Page 36 of Break the Ice

As we enter, the place seems to be buzzing with crowds of people already doused in much Christmas spirit. To the left is a restaurant, with tables all full up with people dining on turkey dinners, drinks glasses containing various levels of champagne and beer, but to the right is a pub, full of revellers, many with drinks in their hands, wearing Christmas hats and sweaters, the chat competing with the patter of Christmas music. It’s one of those wondrous pubs built on nooks, crannies and corners, dark wooden beams are decorated in garlands, the carpet is red and swirly, the Christmas tree a prominent feature in the bar, dazzling in white and gold. I won’t just yet, but many many selfies will be taken here in a moment.

‘I’m sorry, do you have a reservation?’ a frazzled waitress asks us.

‘No,’ Phoebe replies. ‘We’re just here for a drink, but why are you so busy?’

‘Christmas Eve, innit? Plus the A303 is buggered, we’ve got most of the traffic wandering in here, looking for shelter and a place to be. Lots of room in this inn though.’ She smiles. ‘Go on through.’

We weave through the crowd, most of them looking down at Steve, until we get to a small table at the back. ‘I’ll get the drinks in,’ Phoebe says and disappears into the crowd, some of whom are in fine song. I always like the singing. In pubs, at concerts and soccer games, everyone is always in very fine song.

‘He’s handsome, what’s his name?’ a lady on the table next door asks me, looking at Steve, who stays close to my knee.

‘Steve.’

‘No, I meant the dog,’ she says.

‘Yeah, he’s Steve. I’m Joshua. A pleasure. Merry Christmas.’

She sways a bit in her seat before cackling with laughter. As she does so she knocks over her handbag, and the contents come spilling out. I help her locate all her things and put them back for her. I look at her glass; I think she may have been at the whisky. ‘What a daft name for a dog. I’m Wendy. What’s with the accent too? Where you from, love?’

‘I’m from America. New York.’

‘Oi, Barbara. This fella here is American. Come meet him!’

Barbara is wearing a knitted Christmas dress, which I didn’t know was a thing. She shimmies over with a glass of light-amber liquid in a miniature wine glass. ‘Hello, young man. You’re a long way from home. And you’ve got a dog. Hello, gorgeous!’

Steve is all at once confused and intimidated but she’s generous with her pats and contact so he indulges her.

‘Not my dog, he belongs to a friend. She’s just gone to the bar,’ I explain. A few more ladies crowd around our table to have a look and I’m not sure how to feel about this sudden interrogation. ‘You all look very festive. Are you all together?’ I ask.

‘We’re all in the same Zumba class, having a bit of a social,’ Wendy explains. Barbara proves this to me by doing a back-and-forth salsa move while humming what sounds like Bad Bunny. You go, Barbara. Actually, given that the average age of this group is sixty-something, then credit to all of you. They all look incredibly energised, but that could also be the bottles of wine I see on their table.

‘What’s your story then?’ Wendy asks.

They all look at me over their drinks. I don’t think it’s predatory, it’s more nosiness that there’s a foreigner in their midst. ‘Well, where do you want me to start?’

‘Bullet points, love,’ one of them says.

‘I’m Joshua, I’m twenty-six. I’m a research fellow at the London School of Economics,’ I explain. I think one of them yawns.

‘She your bird then?’ Barbara asks as she gestures towards Phoebe at the bar. She’s chatting to a fellow punter, an older gentleman in a sweater vest, her hand on his upper arm, laughing.

‘She’s just a friend. I’m helping her deliver the dog to her sister in Devon.’

They all flinch back. ‘Then you’re still quite far away, hon?’

‘That’ll be the snow,’ I say, well aware that this simple four-hour trip is going to take much longer with all these unscheduled pit stops.

‘She’s pretty,’ Wendy says, looking over at Phoebe.

‘You got a girlfriend? She with anyone?’

‘No. She’s free as a bird, apparently.’ I realise that, for all her anecdotes, Phoebe doesn’t talk that much about her love life, and to ask seems intrusive, like I’m interested in her. Because I’m not. Personality-wise, we are not compatible. I’ll admit though, she is pretty, in a wild-haired, confident way. I can envisage being with her being hellish though. I’d spend the majority of the time picking up after her. ‘I’m not with anyone, but…’

The ladies all turn to look at me, studying my face, possibly my entire form, in the way someone would inspect a bull before committing to buy. ‘What’s wrong with you then?’ Wendy jokes. ‘Nice smile, big brain. You seem like a lovely boy.’

I look at all of them in turn. They’ve gathered all of this information in just a few minutes, and I don’t know whether to feel flattered or intensely sad. ‘I’m a bit broken, Wendy,’ I joke.

This doesn’t get the laughs I thought it might; instead a few of them look at me sympathetically. ‘How so?’ Barbara asks.