by Karen Swan
Occasionally it reared its ugly head, usually in the evenings when she was sitting alone up here with just Badger for company and she was besieged by memories of Mitch at every turn. Before this week, the only solution she’d been able to think of had been to leave here, to just walk away from the home they’d shared, but that felt like defeat – and besides, Mitch would still be in her head wherever she went. No, what she needed was to find a way of living with the past and this, she had decided, was the answer. The cabin was still their home, but it had her mark on it now – Mitch would never have tolerated the dusky pink she’d put in the main bedroom (her first task, in the hope that she’d be able to sleep in there again, but to no avail) and he’d have moved back into town if he’d seen the Japanese cherry-blossom trompe l’œil she’d painted on the back wall of the bathroom. But it was this room, the spare room, that she was most thrilled with, that felt most her. She knew it was in here that she’d continue to sleep.
She walked around it slowly, her eyes trailing over the still-wet walls that were a chalky ice blue at the skirting boards, segueing upwards into an ever deeper and deeper indigo that turned midnight at the ceiling and was speckled with hand-painted stars and thousands of golden flecks thanks to a translucent glitter bicycle paint she’d found at the hardware store.
Slowly, feeling stiff, she got down on the floor, her bones hard on the unforgiving boards. Badger trotted over and lay down beside her, his head resting heavily on her tummy as she stared up at her home-made twilight sky. She could touch this one, kiss the stars if she wanted to; that had been the point – to bring Mitch back into reach again. But as she looked around at her very own ‘long, delirious, burning blue’, it wasn’t Mitch who crowded her thoughts. This sky belonged to another.
It was four o’clock when Lucy walked through the revolving doors of the Homestead, one of the busiest periods of the day for the hotel. Barbara was at the reception desk, drawing on a town map for a Chinese couple and ringing in red pen – no doubt – Bob’s Pizzeria (she and Bob were loosely an ‘item’), her pearl necklace and perfectly coiffed hair setting the genteel tone for the establishment.
Lucy glanced across at the lounge as she made her way over, one protective hand on her bump as she negotiated past jutting elbows and sharp-cornered handbags. The fire in the imposing grey-stone fireplace was roaring, the red-patterned carpet wet with footprints, the chairs clustered in groups around it all filled with the tired bodies of the day’s enthusiastic hikers back down from the mountains, now that the light was fading, and enjoying afternoon tea.
‘You have a nice day now,’ Barbara smiled, waving off the couple.
‘Full house again?’ Lucy murmured to her mother as she stepped behind the desk and opened the filing cabinet, looking for a stapler.
‘I could have sold the rooms three times over,’ Barbara murmured back. ‘I can’t remember the last time we had a pre-season like this. I haven’t had to put up the offers card once.’
‘Well, be grateful, whatever it’s about.’
‘What are you looking for?’ Barbara frowned as Lucy crouched on her ankles and tried the other drawers, opening one accidentally against her mother’s thigh. ‘Ow!’
‘The stapler. I’ve been doing last month’s accounts.’
Barbara tutted and opened the front drawer, handing it to her.
‘Thanks,’ Lucy said, just as she realized she couldn’t get back up again.
Barbara sighed and reached out a hand to pull her. ‘Honestly, you’re pregnant, not disabled.’
Lucy sighed too but didn’t bother trying to defend herself as she was hoisted up. The truth was, she was enormous. She had sailed past the ‘neat’ stage, without so much as a pit stop, and with only four weeks to go, she felt ready to burst, her skin so tight she thought it might split; she could barely sleep, unable to get comfortable on her side – she’d always been a tummy sleeper – and even when she did drop off, she was then disturbed with having to get up several times in the night needing to make toilet trips. Tuck had moved into the spare room – still not a nursery, as he found excuse after excuse to put off decorating it – fed up with her new snoring problem too. The heartburn was almost constant, her back ached, her breasts had doubled in size . . . The entire pregnancy had felt like an endurance event and she just wanted this baby out now.
She held up the stapler wearily. ‘Thanks. I’ll catch you—’
‘Wait,’ Barbara said, sounding guilty. ‘What are you doing for dinner tonight?’
Lucy looked confused. ‘I hadn’t thought about it. I’ll probably just get a—’
‘I mean, do you have any plans? Come over here. I’ve got a chicken pie ready. I don’t like to think of you eating on your own over there.’
‘Mom, it’s fine,’ Lucy muttered with a roll of her eyes.
‘It’s not fine. When’s Tuck back from Toronto?’
‘Next Monday. Mom, he’s only just gone!’
‘But I don’t suppose you’ve made any plans to see anyone? Like—’
‘I’m too wiped to socialize. All I want to do is sleep.’
Barbara frowned. ‘You shouldn’t be this exhausted. It isn’t right.’
‘Well, I’m obviously doing something wrong. No doubt you can advise me, in all your infinite wisdom,’ she muttered sarcastically, putting a hand in the small of her back and pushing backwards, trying to stretch out her hips.
‘I was being sympathetic, Lucy!’ Barbara reached out an arm to her daughter. ‘I’m worried about you, that’s all. You haven’t been yourself lately.’
Lucy pointed to her swollen stomach. ‘Well, my body’s been invaded by an alien, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Darling, this is supposed to be a happy time for you. Instead, every time I see you, you seem so downhearted.’ She tipped her head to the side. ‘Why don’t you try to make things up with Meg? Dolores tells me she’s been very upset too.’
‘Ha, hasn’t looked like it to me,’ Lucy said bitterly, remembering how she’d seen Meg coming out of the cinema on Wolf Street with Josie Wilson and Denise Lam – girls in their year at high school – last week.
‘Well, did you hear she’s going to New York tomorrow for a new job?’
‘What?’ Lucy’s head whipped up.
‘I don’t mean she’s moving there!’ Barbara said quickly, catching sight of her daughter’s aghast expression. ‘But Dolores says she’s in the running to redo the logo for some big designer. They want to meet her; apparently they’ve been very persistent.’
‘Bully for her,’ Lucy muttered, staring at her feet but barely able to see the tips of her toes.
‘Lucy, you should be proud of her – she’s beginning to do well. Didn’t we always say she was talented? This is exactly what she needs to start getting her life back on track.’
Lucy felt her latent anger hit boiling point. ‘Oh, trust me, her life is back on track, all right!’
Barbara looked taken aback. ‘What does that mean?’
‘You all think she’s broken, like she’s this delicate little doll, but she’s not!’ Lucy spat. ‘She’s not pining for Mitch! She’s already moved on. It’s onwards and upwards for her!’
‘Lucy—!’
But she had already turned away, her cheeks hot with anger, betrayal, panic. No one else saw it. Mitch dying was Meg’s get-out-of-jail-free card – or rather, get-out-of-Banff. Toronto had just been the beginning. Now it was New York. Where next? London? Berlin?
‘Lucy!’
‘Leave it, Mom. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘At least come for dinner,’ Barbara called after her. ‘Seven o’clock?’
Lucy didn’t turn back – she didn’t want her mother to see her tears – but she knew she’d be there. It was only just gone four and she was already starving.
Tuck watched the crowds as they spilled past the stand, some browsing disinterestedly, coffee in hand, and with no idea of who or what Titch was, others making
beelines straight for him, high-fives ready as though he was the only reason they’d come.
Behind him, last year’s film ran on a loop, the lights thrown from it cascading over him like a glitter ball. He and Mitch had had special suits made with coloured LED lights sewn along the seams and they’d planted coloured flares in the snow along their route which ignited as they wove their way past. Lucy and Meg had filmed them descending on the blackest night, the entire side of the mountain glowing a rainbow of colours, like an aurora borealis that had fallen to Earth.
He stretched, looking up at the arena ceiling and wishing he could see the sky. These fluorescent lights sapped his energy and he was already tired enough – he had crashed at the hotel last night, waking at three to find himself still dressed and on top of the covers, empty miniature bottles of whiskey scattered around him.
It was his first Snow Show without Mitch so he’d known it was going to be hard – but he hadn’t reckoned on how boring it would be too, with no one to chat to or mess about with. And basic things like who’d man the stall when he needed to pee? He’d made the barest of small talk with the people on the stands either side of his, but it was scant pickings – one represented a Peruvian knitting cooperative and barely spoke English; the other was an avalanche safety specialist whose kit was near-identical to Mitch’s that hadn’t saved him. Tuck could barely bring himself to look at them.
He grabbed his iPad and looked again at the new orders. Twenty-eight boutiques signed and this gig had only been going two days. They’d had a total of eighty-three last season and so far he’d signed with seven new stores. Everyone was going mad for Meg’s graphics again. Last year she’d kept it minimal and used a ‘flip-flop’ paint, like the kind used on some top-marque sports cars, switching from magenta to orange, or blue to yellow with the merest ankle flex. The year before that, she’d used holograms on the top sheet and base. For this season, she’d been inspired by tattoos, going in hard with pen-and-ink detail, and using jewel colours that stopped just a tint short of neon. Tuck liked the snakeskin-effect background best – so had Mitch – and everyone who stopped at the stand kept reaching up to touch them. In short, they were the bomb and he was pretty sure he was going to go back home with many more clients than he’d arrived with.
A couple of guys who he’d seen doing the circuit came back again, looking up intently at the designs, and Tuck felt hopeful he’d get another order. They were dressed in dark jeans and half-zip jumpers; one of them had a beard. They looked as though they were trade.
‘Hey there, can I help you with anything?’ Tuck asked, putting the iPad back in his bag and wandering over.
‘Looks like you’re really doing something new here,’ the bearded guy said, pointing to the small boards.
Tuck brought one down. ‘Yeah. We set up eleven years ago with these babies, but as you can see, we’ve extended into the mainstream market too.’ He indicated the regular-sized snowboards.
‘Demand?’
‘Had to. People were callin’ for it. They loved what they could do on these and wanted us to give ’em so back-country shredding sticks too.’ He brought down one of the bigger boards and flipped it over so they could see just how great Meg’s graphics looked scaled up too. ‘These are on point for when you’re getting serious air. Did you see our limited-edition Slayer series a couple of years back?’
‘Sure heard about them,’ the bearded guy said.
‘They’re hall of fame now, man. One of them comes up now, you’re talking five, six thou.’
‘Thought about reissuing them?’
‘Hell, no,’ Tuck laughed. ‘Onwards.’ He winked. ‘It keeps resale values up too.’
He watched as they held the boards in their hands and turned them over with professional interest, scrutinizing them closely. ‘We actually get some people buying them just to hang on their walls,’ he continued. ‘People who don’t even board.’ Tuck chuckled and scratched his head. ‘Beats me, man, but there it is.’
‘All the gear, huh?’ The man laughed as his companion enquiringly slid his finger into the notch at the back of one of the bigger boards. ‘And these swallow-tails—’
‘Great for pow, man, gives you tons more response in the deep stuff. Only found it out by accident when I split a board and lost a chunk out riding one day with my buddy.’ His smile faltered as he inadvertently brought Mitch back into the picture. ‘We’ve put in for a patent for it. Just waiting to hear back.’
He saw the bearded guy look past him at the video screen. ‘Cool film. That you?’
‘Yep.’ Tuck nodded as he jammed his hands in his jeans pockets and watched himself and Mitch tearing up the night, waking it up with colours that usually only bloomed under the sun. ‘We’re using the R170s you’re holding there. Waisted, camber, notch tail.’
‘Not to mention these shit-hot graphics,’ the second man said, his eyes on the screen too. ‘Do you do this as promo?’
‘Sorta. We make two films a year – one’s a snowboard film, the other’s bikes in the summer – and submit them for the Banff Film Festival. That’s where we’re from, so it makes sense to get involved.’ He shrugged.
‘Ever won?’
‘Not yet, though we’ve been shortlisted for Best Mountain category three times now.’
‘I like that. “Not yet”,’ the bearded man said, his eyes still on the screen.
‘That’s last year’s film. This year’s festival is kicking off in a few weeks.’
‘And you’ve got something in?’
He paused a moment, as though checking his voice would hold. ‘That’s right.’
‘So, what – you’re going for the prize money?’
Tuck scoffed at the idea. $4,000? ‘Nuh, it wouldn’t keep us in beers. The aim is to get selected for the worldwide tour. Forty countries, four hundred thousand visitors.’
The unbearded guy looked impressed. ‘Those are good numbers.’
‘And all we gotta pay is our time for the filming and the submission fee,’ Tuck grinned, feeling proud of Mitch’s canny marketing idea. ‘It’s an amazing vehicle for enhancing visibility and growing our brand awareness.’
‘I imagine that must be going well for you, especially since the win at Aspen.’
Tuck’s grin grew and his chest puffed up proudly. ‘You know about that?’
‘Sure. It’s our job to know.’
‘Man, our orders are up twenty-seven per cent on the back of it and it’s been insane here – everyone wants to know about us now.’ It wasn’t entirely true. They were doing well but things were building progressively – as Mitch had forecast – and they needed their luck to continue. More pros, more wins, more films, more tours, more orders . . . More graft. More of this shit. Standing in windowless trade centres. Working alone in an attic . . .
‘And what, is it just you running the outfit? You got a team behind you?’ the bearded guy asked, looking closely at the ply layers.
Tuck looked back at them, his smile frozen now on his face. Mitch wasn’t here. He should be here. ‘Just me, man,’ he said finally. ‘Say, where’s your store anyway? You didn’t say.’
The bearded guy put down the board. ‘We don’t have one.’
No store? In a flash, Tuck felt his stupidity, his pride, trip him up. He’d been assuming they were retailers looking to stock the brand but instead they were competitors? And here he’d been, running his mouth off, telling them about their unique marketing strategies that Mitch had devised, the patents they had pending . . . He grabbed the boards angrily, whisking them away from him.
‘Fuck, man! And I’ve been—’ He felt the red mist descend. He was so stupid. So fuckin’ stupid. This was why Mitch always took the lead at these things; he knew how to smell a rat. ‘Where the fuck you from?’
The bearded man looked nonplussed as he reached into his jeans and pulled out a card. Tuck felt his stomach drop as he caught sight of the name on it. The biggest in the business.
The bearded guy smile
d. ‘Know somewhere we can talk?’
Chapter Twenty-four
Wednesday 1 November 2017
‘Ron, I can’t talk!’ Meg panted, running through the main room with the wheelie bag unzipped. ‘I’ve got a flight to catch, remember?’
‘Oh, shit, that’s today?’
‘Yes!’
Ronnie gave an excited squeal and Meg could hear her clapping her hands together too. ‘What you wearing?’
‘My black suit.’
There was a short pause. ‘The boot-leg one?’
Meg got to the bedroom and dropped the bag on the bed. She had hesitated about wearing it too, but only because the last time she’d worn it, they’d buried Mitch. But what choice did she have? She didn’t have another one or anything remotely businesslike in her wardrobe. ‘Yes! Why?’
‘I’d reconsider.’
‘I can’t!’ Meg wailed. ‘This is it, this is all I’ve got. There’s nothing else that’s remotely right for a . . . Oh, God, a meeting with a fashion company in New York.’ She sank onto the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. ‘What am I doing? This is a joke. I can’t go there.’
‘Of course you can!’ Ronnie said fiercely. ‘It’s not about what you’re wearing, anyway.’