Page 4 of Break the Ice

‘It was… Santa,’ I say, seeing the quite hilarious side of this story now.

He laughs again. ‘You want to take my number?’

I look at him curiously. It might be funny to take you home this Christmas. My sisters would lose their minds. How are you at Scrabble? ‘For Santa-based emergencies?’

‘Yeah. You know… if you need your stocking filled? Give me a call.’

Yeah, Santa. No.

TWO

JOSHUA

‘Wow, Mom… that’s quite a Christmas sweater. Is that a… squirrel?’ I ask her, tipping my head to one side. On the screen, I see winter and festive all in one big psychedelic knitted pattern. That squirrel’s eyes look like he’s had one too many Christmas eggnogs. Maybe some LSD too.

‘Yes, it is. It’s a new pattern. I know his eyes are slightly off. Do you want me to make you one?’ she asks me.

‘If I say no, will you take offence?’

‘Always,’ she says, smiling.

‘I wear the scarf you gave me. It’s very warm. Some of my students call me Doctor Who.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Maybe it’s something to do with those glasses you’re wearing. Are they new? You look like Clark Kent,’ my mom says, still scrutinising my image. I make them move up and down by flicking my finger up and down on the arm. I thought she might laugh at that but instead she gives me a look like I’m losing my mind. Clark Kent is not a bad role model, half the time he’s Superman. I realise why she might be sad – I always used to message her from the optometrist to ask her advice on frames. This time I asked someone in Specsavers called Jade, who told me they suited my face shape and that they were ‘well lit’. Only when I left did I realise she was talking in London youth-speak and not about the light on my face.

‘So where are you spending Christmas?’ my mom asks me, watching as I pack up my room for the holidays. She does this thing where she peers through the screen, looking for signs of life in my room to see if I’m looking after myself, if she can spot any signs of a love interest who may be hiding behind the drapes. Ever since I left New York, these phone calls are a weekly occurrence, where she mostly demands updates on what I’m eating. I’m twenty-six, Mom. Sometimes I survive on sandwiches and pound-shop ramen but I’m still here. She looks at the empty boxes and all my books stacked high behind me. ‘I think it’s terrible that they’ve thrown you out.’

‘They haven’t, Mom,’ I explain. ‘It’s standard practice for the university to release the rooms for conferences and study workshops during the holidays. I’m moving into a hotel. It’ll be a nice treat.’ I don’t think it will be. It’s a place called the Premier Inn. There will be an all-you-can-eat breakfast and they’re famous for their pillows. But Marge on reception also told me that it’s where her husband lived for a month when she kicked him out, and he got colitis from living off vending machines.

‘Well, make sure you get room service. Do they have a pool?’ my mom continues.

‘Ummm, yeah?’

I see the concern in her face. I’ll just have a very deep bath. It’ll be the same thing. ‘What will you eat? On Christmas Day itself?’

‘There are places. Pubs. I like a pub. They do turkey with all the trimmings.’ I try to sound upbeat. Pubs are possibly my favourite thing about England. But at the same time, the trimmings look very different this side of the pond. I don’t know what a parsnip is or why they serve so many brassicas. Cauliflower, red cabbage, brussels sprouts? On the same plate? That’s a recipe for a lot of festive gas. But at least there will be cranberry sauce. Christmas needs cranberry. ‘At my local, you can get two free drinks, and Christmas pudding for dessert too.’

‘All the trimmings,’ she says in a mock British accent from somewhere between here and Bridgerton. ‘What is Christmas pudding? Is it pie?’

‘I’ve done some research, it’s like fruit, lots of dried fruit in some sort of cake,’ I say. ‘It won’t be your pecan pie, but I’ll survive.’

‘Will they do mashed potatoes? You love your mashed potatoes. It’s bad enough that you missed out on Thanksgiving and now Christmas too. We were thinking of doing prime rib…’ she says, trying to tempt me over.

There is nothing I’d love more than to celebrate with my mom’s green bean casserole served in the orange dish with the chip, but such is the pain and inconvenience of being away, trying to find flights and sign off on work.

‘I just don’t want you to be alone, especially at Christmas. Do you have people? I have my cousin’s friend, Jill, and she lives in somewhere called Farnham and maybe we can give her a call and you can go and join them?’

‘Mom. I don’t want to impose on strangers. They don’t want to have to welcome some random American into their home for the holidays. I will cope. I’ll be back for New Year’s. We can celebrate then. It’ll be fine.’

My mom goes silent. She hears that a lot and I don’t think she always believes me. ‘Did you get my gifts?’

‘I did. You know they have peanut butter in England too.’

‘I bet it tastes different though, right? You will call? If you’re lonely? We want to do a FaceTime on the day.’

I smile. I can FaceTime them from the pub, over my large gas-inducing dinner.

‘We love you, Joshy.’