Page 71 of Break the Ice

I end the call and sit there on the bench, next to an old man in an impeccable brown suit and a bum bag. No, a fanny pack. I’m in America now. I scroll down to Joshua’s last message to me:

Wait at the terminal. Don’t get in a cab. I’ll meet you.

But I can’t see him. It is madly busy. Maybe we should have thought about a meeting point. Under the green baubles, near the news-stand?

‘Good afternoon, are you Phoebe Allbright?’ a man says. He’s standing in front of me, wearing a black suit and tie under a wool coat, and leather gloves. He looks incredibly smart and put-together; he has impeccable braids, and sunglasses tucked into his pocket. He’s not Joshua though. And I’m also a little worried that he’s come to either take me out or smuggle me into the FBI.

‘I am.’

He hands me a phone.

‘Hello?’ I say, a little nervously.

‘Hey Phoebe, it’s me, Joshua. I couldn’t get to the airport, so I sent someone to collect you, is that OK? His name’s T.’

‘Like the tea you drink or just the letter or⁠—’

‘T will get you to my house and I’ll meet you there.’

‘I guess I’ll see you in a bit,’ I say.

‘Cool. I’m so glad you’re here.’

‘Me too,’ I reply. He hangs up abruptly. I stand up and hand the phone back to T.

‘It’s short for Trayvon,’ he tells me in deep tones.

‘Well, Merry Christmas, Trayvon, T… I’m Phoebe. Lovely to meet you.’ I reach over to hug him. His body is rigid. That was the wrong thing to do.

‘I’m a hugger. Apologies. It’s also Christmas and I’ve never been to New York, so I’m a bit overexcited.’

‘You don’t say,’ he says. I’m not sure I’ve broken him yet, but there’s time. He looks down at my wheelie bag, the soft bag I took on the plane, the fabric bag I put my food and drinks in and my handbag. I don’t pack well or light. ‘Can I help you carry?’

‘Sure. You know, let me pitch in for parking too if you’ve come all this way. I don’t know what it’s like here but in London they charge you for just stopping your car these days,’ I tell him as we start walking out of the terminal. The icy cold temperature hits me as soon as we exit and I reach into my pocket for my hat and pull my coat zip up to my neck. ‘Christ, that’s nippy.’

Trayvon turns to looks at me, smiling. ‘It’s fine, Miss Allbright. We have the parking covered,’ he says. My Primark tote with a big smiley face on the front is tucked under his arm, and he’s dragging my sunshine-yellow trolley bag. We walk past the busy taxi ranks, with men in bomber jackets shouting at the queue, maintaining order, and walk across the road to another waiting point. I hope it’s not a long walk – I’m not sure my legs can cope with the cold – but he suddenly stops in front of a shiny black Cadillac and the boot opens as he walks past. He places my trolley bag inside.

‘Trayvon, this is fancy. Is this yours?’

He looks at me strangely as he hands me my fabric tote and I place my trolley bag inside the roomy boot. ‘No, miss. It isn’t.’

He opens the door for me and I can see there is a driver inside. ‘Hello, Miss Phoebe, my name is Lenny.’ Lenny is older than Trayvon, a real twang to the accent and brown matted curls on the top of his head. He too is dressed impeccably.

‘Hey, Lenny. Merry Christmas, wonderful to meet you.’ The car is warm and as I sit down I see newspapers in the magazine pocket and bottles of water in the door. Those are M&Ms. Shit, this is a fancy transfer thing. It must be costing Joshua a shitload of money. I immediately feel guilty.

‘Ummm, this feels like a mistake. How much is Joshua paying for this? I’m kinda happy taking the bus, you know, if he was held up?’

Trayvon enters the car to the sound of Lenny laughing. Even his laugh sounds American. ‘You hear that, T? She wants to get on the bus! Honey, trust me, you’re in safe hands.’

‘Well, can I tip you at least?’ I say, scrambling in my bag to find my wallet and all the American dollars I got at the exchange at the airport. They both turn their heads to look at me.

‘Mr Abelman takes care of us, no tip required,’ Trayvon says.

‘Mr Abelman? Oh, Josh?’

‘Not Joshy, his father, Bob. We work for him,’ Lenny tells me. I look at them curiously. As someone who’s lived in London all her life and has relied on a crap car and public transport since her late teens, this is a bizarre concept to me, to have people work for you, to drive you around. ‘We thought you knew Joshy. You know what his dad does, right?’

Given that I am in their car and they’re both dressed like the Men in Black, I am slightly scared to divulge the truth to these two gentlemen here – that I do not know what his dad does because I literally met this man five days ago. I laugh. ‘Of course. I’m just an independent lady. I like to pay my own way.’