Page 78 of Break the Ice

‘Good?’ he says.

I make the sound again. ‘Fucking phenomenal. Yes, yes… yes…’ I squeal. I think, I’ve seen this movie and now I am the movie. I am Meg Ryan. Having an orgasm over a drink. I am so bloody happy right now. I take a spoonful of cream and put it in my mouth, kicking my feet like a little girl.

‘It’s the squirty cream doing it for you, isn’t it?’ Joshua says, looking at me, his elbows rested on the table.

And with that, I laugh – so hard that cream comes out of my nose. He laughs so chocolate dribbles out of his mouth. It might just be, Joshua. It might just be.

THIRTY-SIX

JOSHUA

‘Oh my life, it hurts so bad,’ Phoebe says as she rocks on the floor of my room, the basement studio of our house. It’s got its own little ensuite and has doors that open out into the courtyard at the back of the house. As my mom is all about Christmas, she’s laid out Christmas towels. Phoebe won’t notice that given that she might be dying. It started when we were about a block away from home. She stopped in the street in a way a woman might do when her waters break. There was a look on her face that suggested something was very very wrong. ‘Do you think it’s my appendix? Could you go in my bag and check my travel insurance covers me for appendix removal?’

As her host, I should maybe appear more worried, but I think I know why she’s ill. ‘You have eaten a hell of a lot this evening, you know?’ I say, trying to drag her onto the bed so she dies there instead of on the floor. She crawls on to the bed and curls into the foetal position. I put a sympathetic hand to her back and place the peppermint tea, antacids and hot-water bottle I got for her on the dresser beside her bed.

‘But it was all so good. Do you think this is food poisoning?’ she asks me.

‘I hope not. If it is, at least you have your own ensuite,’ I say matter-of-factly.

‘That I’ll have to share with you,’ she moans.

‘But my mom gave me extra toilet paper, so you’ll be OK.’ That was possibly too practical an answer. ‘I have a feeling it was that hot dog you needed to eat on the way home,’ I add. She didn’t hold back when we had our Chinese. She had a giant slice before that, then a fishbowl of hot chocolate, a plate of fries, a slice of pecan pie (à la mode) and then the hot dog with everything. I am truly surprised she’s not exploded by now.

‘But it was the man with the little silver cart and the umbrella and…’

‘It could be the sauerkraut. Those vendors leave it lying out the whole day. I suspect the vinegar has mixed in with the hot chocolate and⁠—’

She puts an arm in the air to tell me to stop talking about food. ‘I’ve also been flying. I might have caught something on the plane like… monkey flu or⁠—’

‘Appendicitis. Were you sat next to a monkey on the plane? Do you have a rash?’ I say, trying to make light of her demise.

‘You’re not funny,’ she says, burping loudly, with the force of a truck horn. That had resonance. ‘I taste onions and… dairy.’

‘I really needed to know that. Has it worked? Did you just need a really loud belch?’ I ask her. She sits up and stares into space for a moment. She does look pale. I hand her a mug to encourage her to have a sip of tea but she rolls off the bed and dashes into the ensuite. Oh dear. ‘Do you want me to stay?’ I ask her as the door closes.

‘NO… YES!’ she screams through the door. That was not a clear instruction. Yeah, I don’t need to hear any of that, so I grab my AirPods from my pocket and pop them in, and am mildly surprised that Blur come on, a British band no less. The song is ‘This Is A Low,’ which I should tell Phoebe because I think the irony is quite amusing. But I don’t think she’d appreciate that right now. What if she collapses on the floor and needs me? How will I know she’s done? I hope this isn’t food poisoning because that’s a long way to come just to spend her trip recuperating in my bedroom. I should maybe be more sympathetic. I did warn her though. I go over and lean against the bathroom door, turning the volume down on my music just so I can hear if she calls out to me to fetch an ambulance or an extra bucket. I wait until the song is finished, then take out an AirPod for a moment to listen for signs of life. I knock on the door lightly. ‘Hey, you good in there?’

I hear a moan. ‘I think I ate too much.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Yes, that would be my diagnosis. Are you OK? Does your tummy still hurt?’ I ask.

She doesn’t reply but I sense her body backed up to the other side of the bathroom door. ‘It’s eased up.’

‘Can I ask a question?’

‘Shoot.’

‘I’ve seen you eat at Christmas and today and you consume a lot of calories. How do you stay so slim?’

‘It’s those Beyoncé spin classes,’ she tells me and I laugh. She’s dying but she can still be funny. I think she’s going to be all right.

‘Do you need anything?’ I ask her.

‘No. I’m going to have a shower.’

I hear her flush the toilet again and then start the shower, and I back away from the door and park myself in a chair in the corner. I google the symptoms of monkey flu, just in case. I then log into Instagram. I haven’t been on here for ages because every time I did I’d bump into the Pattons in some shape or form. However, what Phoebe told me this evening intrigues me. Avery is with someone else? Naveen. The name rings a bell. My fingers hover over the search bar. Do I need to see the picture evidence of the lemon Ralph Lauren? But I’m distracted by a notification. Phoebe Allbright has tagged you in a photo.

I only befriended Phoebe a few days ago but I like how erratic and fun her stories are. One moment there’s a very comedic selfie, free of vanity, usually where she’s pulling a face like a human emoji, the next she’s sharing a hilarious video of a llama, a random picture of Steve, and then recommending a book she’s read with plenty of hyperbole. Today, there’s a selfie with Lenny and Trayvon at the pizza joint, skylines, sidewalks and, hey, look there’s me in Serendipity 3, leaning over the table. I’ll put my hands up, maybe it’s the lighting or the filter but we look good together. I sometimes look like I’m being held hostage in photos and don’t quite know where to look, but in this one, I look relaxed, dare I say it, happy. Not as happy as Phoebe, but it’s a good picture. I like it and look through the other likes and comments. There’s one from Norah, with many hearts. And for a moment I have no need to look for Avery and her new love. Phoebe has distracted me from that. The shower stops and I hear her rattle around in the bathroom, and then the door opens.