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15th September, 1974, Nottingham
Jayne
Today, my body is doing everything I want it to, but I can feel my heart’s not in it. The music washes over me rather than inhabits me, and I only hope that Michael isn’t picking up on this distance I’m feeling right now. Distance from him, the ice, the routine… I’m trying to concentrate, I really am, but I can’t help feeling that, for him, I’m just a means to an end. His hands around my hips move me into position effortlessly, impressively, but almost robotically. There’s no thrill, no passion. All I want is for the partnership and the music to mean as much to him as the choreography, but I think that might be too much to ask.
I think about saying something to him as he pulls me into a serpentine lift, but my cheeks redden from more than the cold and the exertion, and I dismiss the idea almost immediately. He’s older than me, more experienced; he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t need some stupid little girl questioning his motivations. And he’s a great dancer. He really is. I should be more grateful, I guess.
As the music reaches a crescendo and we hold the final pose, my eyes drift to the other end of the rink. He’s there again. The cute blond one. I’ve noticed him here a lot. In my head I’ve started calling him The Blond Prince… silly really! But I don’t know his name. I watch him warming up. He’s graceful and determined, if a little overenthusiastic, and I laugh as he overestimates his speed going into an edge stop and almost crashes into the barrier.
From the other side of me, someone clears their throat, and I turn to be greeted by one of Janet’s finest glares. Michael may not have noticed my lack of engagement, but she certainly has. With a sigh, I skate back to my starting position and wait for the song to begin again.
14th February, 1984, Sarajevo
Chris
I give the medal a good look straight away, even though the man’s only just put it around my neck. It’s so shiny! And heavy. So much heavier than any others I’ve been given in the past. It’s this shiny, heavy, square piece of gold that I’ve been working towards for as long as I can remember. And I couldn’t have done it without her. This is it. We’ve done it.
Someone in a silly costume turns up with flowers for us. I almost want to laugh, so I shove my nose in the blooms instead and pretend to smell them. After some faffing and lots of flashing of cameras, we turn towards the flags. This is the bit that always gets me, and tonight it means so much more.
As the opening bars of God Save the Queen start, I already feel my lower lip wavering. I wish I could see Jayne’s face, but I know she’ll be grinning from ear to ear in that adorable way of hers. I can’t even hold her, the flowers are getting in the way. I feel my eyes start to brim, and just hope I don’t look like a blubbering mess for the cameras. I try not to think about the fact that my mother is in the audience. If there was ever a time for her to feel pleased for me, it’s now.
The music draws to a close and I lean down and kiss Jayne’s neck. I briefly marvel at how she manages to smell amazing after four minutes and twenty-eight seconds of pure exertion. I’m sure in comparison I must smell like a farmyard. But she never seems to mind. We descend from the podium and I take her hand. I’m so proud of myself. Of us. But also can’t help feeling a little sad. Today I’ve achieved my ultimate ambition. But what am I going to do tomorrow?
30th January, 1994, Milton Keynes
Jayne
I love Chris. I really do. Without him my world wouldn’t be quite complete, and my life wouldn’t be quite mine. But some days, I also hate him. I get it. You can’t be the best without expecting perfection from everyone around you. But sometimes he forgets to be reasonable in his expectations, and sometimes, this inexhaustible drive within him makes him act like a nasty child. Don’t get me wrong, the fire that burns within him is what’s got us as far as we’ve come. But he has to learn to watch which direction the flames are flickering to make sure the wrong people don’t get burned.
I’m doing my best to understand what he wants me to do, but our usual chemistry seems to be failing us today. He’s clicking his fingers and expecting me to mind-read, his frustration affecting his ability to articulate. And everything I do seems to be wrong.
“Why are you not trying?”
I try to stand up for myself, but he’s not listening. There’s no point when he’s in one of these moods. “I am.”
“No, you’re not. We can leave it. We don’t need to change anything if you’re not going to do it.” I’m finding it hard to reach deep into my usual resource of stoicism in the face of his stubbornness after the pain of the last few days, but I skate back to position and attempt once more to give Chris what he wants. But it’s apparently still not right, and he chastises me for not getting my leg high enough.
When Chris gets upset, he gets angry. When I get upset, I cry. It’s a weakness, I know, but I can feel the surge of emotion begin to rise in my chest, and I swallow to try and keep it down. I don’t want him to see because it will only make him more annoyed. We skate to the side of the rink, his eyes burning into me. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Well, you’re just acting like it’s all my responsibility, ‘I’m not changing it, I’m not going to do anything’…”
“I am trying to change it.”
“No you’re not.”
“I am, but it’s not going to go like that is it?” I click my fingers to try and prove a point.
“Well you’ve just got an attitude already that you’re not going to try.”
“Okay.” I turn away from him so he can’t see the tears in my eyes. But he’s not done yet.
“Okay, okay. Hands up, eyes to the ceiling. Great. Good attitude, Jayne.”
Andris tries to diffuse the situation, but Chris is still on at me, niggling away at my defences. “Let’s do it a million times then.” I resist the urge to point out that that’s how we always get good at routines as I follow him back to the centre of the rink. But another blast of the music leads to another wrong move, and this time he’s actually shouting at me. “No, you did it too quick.” He’s mocking me, asking if my feet are too heavy and telling me I look stupid. “I mean, you just don’t wanna be here, do you? Do you wanna go home and come back and see if we can start again?” This is going beyond the usual temper territory and crossing the border into spite.
“Do it with me.”
“I’ve been doing it, Jayne, I’ve been doing it. The problem is that you haven’t even bothered to try and do it.” I can’t stop the tears now, even though I know it will just infuriate him even more, but right at this moment I don’t have the strength to deal with his bullshit. My fears are confirmed by his next words; “It’s no good fucking crying, I’ve got no sympathy. No, don’t cry on me.” And he throws his arms in the air and skates away. I follow his lead, but this time I leave the rink and put on my blade guards. I can’t see him but I instantly know he’ll realise he’s made a mistake. He may not care about how I feel right now, but he’ll care if we’re missing out on practice time. I go to the changing room and sit, head in my hands.
I don’t have to wait long until I hear the door open and feel a hand on my shoulder. We stay like that for a few moments, the silence only broken by the occasional sob heaving its way from my body. I feel him physically soften next to me as his mood begins to dissipate, and he breaks the tension. “I’m sorry.”
I lift my head to look at him, aware of how red my cheeks must be and how ugly my crying face must look. His expression is pained and genuine, his eyes flecked with concern. He’s like a different person. There are many sides to Christopher Dean, and over the years I’ve come to know and accept them all. I steady my breathing enough to allow me to speak. “You’ve got to have a bit more patience, Chris.”
He chews on his bottom lip and nods. “I know. I just… we don’t have much time, and we’ve got so much to do…”
I sniff, and wipe streaks of tears across my face with the back of my hand. “Yes. So let’s not waste it shouting at each other.” He smiles and pulls me into an embrace, kissing the top of my head. Even after everything, cushioned in those arms is the place I will always feel safest. He apologises again, and suggests we get back to the ice.
I speak into his sleeve, my voice muffled. “Tell me I don’t look stupid first.”
He pulls away and holds me at arm’s length so he can look at me. “You don’t look stupid.”
I grin back at him. “Good. Anyway, you can talk. Who wears a belt with jogging bottoms?”
27th July, 2004, Colorado Springs
Chris
“Happy birthday, old man!”
“Hey, younger than you Mrs!” Her smiling, pixelated face stares back at me from the corner of my computer screen. It was a revelation when I first realised I could see her when I spoke to her, even though it’s a poor approximation of her. Her eyes are fuzzy and her smile not quite defined. But at least it’s her.
We chat for a while, our usual nonsense about what we’ve been up to, stupid things my kids have said, how she’s getting on with Kieran, what we bought down the shops… anything just to hear each other’s voices. But each time we speak, it’s bittersweet. Because it reminds me how much I miss her. I knew it would be the most difficult thing I’d ever do, moving away from her. But each time I hear her voice it hits me just a little bit more.
“Thank you for your present.”
“Oh, I hope you like it. It’s hard to keep thinking of new things to get you after all these years!”
It was only a jumper- hardly the most original of gifts- but still my favourite thing I’ve received this year. It was exactly my colour. And the wrapping paper smelt of her.
“What time is it there?” No matter how many times I’ve asked this question since I moved here, I can never get the time difference in my head.
She laughs. “9pm. You’ll learn to work it out one day!”
I shake my head. “Well why should I when I can just ask you?!”
She grins back. “Because one day you’ll phone me in the middle of the night to ask!”
“Yep. And you would answer.” She says nothing, just smiles, but her expression tells me I’m right. A sudden twinge of emotion takes me by surprise and I have to turn away from the camera so she doesn’t see.
We talk for a bit more about how her day’s been and about my plans for my birthday celebrations. The door to my study opens and Jill pops her head around the door. “Oh, sorry honey, I didn’t know you were busy…” She leaves the room again but pointedly leaves the door ajar, a hint which doesn’t go unnoticed by Jayne.
“Well, I’d better leave you to it, birthday boy. I think your wife wants you.”
I’m smiling, but I can’t help feeling the sadness in my eyes must be evident. “Yeah, I guess.” There’s a long pause, not uncomfortable, but one which neither of us wants to break. In the end, it comes down to me to speak first. “Jayne?”
“Yes?”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too, you big softie.”
After we say our goodbyes and hang up, I have to take a couple of deep breaths before stepping out onto the landing to face Jill. Sam has one arm wrapped around her leg and with the other and he’s holding out a badly wrapped box of something towards me. “Happy birthday Daddy!”
I kneel down and take the gift from him, ruffling his hair. “Thank you, Sammy!” I open it to find a box containing some beautiful cufflinks that I have an inkling he couldn’t have afforded on his budget of a four year-old’s pocket money. “Oh, they’re lovely! Did Mummy help you choose them?”
“Yes.”
I stand and give Jill a kiss. “I love them, thank you.”
She hugs me, her arm draped casually across my shoulders. “You’re welcome. And when Jack gets home from school, he wants to take you to Red Robin for dinner.”
Sam jumps up and down in excitement at the mention of the restaurant. “Yeah, Red Robin, yeah!”
I laugh, wishing I could remember what it felt like to be that excited about eating out. “I know! Aren’t I lucky?” And as I look at my wife and son, I know what I’m saying is true. I’m just having a little trouble trying to convince myself of that right now. I look at my watch and try and work out how many hours it will be until I can speak to Jayne again.
9th March, 2014, Elstree
Jayne
I told myself I wouldn’t watch the VT. But the audience were reacting so much I couldn’t help it. And I can hardly put my fingers in my ears to avoid hearing it anyway. Especially not with these nails… I’ve just got them done for the after party! And so I stand just off set, hand in hand with Chris, watching myself summarise the joy of the past nine years. Already the lump is in my throat and we’re not even in front of the camera yet. I can tell from the squeezes Chris is giving my hand he’s in a similar place.
He said earlier that it was like 1998 all over again, but I refuse to believe that. No matter what happens, there will be a future for us together. We will not have skated our last routine, I know it. Yes, we’re old now… our hips are popping out and our knees are falling off, but we can never say “Final”. We did that once before and it nearly broke me.
The VT ends, we meet our cue, and the audience is on their feet. The roar is deafening. I’m desperately trying to hold back the tears because I know Phil is going to speak to me, but hey, the joys of working in live telly. I manage an answer, my voice catching on the final word, but Chris is less successful and can’t speak at all. Phil fishes some tissues out of his pocket for us, and then introduces Holly, which is a genuine surprise! She has a framed picture for us, depicting our Dancing On Ice career, which is lovely, but Chris’s competitive side immediately comes out: “Who gets it?” She assures us there’s one each. Silly, adorable oaf.
And that’s it. One more standing ovation, a kiss on the side of the head from Chris, a final wave to the audience, and it’s all over, and the stone of emotion that’s weighing on my chest threatens to overwhelm me, because I know I will miss everything. All of the crew, the glam of the studio, even getting up at ridiculous o’clock to train useless celebrities. But most of all, I know my best friend is flying to America tomorrow and I’ll no longer be able to have him back for six months every year. I risk a glance at him through misty eyes. He looks back at me and we don’t need to speak. He just hugs me and holds me in those enveloping arms. Maybe if neither of us move all night he won’t be able to leave tomorrow.
15th July, 2024, Piccadilly
Chris
“How do you think this will look in the medal cabinet then, Dame Torvill?!” I hold up the KBE, enjoying its unusal shape, fingering the pointed corners.
She bats at my wrist with her hand. “Oh, don’t call me that, it makes me sound so old!”
“You are old! Ancient!”
She rolls her eyes. “Also, there’s no way on earth I’m calling you Sir.”
I sit back in my chair as if I’m in a throne, surveying one of my courtiers. “Oh, you will.” She picks an olive out of her salad and throws it at me. I kick her under the table. “Let me enjoy the moment, it’s taken long enough to get it!”
“You’re not prouder of this than the Olympic gold, are you?”
I laugh. “No, of course not. It’s just nice to be recognised though, after all these years.” I take her hand. “And it’s one other honour I get to share with you.” It really is overwhelming to see her. The older I get and the longer we’re apart, the harder it is to leave her. Which is why I’ve come to a decision. And, looking at her twinkling eyes and iconic smile, I know it’s the right one. I’m just waiting for the right moment to tell her. I bite my lip and thank whatever God might exist that Phil was busy tonight.
The rest of the meal passes as all of our time together does; happily and naturally, although a nervousness bubbles in my stomach that I can’t put down to the champagne. I manage to ignore it. After dinner, I walk her back to her room. “Can I come in for a bit? I’m not tired.”
“Sure.” She holds the door open for me and flops onto the bed, discarding her high heels and immediately becoming several inches shorter. I sit tentatively next to her, feeling uncharacteristically apprehensive in her company. She flicks the telly on- some crime drama or other- but neither of us is really watching it. “So, what time’s your flight tomorrow?” She busies herself removing her nail polish.
I swallow slowly, deliberately. It’s now or never. “I’m not flying back tomorrow.”
“Oh?” She curses as she nearly knocks the bottle of nail polish remover off the bedside table. “Has it been postponed?”
“No, Jayne. I’m not flying back. At all.”
She puts the bottle down and stares at me, the seriousness of my tone eventually getting through to her. “What do you mean?”
I turn to face her, taking both of her hands in mine. I had an entire speech prepared but most of it has gone out the window as I look into her eyes and am blinded by their blueness. I try to remember as much as I can, but it comes out a little jumbled. “Jayne… every time I have to say goodbye to you a little bit of me crumbles away. Whenever I hear your voice on the phone and I can’t hold your hand or kiss you or hug you, I hurt all over. It’s killing me. And I thought to myself the other day, I’m the one doing this to myself. There’s nothing for me in Colorado anymore. Sam and Jack are old enough now not to need their dad there with them; they’ve got their own lives, they don’t want me cramping their style. So… I’m coming back. To stay.”
I study her face, desperate to see her reaction. Her eyes are shining with tears but she’s smiling. She lets out a little squeal and throws her arms around my neck. “Oh Chris, that’s brilliant! I’m so pleased. I miss you so much when you’re out there, and of course I’d never dream of suggesting it, but as it’s your idea… amazing!” I choke back my own tears as I hold her close to me, as I’ve done so often in our 50 year friendship, her body still lithe and wiry, her heart beating against me. I bury my nose in her hair. She smells of strawberries. “What about all your stuff? Where are you going to live?”
“My stuff is being delivered next week. And…” I gently push her away from me so I can see her face. “I was hoping you could help me out with where to live.”
“Oh…” She looks confused. “Well, we’ve got a spare room but it obviously wouldn’t be a permanent solution. There might be some places in Heathfield, I could have a look… or is that too remote for you?!”
She’s not understanding. And I don’t blame her. I’m not exactly being clear. I need to give her some help. Here goes. “Jayne… leave him.”
“What?” The confusion has turned to shock now, and she clicks off the TV with the remote.
“Just hear me out. I love you. I always have. I love you more than anything or anyone else in the world. And I knew I could never be with you… you had your life with him, and that was fine, I always respected that. But… that’s when we could skate together all the time. And it didn’t matter, because when we were skating, it was just you and me. No-one else could share that. It was our thing, our time, it was perfection that we created together, a relationship that no-one else could infiltrate. I had you on the ice and no-one else could, and that was OK, that was enough…” She opens her mouth to speak but I shush her with my hand. “No, let me finish. Jayne, we’re nearly 70. How many times have we skated together this year? Twice? If that. I know you never want to say never, but we can’t go on forever, we simply can’t, physically. And now I’m an old man. An old man whose timeshare in you is about to run out. And what will I have without that, Jayne? I need you, I need to feel you against me, to touch you, to create magic with you… and I can’t do that on the ice anymore. I need you. Leave Phil.” If I wasn’t crying so hard I would have taken some time to be impressed with myself at my little soliloquy. She’s crying too, but much more delicately than me. She strokes the back of my hand and shakes her head.
“Oh Chris. What am I going to do with you?” She looks down at our hands which are entwined in my lap. “I love you. You know I do. But… I love him too. I can’t just leave him. I don’t want to.” She sighs, pausing to wipe away a mascara-stained streak from her cheek. “I’m sorry…”
I look at her face, desperately trying to focus through my tears. I briefly wonder if it’s worth trying to argue. But I know her so well. She’s not just trying to convince herself, or do the right thing. She loves her husband. Of course she does. And in an instant I feel like an idiot and a terrible person for suggesting otherwise. I take my hand away from hers for a minute to rake my fingers through my hair, and avert my eyes. “I know… I… I’m sorry. Oh God…” I’m too upset to even feel embarrassed. She kisses my tear-dampened cheek and I sigh shakily before looking her in the eye again. “You’re the reason none of my relationships ever worked out, you know.”
She nods, chewing her lip. “I know. I worked that out when you broke up with Karen.” I manage a laugh. There’s no point in trying to hide anything from her. She strokes my hair. Her fingernails feel so good. “Come on. Why don’t you go to bed. Tomorrow you can come back to ours and stay in the spare room while we find you somewhere to live.” She holds my shoulders and looks me dead in the eye. “I really am pleased you’re staying, you know.”
I manage to gather my crumpled heap of a body together and slide off the bed in the general direction of the door. She goes to open it but pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “And Chris… you never had a timeshare in me. You always had full ownership.” She pecks me briefly on the lips and I give her a watery smile before making my way back to my room.