Page 65 of Break the Ice

‘You’re lucky I don’t report you,’ she says.

‘To who?’ I ask.

‘The dog warden.’

‘That’s not a thing.’

‘Well, how would you know how our country works?’ she says. I step back again, wondering how this situation soured in such a short space of time.

‘Well, where I come from, we don’t kick dogs. Have a nice day,’ I say, and walk away.

‘Have a nice day,’ she mimics cruelly.

I turn for a moment and watch her jog away shaking her head. She skids on a patch of ice and falls to the floor, her legs akimbo, and swears loudly, shouting some pretty awful words. She’s a teacher; I hope she doesn’t say those words to her students. She gets up, turns around and holds her middle finger up in the air. Steve barks back at her, twice, sharply. I try not to laugh.

THIRTY-ONE

PHOEBE

‘Can I interest you in a cranberry and peppermint shot?’ a woman asks me as I stand with my clipboard watching the party around me, trying to look festive, fun and professional. I’m in killer heels and a red cocktail dress but I had trouble getting the zip up which tells me I’ve probably indulged far too much in the festivities in the past week. I borrowed my dad’s car and rushed back from Devon this morning to get to this event, making an emergency call to Josh on the way to ask him to look after Steve, so I’m also vaguely on edge, having been jolted out of my warm cosy Christmas state of eating trifle and living in my pyjamas.

‘That sounds strangely medicinal,’ I reply.

‘It’s Christmas, innit?’ she says, looking annoyed that I would question free alcohol. I take a shot and, as predicted, it tastes like Christmas mouthwash as it burns the back of my throat. There’s probably a reason why the server has so many left on her tray, but she wanders off back into the crowd, into the darkness, the fairy lights and the buzz of conversation, dry ice and low-level hip-hop. It’s a glitzy media party to celebrate the TV launch of a YA franchise about an apocalyptic Christmas in the not-too-distant future where Santa has to deliver gifts but also fight off vampires. It means the servers come with fangs and torn tights but we are also serving garlic bread. I’ll be honest, I signed up for this because the pay was double and Keanu Reeves plays Santa so I thought he might be here, but damn him and his ‘prior engagements’. Instead, the room is full of celebrity hangers-on, reporters and literary agents, plus a gaggle of child actors, one of whom called me ‘babe’ earlier even though I don’t think he’s actually hit puberty yet.

‘Code red, I think we’re running low on the gazpacho shots. Can you put an SOS in to the kitchen?’ I hear someone say in my earpiece. At first, I thought the earpieces were fun, like being a spy on a mission, but now they’re annoying because a lack of canapés really is a first-world kind of problem. I stare into the eyes of an animatronic reindeer and wonder if this is really worth my time. When did this all stop being fun?

‘It’s an interesting room, eh?’ a voice suddenly says, its owner sidling up next to me. I look over, at first cautious because media types can be very draining, but he’s handsome and well dressed in a sharp black suit with a white t-shirt. I like that he’s avoided novelty Christmas dress. ‘We all came here for Keanu and he’s not even here,’ he goes on.

I laugh, clutching my clipboard, not sure now is the time for minor flirtations. But then he reaches into his cocktail drink, grabs an ice cube, throws it on the floor and steps on it.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask him.

‘I’m just breaking the ice.’

‘Cute.’

‘Likewise,’ he says, smoothly. ‘Were you in the show?’

‘I’m with the events planning company,’ I say politely. ‘Overseeing the flow of alcohol and the press releases. I’m Phoebe, nice to meet you.’ I put a hand out for him to shake.

‘I’m Ted, the voice of Rudolph,’ he tells me.

I smile because he seems a bit embarrassed to say that. ‘So, a voice actor. You can tell, the richness of tone, the gravitas in your pitch,’ I say, putting on a man’s voice for some reason.

He laughs. Dimples. I can do dimples. ‘You know when you go into acting and you think you’re going to be playing Richard III at the Old Vic and instead you’re shouting “Santa, let’s go get those pointy-toothed pricks where it hurts.”’

‘That’s an actual line in the show?’ I say, giggling.

‘Yep,’ he says, looking pleased at how this has tickled me.

‘So do you have any other acting gigs on the horizon?’ I ask, my interest suddenly piqued.

‘I do,’ he replies. ‘Don’t laugh.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it…’

‘Pantomime,’ he says, and awaits my response.