by Hayley Doyle
‘Eh! Calm the fuck down. I was gonna say – forget the lesson and ski with me. I’ll teach you.’
‘You will? You can do that?’
‘I’m a queen on the slopes, babes. I can do anything.’
Good God, to have her confidence.
Beth leads the way to get us kitted out. She sorts me with boots and skis, telling another young lad (also with a man-bun) behind the counter my sizes and experience. She lies and says I’m not a beginner. I nudge her. She says, ‘Trust me.’
I’ve never put my foot into a ski boot before and oh, fuck me, it’s weird. It’s like one of those dreams where your limbs are dead weights, except the weight is cemented to my feet. Plus, when I try to walk, I look like I’ve shat myself. We change into the salopettes and jackets, put on our gloves. Somehow – somehow – Beth looks good, rocking the whole Alpine-meets-Chav look that can only be achieved with hired skiwear.
‘How did Jack ever think this would be a good idea?’ I say, as the escalators take us up to the slope. I’m panicking about stepping off the moving stairs in these boots.
‘He’s clearly only ever been skiing in the mountains,’ Beth shrugs.
‘God, there’s so much stuff to carry,’ I say. ‘And it’s freezing.’
‘I can already see how much of a hoot you and Jack would’ve had, babes.’
Beth places her skis down onto the snow and I copy, mine flopping and flipping over. She shows me how to step into each ski, tells me to listen for a simple ‘click, click,’ and then to dig my poles into the snow so I don’t lose my balance. I do exactly what she says, and immediately lose my balance anyway and fall awkwardly onto my side, one foot still attached to a ski, one not. Without fuss, Beth offers her hand to help me up; but I can’t. I can’t get up. I’m bulked out with an evil contraption around my ankles and quite frankly, this is fucking impossible.
‘Beginner’s luck, eh?’ I attempt a joke.
She holds me steady as I grab her forearms to click, click into my skis. She hands me my poles and we’re ready. I’m about to do this. I’m going to ski. I trail behind Beth who bends her knees, digs her poles in and gently propels herself forwards across the flat snow towards the chairlift. She’s like a graceful swan. Dance music pumps across the dauntingly steep slope (which Beth has already remarked is ‘tiny’) and the dull noise from the lift mechanisms fills me with dread. How am I going to sit down with skis on? And how the fuck am I supposed to get off when we reach the top?
‘Just bend your knees, hold your centre, clench your buttocks and follow me,’ Beth says. ‘I’ll go proper slow. Okay?’
I nod, but all my focus is on sitting down. Beth has both her poles in one hand, and guides me with the other as we shuffle along. Our skis and boots bear an uncanny resemblance to huge clown shoes. As we get into position on the line for the chair lift to sweep us up, I’m terrified. A hollow shakiness ripples through my body and I shut my eyes tight, willing myself to disappear. Then whoosh! We’re up! I’m sitting, my skis and feet off the ground. Beth pulls the metal safety bar over us. I whoop, do a little dance to the beat and … drop one of my poles.
‘Shit!’
Any elation is short-lived. And the weight in my ankles, hanging down with these boots and skis attached, I mean. Fuck. Me. How is Beth so calm? How?
‘Don’t panic, babes. To be honest, you don’t need your poles when you’re learning.’
‘But I liked the poles!’ I moan. ‘They made me feel safe!’
‘Look over there,’ she points to a line of kids gliding at a nice pace down the slope in single formation, following the zigzag trails of the instructor. ‘None of those beginners have poles. It’s all in the knees. Imagine you’ve got little headlights on your knees – keep them facing the direction you’re going in.’
‘Right.’
‘And keep your legs wide, point your toes in, make an upside-down V,’ she holds her legs up and demonstrates. I give it a go, but she says, ‘No, never cross your skis.’
Seriously, and people pay the earth to do this as a holiday?
The lift ascends slowly, giving me time to rehearse my ‘V’, think about my knees. Kids as young as four or five whizz past down the slope. If they can do this, so can I. Surely.
‘In a real resort,’ Beth says, ‘the lifts are magical. The view; the clean air.’
‘I can only imagine.’
‘No need to be a sarky bitch, Chlo.’
‘No need to rub it in.’
The chairlift exit is creeping up and I watch the family in front raise the safety bar and ski off, around the lift, stopping at the top of the slope. They make it look so bloody easy. A lot of people seem to wait at the top, some chatting or fixing their gloves, some psyching themselves up for the down. There are a lot of people shuffling around on snowboards.
‘Okay,’ Beth says, raising the safety bar, ‘after three. One, two …’
‘THREE!’ I blurt, exerting all my energy into standing but keeping my knees bent, and I’m doing it, I’m off! I’m going forward, fast – so fast, too fast, still going, going, going, how the fuck do I stop—
I crash into a gang of teenagers.
I’m face down in the snow and have no desire to turn face up. Ever.
I hear a cacophony of ‘Fucking watch it!’ and ‘No worries!’ – both ends of the skiing spectrum unleashing their feelings. Beth’s on her knees, whispering into my ear.
‘Let’s go and have a cocktail. Me cousin can get us on the guest list for a new member’s bar off Castle Street—’
‘Beth. No. I need to do this!’
‘But you’re miserable.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah! This isn’t you, Chloe. You weren’t even the teeniest bit excited to try. You’re just doing it for the sake of it and torturing yourself. Look, would Jack really want to put you through this all because he likes it?’
‘Loves it. He loves it, pal. I mean, loved it.’
I haul myself up onto all fours and use Beth once again as a crutch to get into my skis.
‘Jack would’ve understood if you didn’t wanna ski.’
‘Don’t talk to me about Jack, Beth. Don’t you ever talk to me about Jack.’
‘Whoa, babes—’
‘No, you don’t know him. You didn’t know him. Fuck.’
But did I? Did I know him? I know he never backed down about skiing – it was the highlight of his year, and when possible, he’d even go twice. Was this an integral part of him that I never knew, clearly never showed him a blind bit of interest in, and now, I’ll never know? Had I only seen Jack’s basic colours? Had the entire fucking rainbow still been out there to be discovered?
Perhaps by people who weren’t like me. People more like him.
‘I know you needed to get away,’ Beth says, gently, still holding her arm out for me like I’m an invalid, ‘but maybe going off to Thailand wasn’t the brightest idea, so coming home’s always good to touch base, figure out your next step—’
‘Oh, what’s with all the self-help clichés, Beth?’
‘What’s with acting like a fucking child?’
‘I’m sorry. Can we just do this?’
‘Fine.’ Beth takes my remaining pole from me and leans forward to suss out the slope, her possible route down. ‘I’ll go slow. I’m not going straight down, that’s not how you ski. Side to side – see? Look at those girls there, see how they’re going towards one side, then almost up the mountain and then they slowly turn with their legs in that upside-down V? Yeah?’
‘Simple. Let’s do it.’
‘And remember, babes, keep your legs wide. The wider they go, the slower you’ll go.’
I salute, and almost fall flat on my arse.
‘Steady,’ Beth says, and off she goes into the snow, like Elsa in Frozen.
And I follow. I really do. She’s true to her word, going slow and side to side. I dig deep, keep my toes pointed inwards, my legs wide. It aches; a tiring pain. I’m using
muscles my body wasn’t aware it had. And now, shit. It’s time to turn. Beth makes a grand half circle around from left to right. She makes it look like a dance. All I have to do is copy; tread on her exact tracks.
My skis cross at the toes.
I see it happening, powerless to stop. Once they’re crossed, I’m stuck. My arms start flailing around – for help; for balance; fuck knows – and I go flying down the slope at a speed I feel like I’ve only experienced inside a moving vehicle. I hit the floor and my skis are both gone, lost somewhere further up. I come to a bumbling, messy stop in the middle of the piste.
I sit on the slope and hang my head. Beth has skied to my side, still poised.
‘I’m so useless,’ I cry. ‘At everything.’
‘No, you’re not, Chlo. You’re a teacher, for fuck’s sake.’
‘No, I’m a failed actress who ended up in a call centre, and a teacher by absolute default.’
‘Most actresses are failed ones.’
‘Well, I go further,’ and I attempt to count out on my fingers, hindered by the giant gloves. ‘I’ve failed in relationships, failed at moving away, failed at everything I’ve ever tried to do since I left school. I’ve totally failed at being an adult.’ I manage to get onto my feet without Beth’s help this time, which is marginally easier without skis attached to my feet.
‘Come on, babes. You can’t just stand in the middle of a slope without skis. It’s a hazard.’
‘Oh, and with skis it isn’t?’
‘Your attitude stinks. I wouldn’t mind, but I’m doing you a favour, remember?’
‘It was supposed to be fun!’
‘Chlo. We need to move. You’re gonna have to bum shuffle down.’
‘You’re fucking kidding, right?’
‘No. It’s the only way down, for you.’
So I go. Like a baby who’s not worked out how to crawl, I shuffle. On my arse.
‘Wanna try again?’ Beth has the nerve to ask once I reach the bottom. My face says it all. ‘Okay, that was me trying to make you laugh, babes.’
‘You don’t understand, pal,’ I say, as Beth guides me away from a line of kids queuing for the chairlift. ‘I mean, look at you. You’re a success story. You move in elite circles, feel at home as a VIP.’
‘You’ve got no clue.’
‘No, I think I’ve got the right clue, actually.’
‘That stuff means nothing and you know it. Give yourself more credit.’
‘Nothing? Beth, you’ve got a husband and a home.’
‘Look. You’re not the only thirty-six-year-old who’s single and childless, you know.’
I wish she’d stop shouting at me. We’re sat right beside the speakers, taking off those God-awful boots.
‘What do you want me to do, Beth? Get on Tinder? Swipe for love? To use one of your clichés, get back on the saddle?’
She scoops up her boots and wriggles her toes to let them breathe.
‘I want you to listen,’ she says.
‘All I do is listen!’
She shakes her head slowly. ‘No you don’t, babes,’ and looping her boots and poles onto her skis, she walks away from me. I know, from her tone of voice, that we won’t be having dinner together this evening. I want to stop her, beg her to stay. We haven’t had a fight since we were really young and somehow it matters more now that we’re old. I feel like running to the loo, locking the door and crying, but I also want her to leave so I can try to make sense of why I’m here. Immersing myself in Jack’s plans makes me feel closer to him, like we’re still together. And I wish Beth could understand.
Except I don’t feel closer to Jack today.
If anything, I feel further away from him than I ever thought could be possible.
26
It’s arrived. The big day has finally arrived.
Our Kit stayed at home last night. We watched My Best Friend’s Wedding and drank Prosecco with strawberries. My dad nipped out to get a Chinese takeaway for the four of us: a full-on banquet with prawn crackers and spare ribs, the lot. My mum kept spoiling the film talking on her phone. Everybody was calling her; my nan, Carol, Gareth’s mum. They all kept saying the same thing: it’s tomorrow, can you believe it’s tomorrow, it’s really tomorrow … I didn’t complain, though. She’s been easy on me since I found myself a plus-one for the wedding.
We’ve all woken up this morning with dry mouths from the immense quantities of MSG. We start getting ready, the Spice Girls on full blast, feeling pumped. Even my nan shows up with a smile on her face and a spring in her step.
‘Ready?’ Kit calls from upstairs. ‘I’m coming down!’
In the hallway, my dad puts his arms around me and my mum, and my mum grabs my nan’s hand. The image of Kit standing at the top of the stairs, all Paul Smith-ed and quiffed, is one to cherish. He’s cheeky, he’s calm, he’s fucking beautiful. There’s not a dry eye in the house.
‘The car’s here, son,’ my dad says.
As much as it pains my dad, our Kit won the battle and a traditional wedding car pulls up to take us to the manor house on the Wirral where the wedding is taking place. My dad had originally wanted to pimp his taxis, but even my mum had said no. Her son’s wedding isn’t a business opportunity. A few neighbours stand outside their porches and wave us off. Our Kit winds down the window and gives his best Meghan Markle. My mum’s never looked happier.
‘You still haven’t said who your plus-one is, love,’ she says.
‘He’s just a friend,’ I say, for perhaps the fifth time.
My mum nudges my nan and winks. ‘That’s what they all say!’
Passing a long, manicured garden, we arrive on a gravel driveway. Guests are dotted around the entrance of the manor house, milling about near the wooden double doors. I help my nan out and we leave our Kit in the car. He’s planned to wait for Gareth so they can share a private moment before walking each other down the aisle.
‘We’re practically in Wales,’ my nan says.
And she’s right. There’s a rural feel to the peninsula; the Welsh hills are only across the River Dee. My dress is rather country-style, too. Floaty, off the shoulder, white, and a faux daisy chain in my curled hair. I’m our Kit’s best woman, rather than a groomsmaid, but he’s relieved me of doing a speech later, bless him. He ordered a small bunch of fresh daisies for me to hold, knowing how much I like – well, need – something in my hands these days, and he’s simply delighted I’m here with a smile on my face.
And I am. Smiling.
For our Kit.
There’s nobody I want to be happier than my little brother. He’s the best person I’ve ever had the privilege to know, and he’s in love. He’s loved. I might be sad inside, but it’s easy to smile today.
I usher the guests having a quick ciggie inside. My mum and my nan link arms and my dad leads them to the front row. Yesterday, I spent the day here with Kit and Gareth, decorating the grand hallway where the ceremony is taking place. Ivy entwines the banisters and creates a beautiful archway at the bottom of the stairs. It was a team effort, and we only took a break when the pizzas arrived. We laid out eighty chairs, forty on each side. Now, they’re almost full.
‘Alright Chloe,’ a man says, touching my shoulder. I don’t recognise him. ‘You haven’t changed a bit. Must be twenty years since I last saw you.’
‘I was a redhead twenty years ago,’ I say with a smile and a forced singsong in my voice.
‘Blondes have more fun, eh?’
I laugh, wishing I was sixteen again and experimenting with hair colour.
I wave at a few faces I do recognise, peering through a window to my past. Our Kit’s school mates who I bossed around as a kid and avoided as a teenager. His uni pals I went out drinking with when I visited him during his three years in Manchester. Relatives we saw lots when me and our Kit were little, and never now we’re grown up. I walk down the aisle and take a seat in the front row beside my mum and dad. I keep waving, say a few hellos. I don’t want anybod
y’s pity, anybody feeling sorry for the poor sister whose boyfriend died. Unless they don’t know. Which is worse – it arouses that dark, sunken feeling that Jack never existed.
Jack.
My recent mission to connect with him had failed. I knew we didn’t have everything in common. I mean, who does? It’s where our banter lay. It made us find adorable silliness in each other. Or was that the picture I’d painted, perhaps? In what Kit had called my ‘little Chloe bubble’?
I hear my name. It’s our Kit’s old flatmate from uni and bless her, she’s so pregnant.
‘Looking fabulous, Tasha!’ I say. ‘How long?’
‘Twins,’ Tasha says. ‘Still got a long way to go!’
I spot Beth and Fergus. Beth’s chattering away to somebody I don’t know; Fergus is reading the order of service. We’ve been in touch since the skiing incident, but only pleasantries about today – you know, the usual logistics. I’m hoping our fight will pass by unnoticed and we’ll be on the dance floor together later.
‘Chloe! Yay!’ a voice chirps from the seat reserved beside mine.
It’s my lovely plus-one. I go straight in for a hearty hug. ‘Hiya, Si.’
We tell each other how fabulous the other looks and I sit down, leaning back into my seat so I can introduce him to my family. He stretches across me to shake hands with my dad, then my mum, my nan.
‘He’s just a friend,’ my nan confirms.
Before my mum can comment, we’re all instructed to stand for the service. Des’ree starts singing through the speakers.
*
I’m cornered in between the starter and the main. In the loo.
‘Of all the men you could’ve brought, why a gay one?’ my mum asks, ironically given we’re at a gay wedding. There’s only two cubicles, both of which we’ve emerged from. She’s still wearing her jade-green bolero but her matching fascinator is off, unlikely to be fixed back on. I run the tap, wash my hands.
‘Oh, Mum. You make it sound like I’ve got a catalogue of men to pick from.’
‘But, why, Chlo? Why a gay one?’
‘He’s not gay.’