Page 6 of Break the Ice

I look down at him.

Yeah, Santa. No.

THREE

PHOEBE

‘Did he have a wrinkly dick? I’m curious,’ Norah asks me as I stand in her kitchen, trying to get comfortable with this piping bag in my hand. This is not the sort of wholesome chat that goes with decorating cookies. Flo, my other sister, giggles from her station on the other side of the island, her brown curls pinned up on her head, her big dangly earrings swaying as she laughs. Both these sisters are chefs at our family restaurant, so their cookies look good, edible. Mine look like the ones your toddlers bring home from an activity morning.

‘No, it was sparkly and wrapped in ribbon. It was a festive willy. Shall I ice one of your cookies to look like it?’ I say sweetly.

Norah takes a big sip of wine and shakes her head, which is her default eldest-sister response when it comes to me. The judgement rings strong, I am always the butt of the joke, which is a scandal when I, the littlest sister, always show up for her. When she puts an emergency call on the family group chat asking for help icing cookies, I show up. Even if there will be a moderate to strong chance that my icing will be absolutely rubbish and I’ll be too tempted to ice some baubles to look like boobs.

‘What are these for again?’ I ask, taking a pinch of sprinkles and putting them in my mouth.

‘Christmas Fair Cake Sale. I dropped the ball, some queen bee on the PTA called me out on it. You run a restaurant so it’s very disappointing you haven’t contributed anything,’ she says, mimicking the woman’s voice. ‘Don’t worry if yours look like… roadkill – I’ll say Skye did it.’ I try not to be offended. ‘Stop eating my sprinkles.’

‘I should remind you that I am decorating these biscuits for free, you know?’

‘Yeah, it’s penance for scarring my children.’

‘It’s not like they saw me having sex with Santa,’ I retort.

‘No. But Skye had questions. If he was staying over at yours then she wanted to know why he didn’t bring his pyjamas…’

‘Santa runs hot when he sleeps,’ I say, winking.

‘He was just old, even for your varied tastes, Phoebe,’ she continues.

I cock my head to one side. ‘Old but kinda silver-fox hot, right? I like a bit of variety in my diet. Shoot me.’

‘But seriously, how old was old Santa?’ asks Flo.

‘Forty-three, not even old. You are both ageist and rude,’ I tell them. Both sisters are older than me, in different phases of their lives, with kids and mortgages. They do sensible things like wear matching socks, have schedules on their fridges and do Pilates. They know what I’m like, so there’s no need for them to act so surprised. I am taking advantage of my early twenties and being young and single in London. My new job out of university is with a fancy events planning company, where I help organise functions, party with my clients, and flirt on occasion. It’s tiring and vacuous but I was lucky to get it and it fills my time while I decide what to do with my life.

‘Please don’t say you’re dating a 43-year-old man. Dad will flip,’ Norah says.

‘I am not,’ I reply. I don’t date, they should know this about me. I have casual love affairs. I have no need for such romantic ties. ‘Anyway, Channing Tatum is in his mid-forties, and given the chance both of you would do him.’

Norah picks up her phone and does a quick google. Sis, I did that already to make myself feel better. I look down at the cookie in front of me and arrange some sprinkles as a smiley face. Now it looks like it has party rave connotations. I really am not very good at this.

‘I just…’ Norah says. ‘Phoebe, you are a general pain in my arse but you deserve more than a Santa impersonator called Martin.’

‘He even has an old name,’ Flo jokes.

I try to shake off their judgement, their criticisms. ‘You’re both just jealous. I know.’ They look at each other and both raise their eyebrows. ‘Me with my fast-paced fun life and ability to just do as I choose.’

‘Penance,’ Norah reminds me. ‘But what of the future? You’ve done your masters. Are you seriously going to be an events person for the rest of your life? Shagging randoms. Going to celeb parties.’

I bite my lip, knowing that this is only coming from love, her need to replace the mother who isn’t with us any more and to look out for me. It can be warming, if at times totally jarring.

‘There’s a job in the restaurant if you want it,’ Flo says.

‘I did the whole waitress thing when I was a student, I need to move on.’ A polite way of saying, as much as I love my sisters, I can’t deal with them both being my boss and telling me off for eating cheese straight out of the fridge.

‘But you will eventually become a psychologist, yes?’ Norah asks.

‘Are you saying this because you need psychological help?’ I say.