Page 14 of Break the Ice

I don’t think I was particularly kind to Joshua, but I hope he read the stress in my voice and understood the snow meant I couldn’t quite feel my toes.

‘He was wearing elf slippers, two hoodies, and had lit a fire. He was roasting marshmallows on his own like some strange festive prepper.’

‘It’s Christmas, Phoebe,’ she tells me.

‘You told him I killed a fern!’

‘You did!’ she reminds me. ‘Anyway, how’s the dog?’

I look over to my passenger seat, where the dog is silent for the moment, but that’s because in his goody bag I found a rubber monkey, and it seems they’re good friends now.

‘He peed in your hallway and he hates the car.’

‘Does he like you?’

I look over at him and he gives me a brief glance, putting the monkey to one side. I offer him a hand and he puts a paw over it. It’s likely the closest I will get to receiving a high-five from him. I am glad the monkey has not replaced me in his affections at least. ‘Of course he does, I am difficult to hate.’

‘Do I dare ask how the roads are?’ she says hesitantly. ‘We have the news on… The snow’s really dumping it down.’

‘Yeah, but I made it to yours and I’ll set off now,’ I tell her defiantly. ‘Hopefully with the snow, it’ll mean the roads are quiet and every other sane person is at home.’

‘You sure? It’s safe, yes? I don’t mind you waiting until it’s safer to drive,’ she tells me, sounding worried. I like the concern but I don’t think she realises that I need to be on the road. I can’t stay in London on my own, plus I still have gifts to buy en route, to prove to my sister that I can show up for this family when necessary.

‘I’ll get the dog down there. I don’t want my nieces waking up disappointed,’ I say, trying to reassure her.

‘I don’t want my sister stranded on an A road where we have to prise her frozen body from the car.’

‘Kinda dramatic,’ I say. ‘Norah, I’ve got this. I am capable and resourceful and it’s Christmas.’

‘You got a sleigh?’

‘I will slay.’ She goes quiet. ‘How is it down there?’

‘Chaos. Flo arrived last night. Everyone’s gone sledding, I feel like a hot-chocolate machine. Dad got a turkey that won’t fit in his oven and he’s got Johnny Mathis on twenty-four-seven.’ I feel a pang of FOMO. All of that defines Christmas for me. I’ll get there, because I don’t want to miss out on any of it. ‘Just drive safe, Phoebs. I need someone to peel sprouts.’

‘Cheeky. I will.’

She hangs up. I look over to the dog, who has returned to smothering the monkey with his drool, his warm breath fogging the air. ‘So dude, we’re leaving now but I can’t have you doing that howling noise all the way down there, yeah?’

He looks at me. I hope that went in. I need to start this engine to get some heat running through this vehicle. I blow into my hands, put the key in and turn it to start the engine. It stutters, then dies. This happens. It’s not unheard of with my car, so I put my foot to the accelerator again, turning the key. That’s not a good sound. A loud bang comes from the rear and the dog whines and jumps into my lap. Please. Shit. No.

‘You’re back… so soon,’ the American says as he opens the door, sarcasm in his tone. This time the dog doesn’t run in. I have to carry him, because he’s still spooked by whatever that loud gunshot noise was that came out of my car. Joshua is still wearing his slippers, like he’s immensely proud of them. He moves out of the way to let us through so we can get out of the snow and I put the dog down and let him shake off in the hallway. Please do not pee again.

‘It’s all fucked. I can’t believe this,’ I say, taking my hat off and stamping out my shoes. I should never have worn Converse in this weather.

‘You English people say fucked a lot and I don’t always know what it means,’ he replies.

I laugh. It really is all versions of the word. It’s fucked up and fucked me off. ‘My car. It’s broken. Very broken. Kaput. Wouldn’t start.’

‘Yikes.’

I try not to laugh because yikes is very different to fucked. I watch him look at the dog and then back to me, clearly wondering what this all means. ‘Do you need to call Triple A?’ he asks.

It’s so good that I speak American. ‘I don’t have that,’ I say.

‘Why not?’

‘Because that’s what grown-ups have,’ I tell him. He furrows his brow trying to work out why I don’t class myself as that yet.