Page 89 of Break the Ice

Maddie starts laughing hysterically. ‘The squirrel did it,’ she says in a moaning voice, clutching her shoulder. Yeah, our folks should be getting a refund on your acting-school education.

Phoebe giggles, nudging me with her shoulder. ‘Nah, go on. These are the stories I wanna hear. This is the gold stuff.’

And I look over to my mom, as she watches Phoebe lean in to all that family gossip, that laughter, those shared jokes. Please remember a time when someone else was sat here, Mom, asking when it was time to go, looking up at these diner walls like they weren’t good enough. She looks at me and mouths a single word. Sorry.

FORTY-ONE

PHOEBE

It snows again that night. As we walked back to the Abelmans’ house it started to fall thickly, in blinding showers of white on the pavements and the roads, caught in the trees that lined their street, sitting on the top of yellow taxicabs and magically just appearing out of that navy-blue sky. And holy Moses, it’s Baltic as well. But Joshua huddled into me the whole way, wrapping his body around me, keeping me safe, and as I got into his bed he offered me some of his fleece socks. I agreed to the socks. I also let him be my big spoon. For the warmth, he claimed but, as I faced away from him, all I could do was stare into space, his arms wrapped around me, thinking about that kiss, the warm spark of it, the unexpected rush, a craving for more. But not even a sexual craving. It’s in the way we’ve been together since Christmas Eve and in that whole time it feels like pieces of a jigsaw have been clicking into place, to reveal a picture of someone really quite special, someone I think I’m falling for. I could have kissed him again, softly, in the dark. I could have leaned into him, into the feeling. But I didn’t. Instead, I heard his breath slow down, I felt the warmth of his breath against the back of my neck, his whole body curled up and relaxed, telling me he had fallen asleep.

That night, my dreams were batshit crazy. I dreamed about being a member of the Knicks. I had a jersey, the fancy long shorts, but absolutely zero height, so when it came to slam-dunking that ball Joshua let me stand on his shoulders and cheered me on. It wasn’t good basketball but I was a fan favourite, naturally. Steve was in that dream too. He had a little Knicks headband. It meant I woke up with a start at seven in the morning, likely an effect of jetlag, but also wondering… It’s deeply confusing to feel attracted to him at all. We’re very different. Put things in the forefront of your mind, Phoebe. He is good at maths, you still use your fingers for basic counting. He doesn’t care for your singing, he pushed you into the sea. You decided not to go there because he still has Avery in his system. Plus you don’t want your happily ever after. You want to get out there and live. You don’t want to be like your sisters. Maybe it’s just the time of year, it’s New Year’s Eve and no one wants to be alone on the eve of a brand-new year. Maybe it’s the cold and being thousands of miles away from anywhere that feels like home.

And so I snuck out of the house in the early hours, armed with two jumpers, a scarf and Google Maps, to walk all of that tension and confusion out of me. I have time before our big ball this evening. I mean, I’m also confused because I got strange vibes off his family last night, especially when we had our late-night diner meal. There was lots of smiling and kicking each other under the table. I’m not against a family in-joke but I was starting to feel paranoid that maybe I’m a bit too much. It was all the New York Knicks gear, wasn’t it? It made me look like a try-hard when I really know little about basketball. All the gear, no idea. Maybe they compare me to this Avery girl. Who knows? She’s probably more polished and refined than me. Does she take photos of random police cars? Does she get her kohl pencils and large bags of sweets from Duane Reade? Does she stand on street corners looking up a reel that counts down the top ten rice rolls in Chinatown? Probably not. She probably doesn’t wear I Heart NYC t-shirts either. Not that I care about this Avery at all, or his family’s opinions. I only care about Joshua. Seriously, I just need to walk this feeling off.

But the problem is the snow. This isn’t London snow; I’m loath to admit it, but Joshua possibly had a point. This is snow on steroids. It lies thick on the floor, and snowploughs struggle to push it away into greying slushy piles on the sides of the streets, the trees look like they’ve been frosted, the neon struggles to be seen through the grey. In between jumping on and off the subway, I hit the pavements, adoring the sound of it crunching underfoot, but am also wary that this is a surefire way to get hypothermia and a twisted ankle. The wind is bitter and I wrap my scarf around my neck and face to protect myself. It’s giving Dune chic, it really is.

‘Hi – just the one adult, please,’ I tell the lady as I dust the snow off myself, having reached another of my destinations this morning.

‘Sure thing, miss.’

I look up, enthralled by the space. I’ve always had a list of things I want to do and I may not get to cross them all off, but the Guggenheim felt like a must. Even as I walked towards it, I loved how the pale curves of the building looked like an igloo sitting in the snowy streets, but inside, the circular bands of the hallways and stairways make my eye stretch up to the skylight, the leading of which looks like a web hanging over it all. It’s entirely magical. ‘Are you open? Is there an event on? It’s so quiet,’ I whisper.

She looks down at me, my backpack, my boots iced in snow. ‘We close at three p.m. today. But it is snowing, honey. You’re one of the brave ones who ventured out,’ she tells me as I tap my card to pay. I guess I am quite hardcore, even for art. ‘Enjoy the peace,’ she says, passing over a ticket.

Maybe that’s what I need. Peace. To sort out all these very jumbled thoughts lining my brain. Usually, I like the mess of my head, I like the energy and the freeing spontaneity of life. I like leaving everything out there and not holding back. But the last eight days, big emotions have started swimming around up there. Maybe it’s because Joshua has come into my life. Normally I wouldn’t let a man dictate the direction of my life, but there’s a very calm, kind energy about him. He’s good, loyal and sweet to his core. And to feel attracted to him, to want him as part of my life feels like a surprise, like it’s not part of this plan I have to experience more of what’s out there, to not have anything tying me down. Love was never on the cards. Love. I chuckle to myself as I walk slowly up a white spiral staircase. Maybe silence those thoughts for the moment, Phoebe. Enjoy the art.

I am the only Allbright sibling who’s into art and that’s because of my mum. She was a gallery fiend, determined to raise kids who had some touch of culture about them, so she would drag us around the National Gallery at weekends, and she allowed us to go to Tate Modern and run riot in the Turbine Hall. She loved Miró but she loved Picasso more – the Spanish artists were the best – and had prints in the house, and was always talking about vibrancy, stories, how art should make you feel. And I think I come to galleries now to honour her memory as I walk around, to stop and study paintings in white and clean spaces such as these. I don’t know what Mum would make of all these ramps but she’d adore the light. I can picture her now. Her hair was darker than mine but always wild, always a scarf wrapped around her neck, bright-framed glasses. In a gallery I’d spend half my time just looking for her, but, when I found her, she’d be standing in front of a painting, absorbing it, looking at the details. I like this one, she would say, smiling to herself. I look at a Kandinsky with all its primary colours. Phoebe, look how it’s not a thing, it’s emotions and colours and ideas. Isn’t it fantastic? It is, Mum. It is. I adored how she did that. I adored how fierce she was in how she loved all things, especially her kids.

I keep walking, past sculptures on plinths, through a whole exhibition dedicated to art in the snow, past the odd groups of tourists who take videos of their own feet walking along the ground.

‘Oh no, oh no… I’m such a klutz,’ I suddenly hear, from a bench in the corner of one of the exhibitions. People are staring at an old lady, little fur boots on her feet, reaching all round herself as coins fall from her purse all over the floor, and I rush over.

‘Hi, are you OK?’ I ask her, falling to my knees to help her pick them all up, then placing them in her wrinkly hand.

‘Yes, I’m just old and clumsy and my fingers are like icicles.’ Beside her is a little trolley bag that acts like a walker. I grab the last of the coins and help her clasp up her purse. ‘Oh, you angel. You got a name, sweetheart? I love your scarf.’

‘Phoebe.’

‘British.’

‘That I am. What’s your name, lovely?’

‘Greta. Like Garbo.’

I smile but I have to admit, I have one eye on the trolley bag as it starts to move. She senses me looking, puts a finger to her lips and offers me a peek inside, lifting the lid. There, lying in a pile of blankets, is a small pug-like dog.

‘That’s Dotty.’

I lean in to whisper to her. ‘And I suppose she’s not a seeing-eye dog of any description?’

‘She’s an art lover. She’s a sophisticated pooch. Can’t go through the day without some Degas.’

I love how she says Degas in her New York accent and laugh a little, then reach down to pat Dotty on the head. ‘Well, I won’t say a word,’ I say, taking a seat next to her. From my pockets I take out my cat handwarmers that have saved me before on a day like this, and place them on her hands. ‘These are my gift to you.’

‘Oh my, really?’ she says, rolling them along her fingers.

‘Yeah, it’s really cold for you to be out. You should have stayed home in the warm, Greta.’