by Sandy Barker
“Well, then he will absolutely want to get his hands on you.”
“Sorry, what?” This conversation certainly had her on the back foot. What in the world?
“Will. He’s a fantastic teacher.” Oh, right. “Skiing, snowboarding—he basically grew up on the snow. He was only three when we first put him on skis.” She laughed. “He was so fast. He took off right down the mountain and Nate had to go after him. From then on, he was hooked! Never wanted to come off the slopes, even when his lips turned blue. I think he’s mostly snowboarding now, but he’ll teach you how to ski if you prefer.”
Lucy’s stomach twisted at the thought of either.
“Um, I’m not really very athletic.” It was the polite way to say, “No thank you very much, please sod off.”
Steph waved off her refusal. “Oh, there’s nothing to it. You’ll be fine.”
“But I didn’t bring any gear.”
“Jules is about your size, and you’re only a little taller than her. She’s got a few snow outfits here. We’ll get you situated. And you can rent the boots and skis up there. You’ll love it.”
Lucy was sure she would not love it, but found herself saying a weak, “All right.”
Steph grinned and drank some more coffee.
*
“I look like a Teletubby,” Lucy moaned quietly at herself in the mirror.
There was a knock at her bedroom door and she jerked it open, daring whoever was standing on the other side to say one thing about the way she looked. Will. Just brilliant.
“So, you ready?” he seemed particularly casual about the fact that she was wearing head-to-toe aubergine and resembled either a bloated undercooked sausage or the aforementioned Teletubby. Tinky Winky was the purple one, wasn’t he?
“I think so. I mean, what should I bring?” Lucy preferred to have everything planned out and this outing was far too ad hoc for her liking.
Will scratched the back of his head. He wasn’t wearing a daft outfit. He was wearing a T-shirt which had—again—ridden up and shown his extremely taut stomach. Was there such a thing as a twelve-pack?
“Okay, you’ve got the goggles, the mittens, and the ski socks …” Those items, all borrowed from Jules, were in a small backpack—also aubergine—on the bed. “And we’ll get you a helmet and boots up there. Oh, yeah, you’ll need lip balm.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, for the cold.” He laughed. “You’re looking at me like I said lipstick or something. Just, you know, regular old Chapstick.”
She did not like how amused he seemed. How was she supposed to know what to take with her for a day of skiing? She gave him a firm stare and he stopped laughing.
“Okay, um, bring your phone—in case anything happens, you know …?” No, she did not know, and she didn’t want to think about it. “And tissues. There should be those little packets in your bathroom. Bring a few. Your nose runs like crazy up there.” Well, that’s just brilliant. So far, nothing he’d said made her any happier about their impending outing. “And that should be it. Oh, and there’s these.” He retrieved two foils packs from his pocket and held them out.
Lucy had seen them before. They were those little heat packs you put in your boots for when it’s really cold. She didn’t know they made them for hands too, but he’d given her one set of each. “Jules gets numb fingers and toes sometimes, so she uses those. Okay, so meet you downstairs in a few minutes? And you can just wear your Uggs.”
“Only Americans wear Ugg boots outside,” she muttered to herself. She really did hope it was jet lag making her so ill-tempered. Or perhaps it was abject fear. Was she really doing this?
*
“You’re doing awesome!”
They were on a green run—the easiest kind, Lucy soon found out—and Will was skiing backwards in front of her, making it look as simple as walking, which for him, it probably was.
He was watching her form and explaining how to make little corrections and, surprisingly, she was doing very well. At first, she’d been self-conscious about him watching every nuance of how she moved—and she’d felt like a giraffe on roller skates when she’d first stood up on skis—but as the morning progressed and as she progressed, she found that she really liked skiing.
Lucy beamed at Will. “Do you think maybe you can start skiing forward now?”
He laughed. “Sometimes I forget.” He gracefully changed directions and was soon skiing alongside her. She snuck a surreptitious glance at him, still amazed by how effortless he made it look, and she recalled her conversation with Steph from that morning. Of course, he was good. He’d been on the snow for twenty-six years!
They were coming up on a skiing class of small children and Lucy’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. “You’ve got this,” said a reassuring voice to her right. “Just lean ever so slightly to the left and take that path there.” She followed the line of Will’s arm and gave a sharp nod.
The children seemed to be intent on scattering across the width of the ski run, and Lucy held her breath as she narrowly missed a little boy wearing a Cookie Monster helmet. They passed the skiing class without incident, though, and she sighed, a grin spreading across her face.
“You’re a natural,” Will called to her.
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but it’s brilliant!”
“We were lucky. It’s usually much more crowded than this, but the storm must have deterred some people from making the trek.”
“And it’s sunny!” she exclaimed. She heard his laugh and when she glanced his way, there was a broad grin under his goggles.
“Yeah, it’s kind of perfect. Fresh dump of powder last night, sunshine today. But it’s not always like this. That’s how you know you’re a hardcore skier or snowboarder—you go out even when it’s freezing and there’s zero visibility. If there’s fresh powder, you just want to get out in it.”
Lucy had a realisation—she’d been so absorbed in what Will was saying, she was no longer nervous about skiing around other people. She was just doing it. And those two hours of snowploughing on the bunny hill getting her confidence up were definitely paying off. Will hadn’t let her try a green run until she could ski with parallel skis, and she’d never worked so hard to follow instructions in her life.
It was the ski lift that had terrified her most, however. What if she fell off and plummeted to the ground below? What if, when it was time to ski off it, she slipped, and the ski lift smacked her in the head and she had to go off to hospital—on Christmas Eve!
Just as she was settling into this wonderful feeling of gliding down the mountain, Will skied closer. “Okay, so this is a green run, but the end is actually the steepest part.” Her stomach twisted again. Skiing was certainly keeping her on her toes, so to speak. “So, just do what we talked about, really bend those knees and lean into the front of the boots, okay?” She nodded.
“And we’ll traverse the slope to take some of the heat off the gradient.” The twisting intensified.
“I don’t—” He lifted a hand and snaked it slowly from left to right, like a shark fin sluicing through the water. She thought she understood; she hoped she did.
“Just follow me, okay?”
“All right.”
Lucy could see the run widening up ahead and that it got a lot steeper. Why would they put the steepest part at the end where you’re supposed to stop?
Will carved left in a gentle arc and she followed. So far, so good. But as he made a rather sharp turn to carve right, Lucy got confused about what to do. Her left ski clipped her right and, in a heartbeat, she was tumbling down the slope. She landed with a thud on her back, leaving her slightly winded. Her left ski—the offending one—was still attached. Who knew where the right one was?
She lay still, arms out like a T, her pole straps limp around her wrists, and took stock of her body. Everything seemed to be intact. Will’s face appeared above her, his goggles pushed up onto his helmet.
She waved, sort of—more
of a limp-wristed fling of her hand into the air. “Hello,” she said, as though it was perfectly normal to lie about on the snow with people skiing around her.
“You okay?” Concern etched his face and he reached out a hand.
She lifted one hand to push her goggles up then let it flop back onto the snow. “Are we talking about my body or my pride?”
“Definitely your body. Your pride slunk off that way.” He pointed off towards the ski lift.
“Ha ha, hilariously funny.”
“Am I helping you up, or would you prefer to stay there?”
“Up please.” She thrust a hand in his direction, and he signalled for the other one. When he had both her hands in his, he lifted her from the snow with ease, but as he was downhill from her, she fell into him. He captured her in his arms.
“Oops, hey, are you okay?” They were face to face, barely apart, their breaths mingling in the air between them, and their eyes locked onto each other’s. Lucy nodded slowly, not dropping his gaze. He bit his lower lip, and Lucy had to fight the urge to reach up and touch it. He didn’t seem to want to let her go, and she didn’t want him to.
“Will …” she whispered, not knowing what words would come after that.
He shook his head slightly and the moment was gone. He leant back and made sure she was stable, before skiing off to collect her other ski, which was at the bottom of the run. He put it under his arm, then skied up to her, cross-country style, propelling himself up the slope by planting his poles and pushing.
Lucy watched all of this without moving. They’d nearly kissed, she was sure of it. And the way he had looked at her, he felt something too. This wasn’t just her having a lusty perv at her friend’s brother.
He made it back to her and helped her into her ski. “All good?” he asked as he scrutinised her boot bindings.
Lucy put her weight on the ski. “Uh, yes, thank you.”
Will straightened and looked down at her, his face set in a neutral expression. “So, another run, or we could get some hot chocolate?” he asked.
Right, she thought, so we’re going to pretend that nothing happened between us. Just brilliant.
“Let’s have a break, shall we?” she replied, feigning a smile.
As she sipped her hot chocolate, the feeling returning to her fingers and toes, she watched the activity outside the café and thought back over the morning. Will had been so patient with her, so generous with his time, encouraging her without a trace of condescension.
He’s a good one.
The realisation both thrilled and terrified her, because maybe she had imagined there was something between them and it was all one-sided—her side. And what was the point of falling for a man who lived in America when her life was in London? The swarm of thoughts buzzed about her mind as the hot chocolate warmed her body.
“You look like you’re a million miles away.”
She smiled, snapping back to the present and taking in his tousled hair and pink cheeks. She wondered if hers looked like that. “I was, actually. Sorry.”
“No need to apologise.” Then he reached across the table and took her hand.
Chapter 12
Chloe
“It’s a very pretty village,” Chloe said, stifling a yawn.
She and Archer were walking down the road away from his mother’s house. It was drizzling, but they were sharing Cecily’s giant umbrella and despite her toes burning with cold inside her now-soggy boots, she was otherwise impervious to the grey weather. Archer Frigging Tate! she mused to herself.
“So much so, it’s boring you silly?”
The stifled yawn turned into a laugh. “Nooo, that’s just jet lag. Like your mum said, I only arrived last night.”
“Well, in that case, I agree with you. It is a pretty village. Very small, mind you. It doesn’t even have a school.”
“Were you and Lucy the only children when you were growing up?”
“No, there were a few of us. We all went to school in the next town, Watlington.”
“And you were both in the same class?” Chloe was fishing. According to the world’s tabloids, Archer Tate’s age was somewhere between thirty and forty, but he’d always been tight-lipped about it, saying that it shouldn’t matter what age he was, as long as he was the right person for the role. It was his act of solidarity with female actors to protest how ageist and sexist the acting profession was. Chloe had always admired that about him—and his acting ability. And his ridiculous good looks.
“Well, we both went to the same primary school, but I’m a couple of years older.”
Bingo! She’d just mined one of Hollywood’s best kept secrets, but she would keep it to herself. It didn’t really matter anyway, as long as he was age appropriate. It wasn’t like he was twenty or, god forbid, fifty!
“So, where in Australia are you from?”
“Melbourne. Have you been?”
“Sydney only, I’m afraid, and even that was a fly-in-fly-out visit for some ghastly press junket.”
“Did you really just complain about life as an international film star?” She raised her eyebrows and he chuckled at himself.
“I did. You see, this is the real me—a pompous arse who complains incessantly about being, as you put it, an international film star.”
“That seems unlikely—the pompous arse part.”
“You might be surprised. In any case, would you allow the arse to buy you a drink?” They had stopped outside a small pub called The Ha’penny and Sixpence. Its Kelly-green window boxes were empty, but its whitewashed walls glistened in the drizzle and it had the ubiquitous thatched roof that so many of the village buildings had. This one looked like a giant fur hat.
A car zoomed by so close and so fast that Chloe felt it before she saw it. “Shit.” She leapt onto the front step of the pub and Archer followed, his reflexes kicking in just after hers.
“That’s my fault, sorry,” he said, looking down at her, a crease between his brows. “I wasn’t paying attention and it can get a little dangerous on this curve of the road. No footpath, see, and people tend to drive like mad idiots through the village—even in weather like this.”
Chloe’s breath started to slow, and she blew out a noisy sigh. “It’s definitely time for a drink.”
He pushed on the white wooden door and stepped aside so she could enter ahead of him. A gentleman, she thought. He closed the umbrella and brushed errant rain drops from his shoulder, just like he had when he’d arrived at his mum’s house hours before. Chloe watched the simple gesture with wonder. The way he moved, even something as simple as that, was a lesson in elegance. He smiled down at her and Chloe knew exactly why she’d had a crush on him for all these years.
He was an absolute hottie.
The pub, which must have been at least a few hundred years old, had extremely low ceilings and as she followed Archer into a small room off the main one, she watched him duck beneath the beam that spanned the doorway. They found a table for two in the corner next to the window where the milky light from the grey day seeped in, then peeled off their coats before getting settled.
A woman, who looked to be in her mid-sixties, appeared out of nowhere and stood next to the table, peering down at them. “Alan! So good to see you, love,” she said. Alan?
Archer stood and warmly kissed the woman on her offered cheek. “Mrs D, good to see you too. You haven’t aged a day.”
She tutted and waved off his compliment the way women do when they are not-so-secretly pleased. “Oh, rubbish, you cheeky boy. I look a right fright.” She patted her bright red fluffy curls. “I forgot my umbrella and had to walk all the way from the bus stop in this wet muck.” She tilted her head to the side and regarded him, smiling with obvious pride.
As though she suddenly remembered her manners, she turned towards Chloe. “Hello. You must be Alan’s girlfriend. Madison, isn’t it?” Oh, god! Chloe wasn’t sure whether to be horrified or flattered that Mrs D had assumed she was Archer’s girlfriend�
��and a famous film star.
To his credit, Archer handled the faux pas just as graciously as he seemed to do everything else. How he avoided embarrassing all three of them was a minor miracle, but he did. He took Mrs D’s hand in his and feigning conspiracy, whispered loudly, “Actually, Mrs D, this is my new friend, if you get my meaning. Chloe.”
“Ooohhh,” she said, as though Archer and Chloe were engaged in some sort of illicit affair. “I shall keep it under wraps,” she added, glancing about to see who else was listening; it was no one. “Chloe,” she said in hushed tones, “your boyfriend was one of my favourite students.”
Oh, so that’s where Mrs D fits in. Archer shook his head and sat down.
Chloe rested her chin on her hand, “Oh, do tell, Mrs D. Maybe you would like to join us?”
“Oh, no, I can’t, love. I’m working, see?” She laughed loudly. “I’m supposed to be taking your order. Our John will give me a stern talking-to if I stay any longer chit-chatting. What can I get you?”
Archer ordered a pint and Chloe ordered red wine. On Mrs D’s recommendation, she’d gone for the tempranillo over the pinot. When Mrs D retreated, Chloe fixed Archer with a look. “So, Alan …” She let the name hang in the air, a slight smile tugging at her lips.
He raised both hands in surrender. “Now you know two of my secrets.”
“Two?” She was playing dumb and she knew that he knew that.
“Uh-huh. My age isn’t common knowledge, as you know.” This time she raised her hands in surrender. “And I was born plain old Alan David Tate.”
“What’s wrong with Alan?”
“Nothing. It is a perfectly serviceable name. But, you see, when I went off to drama school, I had it in my head that I needed something more … well, impactful. Actually, my mum came up with Archer.”
“Your mum?” An image of the slight frown that seemed permanently etched on Cecily’s face popped into Chloe’s head. Archer nodded, chuckling softly.
“Yes.”
“Hang on. Seriously, your mother, Cecily—the woman who could terrify a grown man at fifty paces just by looking at him—your mother came up with your stage name?”