Page 35 of Break the Ice

‘Whatever!’

I throw the snowball in my hand in his direction and miss. He looks down at it on the floor and laughs. ‘She’s a shit shot!’

I clench my mouth tightly because he is a child and I should know better than to openly swear and tell him what I think of him. But then, from out of nowhere, the lad gets pelted twice by two giant snowballs from the other side of my car. It’s quite masterful really how they hit him, one after the other with both speed and force. I see Josh peeking out from his side of the car, putting a thumb up at me. I am mildly impressed. I look down and see Steve baring his teeth and growling a little. Yeah, you know.

‘HARRY! Jesus, you’re bloody sodden and I’ve got some woman up there saying you drew a very bad word on her window. BACK TO THE CAR!’

Oh, Harry. It was short but sweet. I’m still calling Santa though, you little prick. I wiggle my fingers at him in a wave and then look down at Steve and give him a treat for his excellent contribution to proceedings. I turn to see Joshua with his brow furrowed as he watches a family nearby on the ground making snow angels.

‘They’re going to get in the car and be soaked through. The kids will get hypothermia,’ he says.

‘But a core memory locked in,’ I say. ‘You have an arm,’ I add as he bends down to pet Steve. ‘Thank you for the cover from the devil child.’

He seems surprised at the compliment. ‘You’re welcome. I played Little League for ten years.’

‘But “on your six”?’ I ask.

‘It’s computer-game speak. I was also a nerd.’

‘Correction, you’re still a nerd.’

‘And you also do look like a flamingo,’ he replies. I laugh, and I think I get a glimmer of a smile from him. He is learning how to banter. Well done, Americano. ‘Your positioning is a bit wrong,’ he says, then comes over and scoops up some snow for me. He places it in my glove and stands behind me. ‘Always stand square to the target, the force comes from the feet, step back, separate the arms…’ I am aware he is very close to me, closer than he has been before. ‘Look at those angles.’ He runs his hands across my arm. ‘With your throwing arm, you should be able to see the back of your hand as you lift it and then you want to rotate the shoulders, turn your hips towards the target and…’

I throw the snowball and it hits a BMW bang on the roof. I cheer. The driver sticks his head out of the window and we look away. Not us, no sir.

‘Well done,’ Joshua says, smiling.

‘Look what you’ve unlocked. I am unstoppable now!’ I scream.

‘What were you before then?’ he asks and I laugh, my breath fogging the air.

‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!’ booms a voice over a megaphone, from somewhere up the road, and people stop to listen. ‘WE WILL BE REOPENING THE ROAD IN FIFTEEN MINUTES. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR VEHICLES!’

There’s a cheer from the crowd as Joshua looks over at me. ‘I checked my Maps. Red lines all the way to Exeter, I’m afraid.’

I exhale slowly. This was a little reprieve from sitting in the car and worrying about getting the dog to my nieces, but I’m reminded that the quest continues. Albeit slowly.

‘I guess we could stop for a bit. To warm up, get our bearings,’ I suggest.

‘Like a rest stop maybe?’

‘Possibly?’ I look at the backlog of traffic. ‘It’s not like we’re in a rush.’

I turn to see the glow of his phone illuminating his face.

‘Well, I think I’ve got the perfect place.’

SIXTEEN

JOSHUA

The Dog & Bone. The British pub. Quite simply, my favourite part of being in the UK. When I first arrived in England, it was the go-to place where students, tutors and staff came together over drinks and bags of chips and nuts to meet, chat, talk turkey and every other Tuesday take part in quizzes where they could win nominal quantities of twenty-pound notes. There is something about them: the locals propping up the bar, the feisty barmaid behind the till keeping everyone in check. Beers on tap served in large glass tankards, small round rickety wooden tables and velvet seats, steamy windows, crisp coasters, a homely and welcoming atmosphere that had me in its grip. After discovering the London ones, I went further afield. I found out some did food, others had history, others had brilliant whimsical names like The Unruly Pig, and so they became a hobby, a preoccupation maybe.

‘Do you think they’ll let Steve in?’ I ask Phoebe as we sit in the car park looking at this village pub full of people, the windows glowing amber, the flicker of the lights over the decorations in the windows.

‘First thing I checked,’ she says. ‘Come on, chips and tea beckon.’

Hell, I can’t think of anything better at the moment than those thick-cut chips that they eat over here, smothered with salt and vinegar. I get out of the car and try to arrange myself so these leopard print socks I’m wearing are hidden at least. It’s maybe not an outfit I’d choose, but it’s been snowing; perhaps no one will notice I look like I’m a skateboarder from the Nineties with these baggy pants.