Page 27 of Break the Ice

‘I am not familiar with this one,’ she says, leaning forward to hear it.

‘“Golden Lady” off his Innervisions album,’ I tell her.

She listens through a few bars. ‘Then your father has taste. What’s his name?’

‘Robert. People call him Bob.’

‘Classic dad name,’ she replies. She turns back and stares blankly at the traffic ahead of us. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought up her dead mom – or, when she squeezed my hand, I should have just let her have that moment. But we have a lot of time left in this car and I didn’t want to blur the lines. She gets out her phone and I peek over at her maps app, all the roads around us showing red lines. Outside the snow starts to drift in real curtains, the sky completely shrouded in white.

‘You told me it never snowed in England.’

‘It doesn’t snow like this in London. This is unprecedented,’ she says, turning her phone to show me a BBC news report. ‘The temperature dropped due to a sudden change in the northern polar jet stream,’ she reads. ‘It’s really shitting it down, eh?’ She looks up and out of the window, her nose wrinkled.

From tossing to shitting. Maybe not the romantic language I would use to describe something as soft and calm as the snowfall around us, but she has a point. ‘Hold up,’ I say, suddenly distracted by the beams of torches in front of the cars, and figures in yellow hi-vis coats up ahead. ‘Do you have your seat belt on?’ I ask Phoebe.

She looks at me strangely. ‘I don’t think that’s what the police are looking for,’ she says, craning her neck to see what the commotion is. I reach for my wallet, and into the glove box to get my licence and registration ready. I think she may be laughing at me. The police eventually reach our car and knock on the window, and as soon as I open it a gust of wind and snow blows inside.

‘Afternoon, Officer, everything OK?’ I ask him in my most sincere tones.

The police officer has an excellent moustache that makes him look like Ned Flanders. ‘Well, apart from this bloody snow chucking it down. We’re just doing welfare checks on everyone.’ He shines the torch over at Phoebe and then the dog. ‘Look at him, ain’t he cute? Pete, come and look at this dog!’ His policeman friend comes over and they both look through the window at Steve, who sits there politely, clinging on to Martin. I know he’s a cute dog but it’s colder than a witch’s tit out there. I reach over and put my beanie back on my head, hoping they’ll get the hint. ‘Sorry to break the bad news folks, but we’ve had to stop all traffic up ahead. Big collision in Salisbury, no one can handle the conditions. Where you headed?’

‘South Devon,’ Phoebe tells him.

He winces and shakes his head. ‘Love, I’d really think about making alternative plans then. Or at least stopping in the next town until there’s a break in the weather.’

‘But it’s Christmas…’

He shrugs. ‘I know, but all these people are trying to get home for Christmas too,’ he says, indicating the tailbacks up and down the roads.’

‘How long do you think before the traffic starts moving again, Officer?’

He smiles. ‘I like you Americans, you know how to address a person of the law. Give it half an hour. Keep the engine running to stay warm. Lots of us dotted about if you have an emergency. Where you from, mate?’

‘New York. Did you want to see my licence and registration?’

‘God no. It’s not like you were speeding,’ he says, and snickers under his breath. ‘Holiday?’

‘It’s Christmas, right?’ I say, confused.

‘He means, are you on holiday? Vacation…’ Phoebe intervenes.

‘Oh no, I work at a university,’ I reply, immediately feeling a bit stupid.

‘Hold on to this one then, love. Smart cookie.’ He nods over to her. Phoebe does laugh at this point. I try not to be offended.

She leans forward and offers him a Celebration and he rakes through all those empty wrappers as if that’s a normal thing to do and takes a Mars.

‘Take one for Pete too.’

He smiles broadly, winking at Phoebe. ‘Hope you two get to enjoy your Christmas, whatever happens,’ he says before taking his torch and heading off to the next car. ‘You too, Officer,’ I say.

I wind the window up again, try to dust some of the snow off the interior of the car and rub my hands together to keep warm. Half a tank of gas. I guess we’re in this for the long haul. I’m now glad Phoebe went a bit crazy in the big Tesco. But as I turn to her, I notice she has a mouthful of chocolate but tears in her eyes that start to roll down her cheeks. She wipes them away with her gloved hand, clearly hoping I haven’t seen them.

‘Hey, hey, no, please don’t cry. This isn’t terrible,’ I say.

‘Well, it’s not great, is it, Joshua?’ she replies sharply. That was cutting, harsh. She sticks another chocolate in her mouth, possibly to get the comfort that I’m failing to provide. ‘I was given one job. Deliver the dog. Get him there for Christmas Day, and it’s highly likely that is not going to happen.’

‘Who says?’ I say.