The Art of Breaking Ice by Rachael Mead

Author:Rachael Mead
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Affirm Press
Published: 2023-05-25T00:00:00+00:00

Cerulean Blue

Mawson Station, Antarctica

February 1961

‘How dare you?’ The moment she was through the cabin door Nel spun towards him, a tightly wound spring, the words lodged in her throat since dinner now flying at him.

Phil’s hand sliced the air. ‘Keep your voice down.’

Nel’s face heated as she fought for control. ‘Can you imagine, for one second, how it felt to sit down at that table and realise every single man on this ship had the privilege of knowing your plans – your plans for me – before I did?’ Nel’s voice was low and tight, her jaw aching from the clench she’d maintained for hours. She knew from long experience that to allow her feelings free rein was to lose before she’d begun. Phil valued coolness and logic, and their marital battles could only be fought on that field. Any hint of exasperation or sentimentality or, God forbid, anger, and he would immediately disengage.

‘You know how I am. If you think I’m setting one foot in that contraption, you are seriously misguided. I’m not doing it.’ Nel folded her arms. The word ‘helicopter’ hadn’t even been mentioned. Then tonight, she’d barely taken her first sip of wine when Harold James had asked her if she was excited. Of course, she had no idea what he was talking about. And when he’d explained it to her, Harold had laughed at the audacity of the Great White Chief slipping her name onto the passenger roster without warning or discussion.

And then, Phil joined in. He laughed. She still couldn’t believe it. It was as if the floor had already swung away beneath her feet, panic blazing in her chest. He knew she was afraid of heights. But to keep her in the dark, then side with the men as they ridiculed her fear? Doubly treacherous.

At home, he’d happily do any chore involving ladders. Cleaning gutters, storing boxes in the roof space. Even the cobwebs she couldn’t reach without a stepladder. And now he expected her to voluntarily step into one of those flimsy death-capsules? She’d seen them on deck. They looked like oversized toys clipped together from Meccano, with nothing between the humans and all that air but a thin plastic bubble.

She’d wanted to kick him. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever wanting to physically hurt him until that moment. Throughout the meal, she’d stared at her husband, lips tight. He kept his body angled slightly away from her and towards the men filling the rest of the U-shaped booth.

Nel watched their faces as the conversation rolled on. Did they actually like him? Respect his authority? Or was all this hearty bluster just a facade, a necessity for getting along with the boss? What was said behind his back? Maybe she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Perhaps some of the conversations that dried up whenever she entered a room were not about her after all.

Through dinner and Phil’s post-meal briefing, Nel observed the men the way Harris watched penguins – analysing every sound and movement, trying to see behind words and gestures.

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