Page 16 of Break the Ice

‘I do,’ he says hesitantly. ‘You want my car?’ He says that with the slow sort of caution Norah often uses when she talks to me. Or maybe he’s worried that I’m going to steal said car.

‘I’m a good driver,’ I tell him.

‘I hardly know you.’

‘He says, a stranger sitting in my sister’s family home,’ I say. ‘My photo is literally in her living room.’

He doesn’t look convinced. I could snatch the keys and steal the car. He wouldn’t be able to give chase in those slippers. But another idea starts to simmer. ‘How about if I paid you to drive me? I make you the Uber?’ He wrinkles his nose at me like he’s insulted I’ve asked. I mean, he’s housesitting, he obviously could do with the extra cash. ‘It’s a four-hour drive, same back. You’d be back in time for Christmas tomorrow. The fish would survive.’

‘It’s snowing…’ he says, pointing out of the kitchen window in case I hadn’t clocked that yet.

‘I know. But it won’t last. It’s British snow.’

‘I don’t know what that means,’ he says.

‘Two hundred pounds. I’ll pay you two hundred pounds. I’ll buy your petrol, snacks, all sorts.’

‘What? I don’t…’

‘Two hundred and fifty?’ I say, hoping he can’t read my desperation. I remember what Norah told me, about this dog repairing a bad year. I need to get him to them. I want to be the one who saves the day, who can prove herself when obstacles arise.

‘Phoebe…’ he says pensively.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have a surname?’ he asks me. So he can google me and double-check my identity?

‘Allbright,’ I sigh. I can hear my exasperation peeking through.

‘What do you do? For a job.’

‘I’m in events. You?’

‘I’m a research fellow at LSE.’

‘Cool. Why the twenty questions?’ I ask him, confused. Maybe the chit-chat is meant to make me feel better. That or he’s nosey. I look over at his cosy get-up. The plaid and the NYC hoodie, the Clark Kent glasses and brown ruffled hair. He’d be cute but the slippers have maybe deleted all of that. The way he says yikes and the way I think that dog likes him marginally more than he likes me.

‘I’m just trying to break the ice,’ he says. ‘Because if we’re going to be in a car together for how many hours it takes to get to Devon, then I think it’s best we get past some basics.’ I look at him for a moment, his eyes still fixed on the dog as he says this. ‘For the nieces, right?’ he says, looking up at me.

‘Yes.’

‘Then I can help.’ He puts his hand out so I can shake it and cement this rather dodgy deal. But I don’t shake hands. I’m a hugger. I launch myself at him. The hoodie smells like warm potatoes. That’s not a terrible thing. But I feel his body, completely rigid against mine, not used to the invasion of personal space. I’m not quite sure about you Joshua the American. I’m not sure if we’ve just agreed £200 or £250, but let’s fucking do this.

EIGHT

JOSHUA

I inherited my car when I arrived in the UK. There was someone in the department who was moving to Ottawa and he just told me to take it. It was an old orange VW beetle that he nicknamed the Tangerine Dream. I rarely drive it except to go to Costco and do the odd weekend trip outside of the city to sit in country pubs and eat beef and ale pies as big as my face.

Did I really think about what I was signing up for when I agreed to this? I don’t even know where Devon is. It’s two o’clock now and I really haven’t thought through the logistics. I get there for dinner and then what? I drive back? I stay there? I’ve packed a light backpack with deodorant and extra underwear, but maybe this required more planning. Why did I say yes to this? The truth is, a loud and sweary girl called Phoebe had a problem and I had a solution sitting outside. Plus, I’ve met those nieces. This feels like a better thing to do than sitting alone eating all my Christmas potatoes – bringing some magic to their Christmas. I’ll do it, then I’ll get back and continue with what I had planned.

‘You weren’t joking about the car,’ Phoebe says, as she opens the door and looks inside. The snow has stopped falling for now but at least three inches lies on the ground, and I sweep it from the roof and doors so we can set off. ‘This is seriously orange. It’s the Fanta Express!’

I raise an eyebrow. I think that was a joke. I don’t always know with her. All I know is that she makes bad footwear choices and is a spontaneous hugger. I don’t trust those sorts of people. I ignore her and focus on the job in hand. ‘Do you think the doggo will be good in the back seat?’

She peers around. ‘Why have you lined the interior with bin bags? It’s very Dexter.’

‘He’s a puppy. I’m not taking any chances, this will help with clear-up,’ I say. If we’re doing this, we’re making a clean delivery of this dog. This may be a charitable endeavour but I still want a useable vehicle at the end of this, and I don’t want to spend my actual Christmas smelling of dog poop.