One by One

by Ruth Ware

  I sigh, turn off the app, and begin washing up again, this time in silence, but before I have done more than a couple of plates, there’s a tap on the window to my right, and I look across to see Jacques from the bakery down the valley, holding a stack of baguettes and a giant bag of croissants. I pull off my rubber gloves and open the door, breathing white into the cold morning air.

  “Salut, ma belle,” he says around his cigarette as he hands the bread over, and then he takes a long drag of his Gitane and blows the smoke over his shoulder.

  “Hi, Jacques,” I say in French. My French isn’t perfect, but I can hold a conversation. “Thanks for the bread. What do you say to the forecast?”

  “Ah, well, it isn’t pretty,” he says, also in French, taking another long, thoughtful drag and looking up at the sky. Jacques is one of the very few people who actually grew up here. Almost everyone else is an incomer, either a tourist or a seasonal worker. Jacques has lived here all his life; his father owns the bakery in St. Antoine le Lac, and Jacques will be taking over for good in few years when his dad retires.

  “Do you think there will be the possibility to ski today?” I ask.

  Jacques shrugs.

  “Perhaps, in the morning. But the afternoon…” He holds his hand out and makes the rocking motion the French use to signify that something might go one way or the other. “There’s heavy snow coming. You see the color of those clouds over La Dame?”

  La Dame means La Dame Blanche—the big peak that looms over the whole valley, casting a near permanent shadow over the chalet. Now, as I look up at the top, I see what he means. The clouds that gather up there are ugly and dark.

  “But it’s not just that,” Jacques says. “It’s the wind. It makes it difficult for the guys in the avalanche-control teams. They can’t get out to start the small falls, you know?”

  I nod. I’ve seen them doing it on fine days, after big dumps—setting off small charges to safely release the buildup of snow on the upper slopes before it can get to critical mass. I’m not sure how they do it exactly—sometimes they seem to use helicopters, other times it looks more like some sort of gun. Either way, I can imagine that the wind makes it too hazardous and unpredictable.

  “You think that there is a danger of falls?” I ask, trying to hide my uneasiness.

  Jacques shrugs again.

  “Serious ones? Unlikely. But there will be slopes closed this afternoon for sure, and I wouldn’t plan any off-piste skiing.”

  “I don’t ski off-piste,” I say shortly. Well, not anymore.

  Jacques doesn’t respond to that, he just looks thoughtfully up at the slopes and then blows out a ring of smoke. “Well, I must be going. See you later, Erin.”

  And he crunches off through the soft-fallen snow towards the funicular. I feel my stomach shift with the lingering chill from my dream as I watch him go, and then I turn back, into the warmth of the kitchen.

  Inside, I am stacking the bread on the table when the sound of a croaky, sleep-hoarse voice comes from behind my shoulder, making me jump.

  “Monsieur Bun the boulanger’s son?”

  It’s Danny, leaning against the counter, squinting at the bright morning lights.

  “Jesus.” I put a hand on my chest. “You startled me. Yes, it was Jacques. He says there’s going to be more snow.”

  “You’re shitting me.” Danny rubs a hand over his stubble. “There’s not going to be any more of the stuff left up there. Will we get any skiing in?”

  “I think so. This morning he reckons. He says the runs will probably be shut in the afternoon—avalanche risk.”

  “It’s already on orange,” Danny says, referring to the colored scale published by Météo France. Orange is level three—“considerable risk” of avalanche occurring—and means off-piste skiing is inadvisable, and some of the steeper slopes are probably going to be shut. Red is level four and is when the whole resort starts to close. Black is level five and means risk to settlements and roads. Black is like, Make sure your last meal is a good one, but the control teams don’t let it get to that point if they can help it.

  I’m gathering up the tray of coffee cups when Danny speaks again, his voice casual.

  “Who’s Will?”

  The question is a shock—enough to make me stumble, and two of the cups slide off the tray and shatter on the floor. By the time Danny and I have gathered up the shards, I’m composed enough to answer.

  “What do you mean? There’s no one here called Will.”

  “You were dreaming last night, shouting about someone called Will. I heard you through the wall. It woke me up.”

  Fuck.

  “Huh, weird.” I keep my voice light, and just a little puzzled. “Sorry about that. Nightmare I guess.”

  And then before he can pursue the question, I leave the room. I carry the tray through to the dining room with hands that are only slightly trembling and begin laying out the breakfast things on the big wooden table. I’m setting out the last jars of preserve when I hear the click of heels on the stairs and look up to see Eva coming into the lobby. She looks pissed off.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi, what’s happened to the internet?” she says without preamble. My heart sinks. Shit. I’d hoped it was a temporary thing.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry. Is it still down?”

  “Yes, and the mobile reception is terrible.”

  “I’m ever so sorry, it’s something to do with the snow. It happens occasionally. I think it means a wire’s snapped in the snow or a repeater’s gone down or something. It’s not uncommon after very heavy falls, and we’ve certainly had enough of that recently.”

  I wave my hand at the window where the snow is halfway up the glass in some parts.

  “I don’t need the science bit, what I want to know is when will it be back up?”

  Her tone is sharp and unapologetically annoyed. It’s the voice of someone used to saying “Jump” and getting the answer “How high?” Which doesn’t bother me in itself—in some ways I prefer people who are clear about their expectations, rather than smiling at you all week and then giving you a shitty write-up on their feedback forms. But in this instance I can’t help, and something tells me Eva isn’t going to like that fact.

  “I don’t know,” I say. I fold my arms. “I’m sorry. They usually get it up and running in a few days, but I can’t say with more certainty than that.”

  “Fuck.” She is annoyed and not trying to hide it, but the expression on her face is something more than that, there’s a level of stress and upset here that’s out of proportion.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I wish I could do something more concrete. Is it a problem with work?”

  “Work?” She looks up at that, and then shakes her head and gives a bitter little laugh. “God no. All my work problems can be summed up in one word—Topher. No, this is home. It’s—” She sighs, and then runs her hand through her silky white-blond curtain of hair. “Oh, it probably doesn’t sound like a big deal, but I always Skype my daughter, Radisson, every morning when I’m away. It’s our little ritual, you know? I have to travel so much, and I’m not always able to be there as much as I’d like. But the one thing I always do is say good morning to her over breakfast, and I feel like a complete shit that I can’t do it today. I managed to get through on the phone to my partner, but you know, with little kids they don’t really understand phones. She’s only eighteen months. She needs to see a face.”

  “I can understand that,” I say softly. “It must be really hard being away from her.”

  “Thanks,” Eva says shortly. She blinks and then turns away, under the pretense of filling up a cup at the steaming tea urn. I think she is pissed off with herself for showing that she’s only human, but it makes me like her a bit more. Underneath that icy facade is a person, apparently.

  Then she picks up a tea bag, puts it into the cup of boiling water, and walks away back to her room without another word.

  * * *


  Topher, Rik, and Carl are the next guests down, about half an hour later, and my heart does a little jump of relief at the sight of the three of them. Well—at the sight of Topher, to be more accurate. He looks bleary-eyed and hungover, but he’s here, which is as far as my responsibility to the group goes.

  “So you weren’t the only dirty stay out,” Carl is saying to Topher as they enter the room. “Inigo came crawling back to our room at five a.m.”

  “Oh Christ,” Topher says. He rolls his eyes. “Not that again. Eva should know better.”

  Eva? Her name gives me a little prickle of reaction, though I can’t say why, exactly. It’s none of my business after all. Perhaps it’s coming straight after her obvious distress at not being able to talk to her family. Is Topher right, or just stirring up trouble?

  “Hashtag cougar,” Carl says with a grin. He walks across to the breakfast buffet I have laid out, picks up a warm croissant, and dunks it straight into the glass mason jar containing Danny’s golden homemade apricot preserve. Then takes a huge bite, grinning through the crumbs.

  “Hashtag?” Rik says disdainfully. He’s wearing a black merino polo neck and looks like a page ripped from a high-end men’s knitwear catalog. “Cougar? Have I woken up in a frat house in 2005?” Then he turns to me with a deliberately charming smile that crinkles the skin at the corners of his mouth. “I’d love an espresso, please, Erin. If that’s okay.”

  Carl glares at him with a force I can feel over the other side of the room.

  It should have come across as a dick move—a younger, fitter, better-looking man taking the piss out of his less-hip colleague. But I get the impression that Rik’s issue isn’t really with Carl’s choice of words but more with his choice of conversation topic. It’s funny, I’m starting to like Rik more and more. There is something about the way he relates to Eva—and Miranda actually—that is very different to Carl’s and Topher’s sniggering boys’ club attitude. Much more likable.

  “So, skiing today?” The voice comes from the top of the stairwell, and I look up to see Miranda making her way down the spiral. Her dark hair is tied back in a bun, and she looks ready for business. She clocks me dispensing Rik’s espresso and says, “Good morning, Erin, mine’s an almond-milk cortado, please. What’s the forecast?”

  “More snow in the afternoon,” I say. “In fact, some people are saying they expect the avalanche rating to rise, which means more closures. If you want to ski, do it this morning is my advice.”

  “Eva won’t be pleased,” Carl says. “She’s got this morning packed with presentations.”

  “Eva will have to lump it,” Topher says sourly. He pops two white pills into his mouth and washes them down with a gulp from his stainless-steel water bottle, then massages the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t come all this way to sit in a board room all week listening to her bore on about investor expectations. She can push her little bits of paper around this afternoon.”

  “I’m sure she won’t mind rescheduling,” Miranda says mildly. “It’ll be good for everyone to blow off some steam. I certainly can’t wait to get my skis on.”

  She has the look of a skier. Lean but strong. Topher looks like a boarder, and I’m unsurprised when he says, “What’s the off-piste like round here, Irene? Any good powder?”

  It takes me a beat, then I realize he’s referring to me, at the same time as Miranda hisses, “She’s called Erin,” in Topher’s direction.

  I smile, trying to convey that I don’t mind. Irene, Eileen, Emma—it’s all the same. When you’re staff, you’re not really a person. Topher would probably treat a robot with high-quality AI with the same level of polite disinterest.

  “The snow must be amazing right now,” Rik says. “Can you show us some good off-piste routes, Erin?”

  I feel the blood drain from my face, and I’m trying to think what to say when I’m saved from answering by Danny, who comes out at that moment carrying a huge platter of bacon rolls.

  “Erin’s too much of a wuss to go out of bounds,” he says with a grin. “But I can show you some cool little routes if you want. Not today though.”

  “Why not today?” Topher says, frowning.

  “The avalanche risk is too high,” I say, trying to regain my composure. “But it should be better later in the week when they’ve had the chance to set off some controlled explosions.”

  In truth I have absolutely no idea whether it’ll be better, but no one likes a pessimist, and they’ve got to get up there and clear the buildup some time.

  “Well that’s a plan then,” Topher says briskly. He picks up a bacon roll and takes a bite.

  “What’s a plan?”

  The voice comes from the direction of the living room and we all turn to see Eva standing there. She’s holding a massive sheaf of files and a laptop and looks ready to go.

  “Erin says that the only skiing today is likely to be in the morning,” Rik says quickly, “so we thought we’d get the finance presentation out of the way now, and then move the rest of the stuff to the afternoon.” He speaks rather fast, and I have the impression he’s attempting to head off Topher from saying the same thing but with less diplomacy.

  Eva pauses in the doorway. She looks like she’s trying to decide how to feel about this, whether to make a fuss. Then she looks at her watch, and shrugs.

  “Fine. It’s nearly eight thirty. Shall we get going on the presentation? It shouldn’t take more than half an hour, so we won’t be far off the first lift if we leave straight after that.”

  “Sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned,” Topher says. “We can take breakfast into the den with us. Where the fuck are the others?”

  “I’m here.” It’s a voice from the doorway, and we look across to see Tiger entering the room. “Sorry, have I kept you?” She looks pale and rumpled, her short ombré hair sticking out in all directions as if she hasn’t brushed it yet this morning.

  “Yes,” Topher says, at the same time as Miranda says, “No, you’re not the only one missing.”

  “Ready to milk some pow, Tiger?” Topher asks. I hear a noise from the direction of the kitchen where Danny has stifled a derisive snort, and I busy myself over the espresso machine to hide my own expression.

  “Sorry?” Tiger says. She rubs her eyes as if the morning light is hurting her. “I didn’t catch that.”

  “Are you ready to get on your board?”

  “Oh, yes sure.”

  “You look worse than Topher,” Eva says bluntly, and Tiger laughs, with an uncertain look at Topher.

  “I didn’t sleep well. I had awful insomnia all night.”

  “It’s the altitude,” Eva says. “It affects some people that way. I always take sleeping pills for the first few nights.”

  I don’t hear Tiger’s reply, because Topher pulls me to one side.

  “Are all the hire skis here?”

  “All waiting for you in the locker room,” I say. The ski shop is down in the village, so we pick up the gear for the skiers. Most people here have brought their own though. It’s only Liz, Ani, and Carl who have hired equipment. “Before you go, let me show you the best route back to the chalet. It’s a really great run, but it’s a bit counterintuitive, looking at the map. You actually have to cut across a little bit between two runs.”

  “Is that safe?” Carl says, sounding alarmed. “You just said it was too dangerous to go out of bounds.”

  “Oh, no,” I hasten to reassure him. “It’s totally safe, it’s a very well-trodden path. It’s not off-piste in that sense. But it’s just not shown as a route on the lift map, so unless you know to peel off through the trees, you get taken right down Blanche-Neige into St. Antoine le Lac and have to come back up the funicular.”

  “Is it safe for beginners?” Carl says, still looking anxious.

  “The cut-through? Absolutely. It’s the equivalent of a green run. Have you skied at all?”

  “Yeah, but not for years.” He looks over his shoulder. Topher and the others have gon
e through into the den to begin the meeting, and we are alone. “Strictly entre nous,” he says, rather bitterly, lowering his voice, “I’d rather have poked my fucking eyes with cocktail sticks than gone on a skiing holiday. But this is what you get for working for a company like Snoop. Topher’s a snowboarding nut, Eva’s practically a pro skier, and what they say goes. The rest of us have to lump it.”

  I nod, as if he’s making small talk, but in truth this insight into Snoop’s inner workings is weirdly fascinating. There may be five shareholders, but in day-to-day life it seems that Topher and Eva call the shots pretty autocratically.

  It makes it all the more interesting that for once, the balance of power is out of their hands. One of them is not going to get their way over this buyout. The question is, which one?

  LIZ

  Snoop ID: ANON101

  Listening to: Offline

  Snoopers: 0

  Snoopscribers: 0

  “Okay,” Rik says. He clicks off the PowerPoint slide and turns on the lights. “That’s it. I think everyone can go and get into their ski gear now.”

  I rub my eyes, feeling the sudden brightness searing the back of my skull. My headache is back again. I stand up, pulling my tights straight. Around me there is the rustle of beanbags and the noise of sofa springs as everyone else gets to their feet.

  “Just a second,” Topher puts in. His voice is smooth. “Can the shareholders stay back for a sec?”

  I feel something in my stomach drop away. There is a murmur of assent. Ani, Inigo, Carl, Miranda, and Tiger rise and begin to file out.

  Within a few seconds it’s just Topher, Eva, Rik, Elliot… and me.

  Oh God. I feel my breath coming fast. Oh God, oh God, oh God… they’re going to ask and I’m going to have to—to have to—

  “Look,” Eva is saying, “I think the cold, hard reality of Rik’s figures wasn’t lost on any of us. It’s a pretty stark picture. Our overheads—”