Page 91 of Break the Ice

Strangely, I can believe that. I nod.

‘Love doesn’t have a plan. You’ll go with the flow and end up exactly where you need to be.’

She senses me going quiet as I try to take in all her wisdom, maybe understanding why I came here, for quiet, for space, for some divine inspiration. I don’t think she realises that might be her. ‘Did you marry that boy you followed to Berlin?’ I ask her.

‘Honey, Anton was my first husband. There were two more that followed,’ she says, laughing. ‘All schmucks but I gave it all I had when it mattered the most.’ She leans in to take my hand and squeezes it tightly. I squeeze back, watching her trolley bag move again. ‘You have good people energy so, if and when you go down the psych route, you’ll be swell. Look at all these people who’ve walked past a crazy broad like me but you’ve stopped, you’re telling me your story, you’re letting me tell mine. That tells me you’re from good stock. You’ve got fine essence, sweetie,’ she tells me.

‘Thank you,’ I whisper quietly, watching her study the curves and edges of my face, my mismatched outfit. She then looks at my hair, wild and free. I have products from Duane Reade for that, Greta. She gets up. ‘Come with me, kid. There’s a painting here that looks like you.’

‘Like me?’

She starts shuffling off and I follow, making sure she doesn’t lose her balance. We pass a few paintings, and then she stops, looks up and smiles. It’s a Picasso, lots of soft lines and bright colours in yellows, pinks and greens, showing a woman curled up, sleeping. I smile at the idea that this old woman thinks I look like some surrealist dream.

‘Woman With Yellow Hair,’ she tells me. ‘Look how content she looks, the softness, the vibrancy, the touch of side boob.’

I giggle. ‘I’m flattered, Greta,’ I tell her. I can’t stop looking at it.

‘Picasso painted this lady, his muse, in many different ways, always evolving but always with such love, so much colour. It’s your job to always let that colour shine through, never lose it. But find someone who sees all of that in you too, promise me, yeah?’

I turn to her as she smiles at me, a cheeky glint in her eye, and I feel my eyes well up. I needed those words more than you know. She’s like some guardian angel with a trolley bag. I don’t deny she also might be slightly drunk. However, before I get a chance to thank her, to throw my arms around her, a security guard intervenes. ‘Greta, what have we said about you bringing your dog in here?’ he barks at her.

‘What dog? You calling this young lady a dog? How rude of you, sir,’ she retorts as I try not to laugh.

‘Greta, the bag is moving. It’s literally grunting,’ he says.

‘It’s the wind.’

‘Lady, we’re indoors.’

‘Well, terrible draught you’ve got running through this place. Real terrible…’ And as they argue, that painting smiles back at me in all its beautiful tones, lines and serenity.

Look at the beautiful simple curved lines, Phoebe, I can almost hear my mum say. What do you think she’s dreaming about?

Something that makes her happy, I think. Someone she loves.

I feel a tear roll down my cheek.

I think so too, my little wonder. I think so too.

FORTY-TWO

JOSHUA

Phoebe is gone. Not like gone-gone back to London, because her bags are still in her room, but she left early this morning while we were still lying in and left a note, a simple note:

I’m off to buy hair stuff. Back soon! P xx

That was nearly five hours ago. I wonder if we’ve upset her. Maybe the Kiss Cam was too much, the basketball, the extended time with my family. But at the same time, I worry she’s gone out in all that snow and is frozen to a lamppost or something. I know she can handle herself, she’s streetwise and savvy (maybe too much), and it’s likely she’s just walked in somewhere and made friends with everyone, but the last few days have also shown me she’s terrible at crossing roads and understanding the cars come at you from different directions here. I don’t want to have to explain this to her sister. Yeah, she came for a date but got taken out by a snowplough.

So when I hear the latch click on the door, I rise from my seat in the living room with impressive speed and rush to the hallway to greet her. She’s alive. I sigh with relief. She enters, takes off her snowy coat, furry hat and scarf, kicks off her boots, leaving flecks of snow all over the wooden floor. ‘Crapola, it is frosty nuts out there,’ she yelps, smiling at me, a rosy glow in her cheeks. She peeks into the kitchen where there is a flurry of activity. ‘Shit, who are they?’ she mouths to me.

‘You disappeared this morning,’ I say, trying not to show that I really was quite worried about her. ‘You good?’

In her hands are a number of shopping bags. ‘Oh yeah, I realised I needed a few things for tonight so I can look fancy, and then I went to the Guggenheim to check out the art and then I got in a cab and went to Chinatown because I’m a big fan of dumplings and rice rolls and…’ She hands me a Duane Reade bag and another paper bag filled with food. ‘And then I got distracted by bagels again and cronuts, so yeah…’

‘I could have gone with you,’ I say. ‘You’re my guest.’

‘You telling me you wanted to walk around Duane Reade with me while I tried out all the eyeshadows?’ she says and laughs. ‘I spared you that hell. It’s cool. Remember it’s supposed to be time for you to be with your family too, not babysitting me.’