by Karen Swan
David rolled his eyes and began scrolling down through his BlackBerry with a thumb, spooning his Frosties in with the other hand.
‘You’re not going to make us do Les Attelas, Rob?’ Orlando pleaded. ‘Tell me you will be kind.’
Rob shrugged. ‘If you want to come all this way to play on the nursery slopes, Orlando, it’s up to you.’
‘You and I could chat, if you’re not up to skiing yet,’ Laura said hopefully, trying not to get Cat’s attention.
Sam looked at Laura, then placed a hand on Orlando’s arm. ‘Stick with me, Orly. We’ll get round together – somehow.’
Orlando shrugged back at her. ‘Later, definitely, Laura – okay?’
Laura nodded and reached for the kiwi fruit.
‘Right, well, seeing as we’re all here, it’s time to pull names out of hats,’ Kitty said, reaching behind her and putting a small cardboard box on the table. ‘I’ve put everyone’s name in, so just pass it round and pull one out. Obviously, if you get your own name, put it straight back in, please, and take another.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ Sam said as Kitty passed the box to David on her other side.
Laura waited for it to go round the table. She would be the last to pull a name out and she hoped to goodness she got Orlando or Kitty. At least she knew them a little.
Sam. Dammit. Tucking it into her pocket, Laura reached for a croissant.
‘Aren’t you skiing today?’ Isabella asked Laura from the other end of the table, her eyes flicking down to Laura’s jeans.
‘I don’t ski,’ Laura replied briskly before Sam could say it for her.
‘Actually, I’ve arranged for you to have a private lesson this morning,’ Rob said, sitting back as Gemma, the older maid, refilled his tea. ‘You really can’t come all the way out here and not even give it a go.’
‘But . . .’ She only just stopped herself from saying she was working. ‘I don’t have any kit with me,’ she said lamely.
‘You can borrow some of mine,’ Cat offered. ‘I keep loads of kit out here. Half of it I’ve never even worn.’
‘No, I couldn’t,’ Laura cried, dismayed.
‘Laura, it’s fine. They’re just clothes. I wear them a couple of times a year and we’re about the same size.’
Laura didn’t know how else to keep protesting without appearing rude. She could see Sam shooting ‘get her’ looks at everyone across the table.
‘I’ve booked Mark for you,’ Rob continued. ‘He’s excellent – we always use him. He’ll be here at nine o’clock. You usually have to meet at the Médran lifts, but seeing as you don’t know the area, he’s going to come here to get you.’
‘Thank you . . .’
Kitty nudged her with her elbow as conversation around the table resumed. ‘Lucky you,’ she murmured. ‘Cat’s told me about him. Apparently, he’s gorgeous.’
Laura nodded miserably. She didn’t care what he looked like.
A ring at the door had Rob, David and Alex out of their seats in a shot. ‘Right, that’s our driver,’ Rob said, throwing down his napkin as Sam and Orlando dropped their heads into their arms. ‘Come on, look lively.’
Kitty and Isabella pushed their chairs out, and Kitty squeezed Laura’s arm conspiratorially. ‘Enjoy!’ she whispered, her eyes glittering excitedly.
Rob looked across at Laura. ‘We’ll see you back here later. Mark will come and collect you in about half an hour, as I said.’
‘Grab whatever you want from my room,’ Cat smiled, rising like the sun to reveal chocolate-brown silk leggings and a matching polo neck. ‘Honestly. It’s better it gets worn than not.’
‘Thank you,’ Laura murmured, wondering how Cat managed to make knee-length socks look so good as she made out the lines of a tiny thong on her retreating bottom. She listened to the stomp of ski boots being stamped on in the porch and watched Sam slide her arms into the rest of her suit. It had a belt and fur collar on it, and she controlled her unruly hair with an extravagant wide fur headband. She looked just like a Bond Girl. Laura looked over at Isabella, who, in a matt silver belted jacket and skinny white trousers, looked like a model, and at Kitty in her royal blue and orange . . . Well, Kitty looked like a farmer’s wife – on planks.
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ Sam said archly.
‘Well now, that doesn’t leave very much to do, does it, Sam?’ Kitty said, pushing her through the door.
‘Ciao, bella,’ Orlando sighed wearily.
‘Take it easy, Orlando. You really don’t look so good,’ Laura said sympathetically
‘Why do I do it to myself?’ he asked, throwing his hands up in the air and stomping towards the door. ‘Is not like I am young any more. You know, this is what it is to grow old, Laura! The body decaying—’
‘Your body is not decaying, Orlando!’ Laura chuckled. ‘It’s the most undecayed body I’ve ever seen.’
‘Yes?’ he asked hopefully.
Laura nodded. ‘Really.’
‘No! You are being kind. You don’t—’
‘ORLANDO!’ Sam bellowed from outside. ‘Get your arse in here now or we’re going without you!’
Orlando heaved a sigh of regret and, saluting her, left.
Laura smiled. Poor Orlando – he really was a lover, not a fighter. She listened to the sound of the car pulling away, wondering how to get out of the mess she was in. Skiing in Verbier was just about as bad as it got.
Chapter Seventeen
The bedroom door closed with a discreet click, and Laura leant back against it, her eyes scanning the room in anticipation of the homage to Versace – but everything was a soft winter-white: the linen-hung walls, the huge eight-foot-wide bed, the curtains, the sofa along one wall. It was the muted, almost faded leopard-print carpet that gave the suite its name, and it was stunning, completely unlike the French-Swedish looks Laura was always seeing in the interior decoration magazines that she and Jack had scoured so reverently when doing up the cottage.
Light poured in from the dual-aspect floor-to-ceiling windows and she saw the fur yeti boots – one standing, one on its side – positioned in the sun like basking cats, the matching hat tossed casually on the seat of a tub chair.
The furniture in here was as fine as in her room, but the surfaces were cluttered with antique perfume bottles, and an enormous baby-pink powder puff had dusted the glass top of the dressing table slightly. Laura peered closer, inhaling the subtle scent. It was completely Hollywood, completely, contrarily Cat: when everyone else was wearing mousse foundation, it appeared she was using old-school, high-glam powder puffs.
Laura’s eyes fell upon a silver-framed black-and-white photograph of Cat and Rob on their wedding day and she picked it up. It had been a winter wedding, and the shot was a close-up: a white fur hood encircled Cat like celestial light, her emerald eyes were flashing, and her laughter was almost audible to her as Rob, so handsome in his morning coat, gazed at her with a smile on his lips and adoration in his eyes. Laura remembered the story he’d told her of how they’d met: a kiss had been their hello; a passionate, life-affirming kiss that had precluded everything and everyone – even the woman who had spent the previous eight years with him and must have all but picked out her ring. Laura swallowed at the thought of such an all-consuming love. It excited her a little, but it terrified her more.
She put the photo down again, and her eyes flitted quickly over the other silver-framed snapshots: Cat and Rob leaning back in a Riva speedboat, water glistening behind them; Cat in a bikini, standing on a swing on a beach, her hair blowing behind her; Rob lying back on a picnic blanket, his arms behind his head as he stared sleepily at the camera . . . Laura could tell Cat had taken that one from the way he was staring into the lens.
She moved away hurriedly, unable to look such unadulterated happiness in the eye any longer. It made her feel like a snoop. Ski kit. That was what she needed. Cat had told her – practically ordered her – to get some from here.
She crossed the exotic ca
rpet determined not to look at anything else – bedside table: water carafe; Berocca; reading glasses; baby names book, oops! – and flung open the wardrobe. Its contents glittered back at her like jewels in a box – extravagant evening dresses, many full length, shimmered lightly in the draught, sequins and embroidery catching the light; a fur jacket jostled for space; ten or more pairs of jeans in varying shades were folded in cubby holes, and more deluxe jumpers than Laura could count had been colour-coded for easy access. The ski-wear was at the far end of the wardrobe and looked like a one-stop ski shop – there were all-in-one suits (of the type Sam had been wearing), shiny padded coats – a few belted, others fur-trimmed – and skinny twill salopettes. How did Cat ever decide? What could the elimination process possibly be? Everything looked brand spanking new, and very expensive.
Laura’s eyes were immediately drawn to a red all-in-one, but she just as quickly pulled them off it. The last thing she wanted was to stand out. She was just pulling out a discreet pale blue and white jacket and some white trousers when she heard the doorbell ring.
She dropped her head in despair. Her moment of reckoning had come.
Mark was standing on the mezzanine, leaning against the wall, texting, as she came out, still tying her hair back in a ponytail.
‘Hi,’ he smiled, taking in her designer get-up. The fit was perfect, the colours infinitely flattering. ‘I’m Mark, your instructor.’
‘Laura,’ she nodded, shaking his hand.
Kitty had been right. He was crazy hot, with a ski tan she reckoned was probably year-round, day-old stubble and an all-American-type smile. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-four; perfect for Fee, she mused. Far better than that Paul, anyway.
‘So, Rob says you’re a novice.’
‘Not quite.’
‘You’re not a novice?’
Laura took a deep breath and shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Oh. How much skiing have you done before, then?’ he asked, clearly puzzled.
‘Quite a lot.’
‘So . . . ’
‘Rob misunderstood. I used to ski. I don’t any more.’
‘Right. A bad accident, was it?’
Laura paused. ‘You could say that.’
‘So you lost your nerve?’
Laura didn’t reply. She hadn’t lost anything.
‘Well, look, we’ll start slowly. I’ll treat you as though you’re a beginner, and try to see where the lack of confidence shows – it might come out in the turns or whatnot – and we can take it from there. That sound okay?’
Laura nodded.
‘Have you got your own boots?’
‘No. I never would have come if I’d thought there was any chance of me skiing this weekend. I’m supposed to be working. That’s why I’m here.’ She bit her lip. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this.’
Mark paused, puzzled by her reluctance. Who didn’t want to ski in Verbier? ‘What shoe size are you?’ he asked, walking into the porch.
‘Thirty-eight.’
He crouched down and looked at the row of boots arranged in descending order by the benches.
‘Okay, thirty-eight – let’s try these. Sit down.’
Laura relaxed. They were red – an auspicious sign. She let him put the boots on her, quite prepared to curl her toes like a geisha if need be to make them fit.
‘How do they feel?’ he asked, snapping the last clasp shut around her ankle.
‘Heavy.’
‘Can you wiggle your toes?’
She nodded.
‘What about round the leg? Do you feel like your legs can move?’
‘No, they’re pretty snug.’
He stood up. ‘Right, now for the skis,’ he said, eyeing the remaining pairs left on the racks. He picked up a set of carvers. ‘We’ll start you on these,’ he said, opening the door and letting the cold air rush in. ‘A hundred and thirty pounds?’
‘What? The lesson?’ Laura asked, patting herself for cash, even though she knew full well she hadn’t put any in her pockets. She couldn’t. Everything was too slim-fit, even for a fiver.
‘No,’ he grinned. ‘Your weight. For the bindings.’
‘Oh.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not really sure.’
He nodded and went out. Laura followed him.
Mark fiddled with the skis using a small screwdriver, threw the skis on to the snow and held out his hand. ‘Right, if you just step in,’ he said, helping her to balance.
Laura slid her feet in and, as she felt the boots click into place, a feeling – old, familiar – stirred deep within her. She closed her eyes. ‘Just go through the motions,’ she told herself.
‘Lean forward,’ Mark ordered, holding her up. ‘And to the side . . . Right. We’re good to go.’
‘Excellent,’ Laura whispered sarcastically, eyeing the undulating terrain. The slope of the land circling the chalet was gentle, as though the gardens sleeping beneath the snow had been levelled and landscaped, but a hundred yards further on the ground dropped away and the wide open expanse fed in rivulets into the trees before connecting further on with the piste she could see from her balcony.
‘Now, before we go anywhere, I want to see your posture and natural balance, so I’m not going to give you your poles just yet,’ Mark said, tucking them under his arm.
Laura eyed them as she might eye up water in the desert.
‘I want you to bend your knees and bring your weight forward . . . that’s it. Now, twist from here,’ he said showing her how. ‘You use turns to control your speed on the descent. When you make a turn, always turn your upper body into the mountain, like this . . . very good. Use your shoulders to finish the shape . . .’
Laura followed his lead effortlessly through changes of weight and position.
‘Okay. Now we’re going to have a go at making our way over to the trees there,’ Mark said, pointing with his pole. ‘Don’t worry! I won’t expect you to ski through them. We can walk that bit. I just want you to slowly point your skis gently towards that tree over there. Try to think about keeping your skis straight so that the tips don’t cross. And on my mark, you’re going to come to a stop by doing a snowplough. Weight forwards, bend your knees inwards and push your heels out so that the tips of your skis make a point. Think you can do that?’
Laura nodded, determined to let him patronize her. It made it easier.
‘Okay. When you’re ready, then . . . I’ll be at your side the whole way,’ he said kindly.
Laura looked down at her skis, then towards the tree Mark had pointed out. In truth, she knew the gradient here was so gentle you could roll a baby down it, but she was still scared. She knew the second she moved, no matter how slowly, it would all come rushing back – the love, the passion, the thrill.
She tipped the skis forwards and to the side slightly, feeling the snow instantly slide beneath her.
‘How’s that feeling, Laura?’ Mark asked as she glided smoothly over the powder.
Laura nodded, trying her best not to feel anything. The wind slipped over her skin and ran through her hair like water as she carefully turned her body one way then the other. She tried to concentrate on the cold in her toes instead.
‘Okay,’ Mark said after a while. ‘Now begin to push your heels out. You’ll feel the resistance against the snow and it’ll slow you down to a— Oh! To a stop. Just like that. Well done.’
Laura looked around them. They had travelled maybe five hundred yards and were at the treeline. The paths weren’t as narrow as they’d appeared from the chalet, but they weren’t wide runs either.
Mark looked at her, considering. ‘Do you think you’d be comfortable going through the trees here? Or would you rather walk? A lot of people get nervous on the narrower paths. It’s not far to the piste. Maybe half a mile.’
‘I’m happy to carry on,’ Laura nodded solemnly.
‘Okay, well, let’s do the same again, then. Control your speed with your turns and move into a snowplough whenever you feel you’re go
ing too fast. I’ll go ahead this time, and I want you to ski in my tracks, okay?’
Laura nodded and they set off again, moving into the shade of the trees and out of the wind. The firs were like giants, shooting up to heights of six metres or more, all fighting for the sunlight, which fell on to the forest floor in dappled spots. Everything felt enchanted; nothing could be heard except the swoosh of their skis. She sniffed and tried to think about the red tip of her cold nose.
Laura kept up with Mark easily, double-imprinting his S-bends with her own, never too wide or shallow, always on his line.
Mark turned to face her as they reached the side of the piste, his eyes noting the accuracy of her turns upon his. ‘Right. We’re at the highway now, so there are other people to think about. The first rule is that you always give way to the person—’
‘Downhill from you – yes, I know.’
‘Do you want to go into parallel turns?’
Laura shrugged.
Mark handed her a set of poles and ran her through the mechanics of the more advanced turn. She pretended to watch him closely, trying to quell the enthusiasm that was beginning to surge up in her. All she had to do was go from the top to the bottom. Top. Bottom. Up and down again. For one hour. And just not feel anything.
‘Check it’s clear uphill, then push yourself off. I’m going to follow you from behind, this time, to see how you’re doing. Use a snowplough if the parallels feel too much, and don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you all the way. Just call if you want me to pull ahead, okay?’
But Laura didn’t even pause to nod. Having sighted a clearing in the piste, she pushed herself off, sweeping on to the run in wide arcs, her body instinctively, gracefully moving in and out of the pull of the mountain.
‘That’s fantastic, Laura!’ Mark called out behind her. ‘Just keep going!’
But she scarcely heard him. The second she built up any kind of speed, she had lost the fight. Nothing could stop her – she was free again, untrammelled, undamaged; so weightless she almost felt she could fly, just take off and feel the wind under her body.
All around her, other skiers were winding and weaving, bobbing and rising – feeling the same rush. For the first time in years, she felt part of something; felt part of the club again. She laughed with delight, feeling the strength in her muscles kick in as she worked them – really worked them.