‘I like secrets,’ she says. ‘Secrets are cool …’
‘Maybe,’ Summer says. ‘But I think we deserve to know a bit more, Alfie. You can’t just tell us to dress in our best stuff and be ready at five, and not say why …’
‘Can you give us a clue?’ Skye chimes in.
They take it in turns to try and tease and trick the surprise from me as we drive through the winding, early morning lanes, and by the time we finally reach the bus station I relent and reveal that we’re taking a coach to London.
‘I knew it!’ Skye says. ‘Is Finch in on all this? Because if he isn’t and I’m just some kind of gooseberry, I will not be pleased. Two’s company and three’s a crowd, as they say …’
‘Finch is meeting us at the other end,’ I admit.
‘Yay!’ Summer squeals. ‘That’s perfect! Just like old times!’
‘OK,’ Skye says. ‘I might have to kill him when I see him, though. He never said a thing. He hasn’t been in touch for ages … but all the time the pair of you were planning this!’
We get to the bus station just in time, and pile on to the coach, grabbing seats along the back. Summer sits in the middle, sandwiched between me and Skye, and I break out a picnic breakfast of apples, tofu burger and bottles of fruit smoothie, all designed not to freak Summer out. Skye is less anxious about that, and adds a couple of chocolate bars into the mix. Summer doesn’t eat any of those, but they don’t seem to bother her either.
‘Even you are all dressed up,’ Summer comments as I shrug off my anorak and stow it on the luggage rack above us. ‘That’s your best Christmas jumper, right? What is going on?
’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I just don’t want us to look like country kids once we get there.’
‘Are we having a sightseeing day?’ Skye wants to know. ‘Because I haven’t done that for soooo long. We came up years ago, when Dad was still around, and went to see Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London and the Houses of Parliament. We rode around on one of those sightseeing buses that have no roof, and it started to rain, so Mum bought us umbrellas …’
‘With pictures of London cabs and the London Eye on,’ Summer finishes for her sister. ‘And Beefeaters and Scots Guards with those red jackets and big furry hats …’
‘That’s right,’ Skye agrees. ‘And then Mum stopped at a street stall to buy us all souvenir T-shirts, and a sandwich from a cafe because we were starving, and we missed our train and Dad had to pay extra for us to catch a later one, and they quarrelled all the way home.’
‘Coco wouldn’t stop crying,’ Summer remembers. ‘She was only about four …’
‘Happy days,’ Skye quips. ‘Not.’
I frown. ‘Today will be better,’ I say.
‘Obviously,’ Skye says. ‘My dad is not involved in it, so it has to be better. He wasn’t good at family days out.’
‘He wasn’t good at families, full stop,’ Summer adds, yawning and leaning her head against my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Alfie. Today will be awesome, whatever it is you’ve got planned.’
I hope so, I really do.
Finch meets us at Victoria Coach Station as arranged, looking effortlessly cool in an old suit jacket with the sleeves rolled up and a T-shirt advertising some indie band I’ve never heard of. I instantly regret my Fair Isle jumper and anorak. I was aiming at the hipster look, but suddenly panic that I look more like a middle-aged trainspotter. It’s very demoralizing.
‘So,’ Finch says, hugging Skye and Summer in turn, ‘your birthday treat awaits you! Follow me …’
‘Follow you where?’ Skye wants to know.
‘To the ends of the earth,’ Finch quips. ‘Well, Covent Garden, anyway. I thought we could grab a birthday brunch before we unveil the Special Treat!’
‘Great,’ Skye says. ‘I’m starving!’
Summer flicks an anxious look at me and slips her hand into mine, and we follow along as Finch cuts through the crowds and leads the way down steep escalators to the Underground. We pile on to a busy train and then pile off again at Green Park to change on to the Piccadilly line. A little while later, we emerge from the ancient lifts at Covent Garden Tube and wander out into a crazy, crowded plaza filled with tourists and entertainers and shops and stalls.
We mooch around for a little while and watch a man juggling fire and two girls doing acrobatics, and try to figure out how the man sprayed gold is able to sit cross-legged in mid-air with only his stick touching the floor; then Finch checks his watch and takes us to a cafe overlooking the square.
It’s a good choice … there are lots of healthy options on the menu; Summer picks poached egg and spinach and actually manages to eat quite a bit of it.
‘What’s the surprise?’ she asks me for the millionth time. ‘Are you ever going to tell us? Or is it just being in London? Because that would be brilliant … but Finch did mention a Special Treat.’
Summer’s eyes are hopeful, and I know she has started to put the pieces together, begun to guess.
‘Be patient,’ I say. ‘You’ll find out in a minute.’
We scrabble our money together and pay, then pull on coats and head out into the bright, cold air. I check my watch and exchange a glance with Finch.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Let’s go. Shut your eyes …’
‘You’re joking, right?’ Skye argues, but Finch puts a hand over her eyes and leads her forward, and Summer closes her eyes, her lips curving into a nervous smile. She knows. She’s hoping.
I take her hand and lead her through the crowd, and the four of us stop in one corner of the plaza, a little way back from our destination. ‘You can look now,’ I say.
Summer opens her eyes wide, and I watch her mouth quiver into an enormous smile as she takes it all in.
‘The Royal Opera House,’ she says, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Romeo and Juliet! Oh, Alfie … I can’t believe it!’
4
Finch has collected the tickets already so we check our coats into the cloakroom and go up the stairs to the auditorium. We are up in the amphitheatre bit, in the upper slips, way up high where the cheap seats are. We’ll probably need a telescope to see the actual ballet, but that doesn’t matter.
The place looks like a palace.
Summer moves slowly, as if in a dream, feet sinking into the thick carpet, her head held high. She walks right past our seats and glides down towards the front of the amphitheatre, looking down on the tiers below, the circle stalls, the wide sweep of stage partly hidden behind thick swathes of crimson velvet. Her eyes rake over the grand boxes where the plushest, private, priciest seats are, everything trimmed with crimson and gold.
She looks perfect in her pale pink dress, the skirt gauzy, floaty, like a dancer’s. The flower and feathers in her hair catch the light as she gazes downwards, transfixed.
I walk down to stand beside her.
‘Happy?’ I ask.
‘Happy,’ she echoes. ‘Alfie, this is the best surprise ever. You are the best boyfriend ever. It’s awesome! I have always, always wanted to come here. It was my dream …’
‘I know,’ I say.
‘It must have cost a fortune!’
‘I’ve been saving,’ I say with a shrug. ‘I wanted to do something special for you.’
She turns to me and plants a light kiss on the end of my nose, then grabs my hand and dances a pirouette in front of me, laughing. I’d say every single bit of planning and effort has been worth it, just for that moment alone.
Summer stays down at the front of the balcony, watching the orchestra pit as the musicians begin to tune up. Around her, the theatre fills slowly. I shift in my seat, awkward in my Christmas jumper. I am way out of my depth, and very glad Finch and Skye are here too. I feel like a scarecrow next to the old blokes in suits and bow ties, the younger men in cord jackets and paisley-patterned scarves. As for the women, they’re downright scary, especially the old ladies with their elegant faces and smart blouses with glittery brooches. I see Summer turn to watch a family take their seats, the parents smiling brightly, the two little girls in red velvet and lacy white socks and black patent leather shoes.
Does it remind her of when she was little, of when her dancing dreams first began?
Finch heads off to buy a programme, and Skye turns to talk to me.
‘You care about my sister a lot, don’t you?’ she says as I watch my girlfriend lean against the balcony, transfixed by all the glitz and glamour. In the midst of it all, she looks beautiful, ethereal, perfect.
‘Obviously,’ I say to Skye. ‘You know that.’
‘You’ve put a lot of thought into this, I can see,’ she says. ‘It was nice of you to include me and Finch too.’
‘Moral support,’ I say. ‘I mean, this is me, Alfie Anderson, at a ballet … a slushy one at that, Romeo and Juliet. In the poshest theatre in London. I may look calm, but inside I’m terrified!’
‘Maybe,’ Skye says with a shrug. ‘You really are one of the good guys, Alfie.’
I laugh. ‘Dunno about that,’ I say. ‘I try!’
She shakes her head. ‘Look … don’t take this the wrong way,’ she says. ‘I don’t want you to get your hopes up. I know exactly what you’re trying to do …’
I blink, baffled. ‘What am I trying to do?’ I ask. ‘I thoug
ht I was just arranging a birthday treat for my two favourite girls?’
Skye rolls her eyes. ‘You’re worried about Summer, like I am. Like we all are,’ she says. ‘You’d do anything to make her better, make her happy again. And she loves ballet, so to see a performance here … well, it’s an amazing thing for you to arrange. Awesome. Only … it could actually be quite difficult for her too. Painful. Do you know what I’m saying, Alfie?’
‘Yeah, but … it’s the thing she loves most in the world, right?’ I argue. ‘I know what you’re saying, Skye, but … well, I think it’ll be fine. What harm can it do?’
Skye sighs. ‘The problem is that Summer’s dream was to dance onstage at the Royal Opera House, not just to watch a ballet here,’ she says. ‘She wanted it so much, and now those dreams aren’t going to happen.’
‘They could,’ I argue, but Skye interrupts me.
‘They won’t,’ she says, and I recognize the truth in her words even though I really, really don’t want to.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she goes on. ‘I want those things for Summer almost as much as she wants them for herself. But can’t you see, Alfie? She’s ill. She’s not well enough to go to a boarding ballet school, or to train with a professional ballet company. Not now … probably not ever. Maybe she’ll be a dance teacher, or a choreographer perhaps; maybe she’ll run a dance supplies shop and work with dancers that way, but she won’t be a professional ballerina. She’s too fragile for that. She’d break under the pressure.’
A wave of anger surges through my body, hot and hopeless. Skye is right, even though I don’t want her to be. I hate Summer’s illness with a passion – it has taken so much from her. It’s not fair. I’d like to punch a fist through the ornate walls, kick a hole in the gilded balcony, smash this whole place to pieces. But that wouldn’t change a thing, of course.
‘You can’t know all that for sure,’ I say. ‘She’ll get better – she’s getting stronger already. This might be just the thing to change it all, give her something to aim for again.’
Life is Sweet Page 8
