Page 83 of Break the Ice

‘Oh no, I’m an off-the-rack kinda gal. Also, I won’t get one of those famous medium brown bags if I shop in Chanel, you know?’ she tells me, grinning. We get to the top of the escalator and it’s a maze of women’s clothing, all different labels I couldn’t tell you about but she weaves an arm through mine and starts walking, stroking tops as we walk past, checking prices, pulling a face and then moving on. ‘Oooooh, sale!’ She lets go of me and starts rifling through a rack of full-length dresses. ‘No… no… wrong colour… boring… bridal… ugly… never… who on earth is wearing that?’ I marvel at her efficiency. ‘You see, if we really wanted to show Avery up, I should just go against the colour code. Look at this beauty in lime green,’ she says, holding it up against her.

‘You look like… mucus,’ I say.

‘Then that’s a hard no,’ she says, giggling. ‘Ooooh…’

She sifts through the dresses and eyes up a white dress on the rack, checks the label and the sizing. She pulls it off the rack and holds it up to her. It’s heavily beaded, Gatsby vibes. She swishes it from side to side. ‘It’s so swishy. It sounds like a beaded curtain, you’d be able to find me all evening,’ she jokes. ‘Love love love.’ She tucks it under her arm and continues to peruse, pulling out a more boring black gown and another white one that is a bit lacy, like drapes.

‘Right, where do we try these bad boys on?’ she asks.

‘Don’t you want to look at more dresses?’ I ask, bemused. That took all of five minutes.

‘I’ll only be wearing the one dress,’ she tells me. ‘I’ll make it look pretty, I’ll style it up. Don’t worry. Plus, they have a Magnolia Bakery here and I want cupcakes and to get out in the snow, so I’m making this quick and painless.’

‘Oh,’ I say, surprised because I was expecting different. So different that I’d downloaded podcasts to get me through this ordeal. ‘We can find a changing room, I guess.’

‘Yeah, come with? Give me your opinion?’ she asks.

‘My opinion?’ I repeat.

‘Or I could go find Marlon with the waistcoat and ask him?’ she says, laughing.

‘OK,’ I say and follow her, still taken aback at her efficiency.

‘And tell me, Joshua, what are you wearing to this thing?’ she asks as we walk the shiny floors trying to find our bearings and some changing rooms.

‘Oh, my mom will rent me something, or I already have a suit. It’s my go-to suit. I’ll be good,’ I explain.

I see the confusion in her face as she strolls. ‘I have a question. Do you wear this suit for interviews? Funerals? Important luncheons?’

‘I’m a research fellow. I have no need for highfalutin clothes. One suit,’ I say, putting a single finger in the air. ‘It’s all I’ve ever needed really.’

‘Joshua,’ she says, slowing down as we approach an escalator. ‘The way this works is if we both look good together. I can’t be there looking swish and you’re in some bargain suit you dust off every six months. I bet it’s slightly shiny and named after a fake Italian like Gino Valetti,’ she says in a weird made-up deep Italian voice. Maybe it is. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she says to a man at the escalator.

‘You’re British,’ he replies.

‘I am, Greg,’ she says, reading his name badge. ‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m great,’ the man says, visibly grateful to be called by his name. ‘How are you guys doing? I see we’re doing a bit of shopping,’ he goes on.

‘We are. And now we’re focusing on this young man here. Which floor is your menswear department? Do you have suits? Tuxedos?’

‘Fifth floor, ma’am.’

‘Thank you so much, Greg.’

‘You’re so welcome.’

She pulls me towards the escalator. ‘Kid, we are going to make you look super suit hot. You get me?’

I don’t think I do but I follow her anyway.

‘OK, after three we pull back the curtains. One… two…’

I stand there in a Hugo Boss tuxedo, looking at myself in the mirror. This is what good clothing looks like, feels like. I haven’t been in many changing rooms before so this whole experience feels alien, the lights, the mirrors, the fact that Phoebe managed to chat her way into this men’s changing room and get a retail clerk to help us.

‘…Three!’

I pull back my curtain and stand there, not quite knowing how to pose or where to put my hands. Phoebe does though, naturally. She leans against the frame of the changing room door, one arm in the air, and then swishes the dress around to show me just how noisy it is. She sounds like a festive maraca. But she looks amazing, her natural beauty shining through, her hair tousled around her shoulders, the white complementing the tones of her complexion.