Page 86 of Break the Ice

‘Hey,’ he says, waving to someone further down the corridor. ‘Dua, how’s it going? Good to see you. I didn’t realise you were in town.’

I stand there for a moment to take it in. That’s Dua Fucking Lipa. I glance over at Josh, who almost looks embarrassed for a moment. Yeah. You did not mention this bit of your life. Not at all.

OK, I’m a basketball convert. Firstly, we have some elite seats, not properly courtside but within sniffing distance of actual New York royalty, so I’ve been taking some very strange selfies, trying to squeeze them in so I can send them to the family. That’s me, that’s also Spike Lee, fam. I’m basically a New Yorker now. There’s something so very shiny and glamorous about all of this. The way we are seated around this tiny luminous court, the way we’re within spitting distance of all the sweat, how you can hear the bounce of every ball, every squeak of their trainers. Plus, there’s the Knicks City Dancers in their spangly outfits, the organ music in the background, the shiny neon displays, the raw joy coming from everyone. And geez, these people are tall and very good at what they do.

‘DE-FENCE, DE-FENCE…’ everyone chants, so I join in. It seems like the right thing to do. Until a buzzer goes. I don’t know what that means so I cheer at that too – why not?

Joshua looks over and laughs at me. ‘Having fun?’ he asks, leaning over so I can hear him.

‘It’s fucking brilliant!’ I say, slightly hyper off the jumbo cup of Pepsi running through my veins. ‘Beats a football match back home.’

‘Really?’ he says.

‘Yeah, I sometimes go with Ben to watch Fulham. Over there, we make up incredibly rude songs, freeze our tits off and sometimes all for a nil–nil draw. Look at all the goals!’ I say, peering up at the 40–42 scoreboard. ‘It’s so glitzy,’ I add, plunging my hand into the popcorn between us.

‘You never told me about your dad, by the way,’ I say as our hands meet in the popcorn box.

‘It’s just a job,’ Joshua tells me, clearly shrugging it off.

‘Pfft,’ I sigh, looking over to Bob as he chats to another Knicks fan next to him, his mum and Maddie having escaped to replenish our drinks. ‘Oh, Phoebe, this is Dua Lipa…’

‘I liked that bit where you sang her song back to her,’ Joshua says, laughing.

I push him, but I’m not quite sure what to make of him not telling me his dad is some mega-famous record label man. It screams modesty perhaps, but it also raises the question of why he would leave this all behind, this glamorous lifestyle in his super-posh brownstone, to live in student digs in London, to look after my sister’s fish and drive a car that’s basically a satsuma on wheels. He must have really loved that Avery to have run away so fast and so far.

It’s then the music changes. I know those guitars. It’s the song from that film. ‘Kiss Me’. I look up at the big screen and jump up, spilling a fair bit of Pepsi on Joshua as I do. It’s the Kiss Cam!

‘Phoebe! Jesus! Calm down!’ he yells.

‘But it’s the Kiss Cam! Oh my God!’ I say as it focuses on lots of different Knicks fans, some giving each other little pecks on the cheeks, some older couples laughing, going in for full-on tongued snogs. I love love love this. I cheer for every one like a goal.

‘Do you have a napkin?’ Joshua asks, trying to spoil the romance and fun of the moment by drying his jeans.

I hand him one from out of my pocket, and watch as he desperately tries to mop the stain from his crotch. ‘Dab, don’t rub or you’ll make it worse,’ I tell him, staring down.

Until, that is, an old lady in a Knicks hoodie nudges me. ‘Honey, I think it’s waiting.’

‘Waiting for who?’ I ask, then I look up and see my face and Joshua’s on the screen.

I scream. ‘OH MY GOD!’ I wave up frantically, Joshua looks supremely confused, and then I reach over, turn his cap around, grab his face and kiss him on the lips. And this wasn’t planned. Not at all. But I feel my lips melt into his, the feel of his cheek against mine, my hands reaching around to his back to pull him in close, the warmth of his breath as we part. I remember this, I remember you. I look at him and exhale slowly, his face the only one I see in that sea of people. And the crowd cheer. Wildly. Loudly. So very very loudly.

FORTY

JOSHUA

‘That is amazing. Actually amazing,’ Phoebe says as she looks at the video my dad took of the whole event. The kiss. I kissed Phoebe. On the lips, our actual faces locked in a kiss because Phoebe couldn’t just give me a quick peck, she had to go for what she calls a proper pash, so I look unprepared, my hands awkwardly in the air in shock, my glasses all steamed up. A paranoid look on my face that my breath still smelt like ketchup. It was also broadcast to thousands of rabid Knicks fans. And the only other major problem is before the kiss, you can see Phoebe is watching me frantically rub at my crotch.

‘Dad! Seriously?’ I say, watching him laugh too as he takes a handful of fries.

‘It’s cute!’ Maddie says. ‘So cute!’ I shift her a look because she was suspiciously absent when it took place, to the point where I suspect she and Mom had a hand in making this happen.

‘I’ve been a die-hard Knicks fan and New Yorker all my life and I’ve never been on the Kiss Cam,’ my mom says. ‘I think it’s a sign.’

I lean back in my seat so Phoebe can’t see me telling my mother to quit it. This is meddling of the highest order and I won’t have them involved. Because I like Phoebe, in ways I can’t quite describe yet, and I can’t have them sabotage it before it’s even had a chance to grow. That kiss was everything I remembered from back in that hut, but more. More now I’ve had the chance to really get to know the girl. I look out the window of the diner and watch the snow start to fall again, the way it almost silences the city around us, watching the traffic come to a standstill. This is always our post-Knicks place after a game: The Tick Tock diner is on 34th and Eighth and just one of those classic Fifties retro diners, open all hours, brightly multicoloured with plenty of chrome and interesting vintage features, and caters to whatever the post-match vibe may be, which tonight is jubilant given the kiss and us beating the Celtics by four points. I try to push down this feeling of overwhelm and return to my turkey club, while also watching Phoebe defeat her French toast and bacon, then put her arms to the air.

‘Oh my, this is what’s missing from London,’ she says.

‘You don’t have French toast in London?’ my mom says, quizzically.