Page 80 of Break the Ice

She looks up at me. Is she blushing? ‘What was that for?’ she says softly.

‘You kiss me on the cheek all the time,’ I tell her.

She lies still for a moment. I hope she isn’t going to barf. Has me kissing her provoked that sort of reaction? ‘I think it was just needed, that’s all. I’m low and vulnerable and wasted my first night in New York.’

‘You didn’t waste it. You’re here.’ I know she’s here mostly for the vacation but I also think she’s here because she cares, she loves the challenge of life, putting her energy into people. You see it in the way she’ll deliver a dog through snow and ice, the way she’ll fly over an ocean to help a boy she hardly knows.

‘And I’m with you,’ she says, almost sweetly, devoid of her usual sarcasm.

‘You still want that story?’

‘Yeah. Please.’

‘I’m getting undressed now, to get into bed. I’m just giving you warning,’ I tell her, before taking off my sweater and putting a hand to my belt. She does a drumroll-like sound, which I was not expecting, and cheers when my pants fall to the floor. I really hope my parents and sister didn’t hear any of that. ‘That was silly.’

‘But funny.’ She pats a space in the bed next to her. I lie next to her, above the covers, but grab a blanket to cover my feet. I turn to face her and smile.

‘May I continue with my story?’

‘Please do.’

‘So there was once this dog who was a scruffy little thing, a dog of the street, super smart, affectionate, the colour of… gravy…’

She laughs, her face pressed against the pillow. ‘Keep going.’ She pulls me in close and puts my hand to her stomach. I circle it instinctively, hoping the action might give her some relief.

‘OK then,’ I say. ‘Steve was great. He was called Steve because he only consumed films and music associated with his name, Stevie Wonder, Stephen King and Steven Seagal.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

She laughs and I have to admit, I like the sound of that completely.

THIRTY-SEVEN

PHOEBE

30 December

I’m not averse to embarrassing myself on the daily but I really didn’t think I would come to New York on my first night and shit my pants on Fifth Avenue.

‘You know you’re not great with dairy and you had hot chocolate, ice cream and cheese… Phoebe, you’re a grown woman. I shouldn’t have to tell you how to eat,’ Norah tells me on FaceTime, sisterly judgement in her tones.

‘I’m just excited about being in New York. Norah, this place. We did a little walking tour yesterday, I saw the Empire State, Macy’s,’ I tell her.

‘Yeah, I know, you’ve holiday-spammed the family WhatsApp group,’ she says, leaning into the phone to get a sense of where I am.

‘Stop looking for Joshua,’ I say. I know her all too well. Because he’s not here. He definitely slept next to me – I think I fell asleep listening to his ridiculous stories – but when I woke the blankets were folded neatly at the end of the bed and he was gone. I think back to last night, the way he joked and didn’t indulge my hypochondriac tendencies, a kiss on my forehead that felt affectionate and tender. There is this very wonderful nurturing streak about him.

‘Just checking. That’s a cute duvet. What’s their house like? Are you in a guest room?’

I freeze. ‘Yes, in the basement…’

‘They’re keeping you in the basement?’ she says, her eyes widening. ‘Can you blink twice if you’re safe?’

I blink twice, exaggerating the action. ‘It’s a nice room in a brownstone, on a leafy street. I think our boy Joshua’s from money.’

Her mouth rounds in shock. ‘Interesting.’