Page 98 of Break the Ice

‘And yourself?’ I ask him.

‘I work for Wells Fargo. I’m a corporate business analyst.’

The plot thickens. ‘That’s where Jed Patton works, right?’

‘Correct. Actually, it’s how I met Avery. Two summers ago, I was at a party the Pattons were throwing in the Hamptons, and that’s where our paths crossed.’

My face freezes. I know Joshua jokes about my maths, but the timeline isn’t aligning here based on what I’ve been told. Last summer, Joshua was still reeling about the cancelled wedding, and the summer before that they were still engaged. The man is outing himself and a whole affair. I wish I was recording this. I wish Joshua was behind that ice sculpture right here to hear about all of this. I’ve not even met this Avery and I want to fight her. Naveen studies my face. I think he thinks my lack of reply means I’m upset that he’s attached to someone else. Oh, bore off. You’ve got chipmunk cheeks, too much product in your hair, and you think men can wear lemon yellow. ‘That’s a long time. Do I see a ring in her future, Naveen? I won’t tell. I don’t even know the girl,’ I say, trying to sound nosey instead.

‘Well, between you and me, Phoebe from England – it is New Year’s,’ he says, patting his chest pocket.

Breathe, Phoebe. Breathe. ‘Really? Tonight? Here? That’s…’ I stutter, trying to get my words out.

‘I’ve got it all planned. The band know, I have indoor fireworks, I’ve got the caterers cued up to bring out some Cristal for everyone,’ he says, the excitement etched in his face.

‘Wow. That’s huge. And what’s the contingency?’ I joke.

His face goes blank. ‘If she says no? Lady, way to hype up a guy,’ he says, laughing. ‘She won’t. Her folks love me. I tell you, she was engaged to this guy before and I think they’re slightly relieved she didn’t end up with him. Some childhood sweetheart, research nerd at NYU, like zero ambition.’

I can’t quite describe this feeling but it’s like a sublime sort of anger that fizzes through my veins. You arrogant twat. He turns to the shrimp again and helps himself. ‘You had the shrimp, Phoebe? They shipped it in from Cape Cod.’

But while his back is turned, I reach for a nearby glass of half-drunk champagne and throw it at him. ‘Oh my life!’ I say, jerking my body forward. ‘Someone just walked into me. It’s so crowded here. I’m so incredibly sorry. Seriously,’ I say, feigning contrition. He’s frozen to the spot, champagne on his face and down the front of his tuxedo. Don’t laugh. This is when we need to be doing our best acting, Phoebe. I grab at the cocktail napkins on the table. God, even these are bloody monogrammed. I hand them to him and he pats his face down. ‘This is Tom Ford,’ he tells me.

‘Oh, shit.’ I hand him more napkins. ‘Here, put these in your pocket.’

‘Is it on my shirt?’ he asks me, showing his shirt collar for me to examine.

It is. ‘I don’t think so. You may want to dry it off your jacket though. Is that velvet? I really am so sorry. I’m so clumsy. It really was an accident, honestly,’ I tell him. I think my British accent makes it easier to sound apologetic, but he still flares his nostrils at me. ‘I think there are hand driers in the toilets,’ I suggest. He doesn’t look wholly impressed by me but he should be glad I didn’t knee him in the nads. I hope she says no. I watch him put his plate down and move away into the crowds while I stand there, seething at both of them. That was a lot of information in the space of minutes. Important information that would heal, help, hurt, but I have no idea what to do with any of it. I need to find Joshua. Do I tell him? Do I persuade him to leave so he doesn’t have to witness a proposal? Maybe I should tell Maddie? But as I turn around, I see someone standing behind me. Joy. God, if I feel angry, she looks it. Her face is a strange shade of pomegranate. She does not look well. She looks as if she’s trying to hold back her tears. She heard all of that, didn’t she?

‘Oh, Joy…’ I say, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She’s silent, staring into space, shaking her head. ‘What a way to feel like an absolute fool.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘They’re the fools, they really are. I’m so sorry you had to hear that.’

‘Joshy…’ she says, sounding like she has a knot in her throat.

‘Do you want me to find him? Maddie? Bob?’ I ask.

‘No, you did enough. I saw that,’ she says, managing a smirk. ‘Well done. I knew I liked you.’

‘Well, you’ll like me more when you hear I wrapped some shrimp in a napkin and got him to put them in his pocket,’ I say.

And despite the shock of what she’s just heard, she laughs, tears in her eyes, and wraps me up in the biggest of hugs.

‘Go find my boy, will you?’ she says into my ear, softly. ‘Go look after my boy.’

FORTY-SIX

JOSHUA

Pee, get some proper drinks at the bar, endure, chit-chat, rinse the Pattons for some wagyu, see in the New Year, leave. It’s a simple agenda but it’s only nine o’clock and I can’t see how I can keep this going for three whole hours. I’m lucky there’s entertainment though – and it’s not the magician or the juggler or the balloon modeller. Phoebe. There’s something just so reassuring about her, about how she tells her ridiculous stories about being Gordon Ramsay’s daughter or how she once won an Oscar for Best Documentary Short, and also the way she holds on to my arm, how she passes me canapés and gets me to try to dance on the spot with her, just so she can show me how much her dress can swizzle. I don’t know how to communicate any of this to her though. Whaddya think, Phoebe? Wanna go back to London and try being a thing? I fear she would laugh at me. On paper, it’s still a very bizarre concept, but there’s something that draws me towards her. Like a moth attracted to her, craving her light. Maybe I should try to kiss her tonight. At New Year’s. Is that too much of a cliché? It worked for Harry. It was how he won Sally. I mean, he’d known Sally for longer, but I could at least try. Hey, Phoebe. I like you. Kiss. Done.

I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. Get some drinks, endure, chit-chat. You can do this, Joshua.

‘How’s the party out there, sir?’ a voice pipes up behind me as a restroom attendant offers me a hand towel to wipe my hands. He has black-and-white-peppered wiry hair, a red waistcoat and bow tie. He shuffles towards the sinks, wiping them down.

‘There’s a lot going on, Gregory,’ I say, reading his name tag. ‘It’s quite a thing.’