Christmas in the Snow

by Karen Swan

  Allegra walked through the flat, appraising it with cool interest: limed oak streaked with grey tones, a creaky knotholed floor, red nappa-leather sofa, cowhide rugs on the floors, glossy burnt-orange units in the kitchen, solid-oak shutters with heart cut-outs, box beds in the bedrooms. It was a contemporary fusion of traditional craftsmanship and urban design, and Isobel was in raptures. Wandsworth it wasn’t.

  ‘I love it! I love it, I love it and I want to live here,’ she gasped, twirling on the spot and running her hand over the twisted, warped wood walls.

  ‘You can – for a bit,’ Allegra called, carrying the bags through to the back. ‘Which bedroom do you want?’

  ‘You choose,’ Isobel insisted, running after her. ‘This is your break.’

  ‘Iz, you’re the one who has a tiny baby and who hasn’t slept for nearly a year.’

  ‘I am fine. It’s you who needs to catch a breath.’

  ‘I am fine,’ Allegra echoed back. ‘We are here primarily to get everything sorted for Mum, not for a spa break.’

  ‘So then we’re both fine.’

  ‘I guess we are.’

  ‘Fine.’ Isobel put her hands on her hips and stared across at her sister. Isobel’s eyes widened.

  Allegra sighed. ‘I am not getting into a staring competition with you,’ she said, picking up her bag and walking into the smaller bedroom. ‘I’ll take this room. It looks nice and dark.’

  Isobel chuckled, considering that a victory, as she took her bag into the room opposite.

  Allegra put her bag on the bed and unzipped it. Clothes sprung out like a jack-in-the-box and she pulled them out, refolding everything carefully in the wardrobe. From the clatter coming across the tiny hall, she could hear Isobel doing the same, although it sounded more like she was catapulting them.

  She lifted out the small wooden Advent calendar at the bottom of the bag, protectively wrapped in her pyjamas. As scathing as she’d been in the loft about the novelty of a surprise a day, she had been amazed at how much – and how quickly – she’d come to enjoy the little ritual of peering in a drawer. It was really the only thing that varied in her day, along with choosing her lingerie sets, but also the sprinkling of festive objets on her dressing table – as tiny as they were – was the closest she’d allow herself to get to Christmas decorations. After all, what use was a wreath on her front door when it faced onto brown nylon carpets in the communal hall? A sprig of mistletoe hung in the sitting-room doorway would only alarm the cleaner, and dragging a Christmas tree up three flights of stairs would almost certainly mean it would be bald by the time she got it there.

  But this . . . It had been so early when they’d left for the airport this morning that she hadn’t thought to open today’s drawer, and she settled on the bed, wondering what she’d find.

  She opened the drawer; inside was a matryoshka nesting doll, except that it wasn’t painted in the traditional Russian style but Swiss – with hair in plaits, aproned skirt and a cropped trimmed jacket. The outer doll wasn’t large by any means, fitting easily in the palm of her hand, and she smiled as she twisted it open to reveal the smaller one inside, and then the smaller one inside that . . . The smallest one of all was no bigger than a dog’s tooth and she squinted in amazement at the detailed paintwork on it. Five dolls all fitting into each other, just like her own family. A long line of mothers . . .

  ‘We’re getting changed and going straight out, yes?’ Isobel called five minutes later, having ‘spoken’ to Ferdy and Lloyd on the phone.

  ‘Yes,’ Allegra replied, restacking the five dolls inside each other and placing them back inside the number-14 drawer. She put the cabinet on her bedside table and undressed, changing into her skinny black stirrup trousers and pulling on her ski socks.

  She wandered over to the window as she belted her ivory Moncler jacket, her eyes falling on the brooding mountains that ringed the town like the walls of an amphitheatre, the snow clouds stretched low between them like a false ceiling. It felt strange being in Zermatt, knowing as she did now that her grandmother had died here. It made her feel odd. She had never been to this town before, but already she knew it by heart. She was a stranger and yet, supposedly, she was home.

  They forgot to eat. Once the clouds were below them, the edges of the world were crisp, the Alpine peaks like jagged shards trying to puncture the taut billow of the blush-pink sky, and they skied for hours, grabbing every passing chairlift to ‘just try’ another run before the light went.

  They had learned to ski as children, each other’s best companion in ski school and then, in their teenage years, looking out for one another as they pushed into backcountry and the world of off-pisting. Isobel had always been the more naturally gifted of them on skis. Moguls and ice had never bothered her and she had always teased Allegra about the time she’d come down a treacherous red on her bottom. But things had changed since then – Allegra had long since learned that it wasn’t fear that was the most terrifying emotion – and they were well matched, echoing each other’s moves like twins as they curled left and right in poetic silence.

  ‘What do you think – Chez Vrony or Findlerhof for scoff?’ Isobel asked, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright with the exhilaration that comes from the double punch of hard exercise and unfettered freedom. She was standing beside a worn wooden post, its arrows pointing in numerous directions, the universal sign of a crossed knife and fork suddenly a beloved motif.

  ‘Oh God, yes, either. My thighs are on fire. I’ve been on glycogen for the past hour.’

  ‘Why can’t you just say you’re starving, like most normal people?’ Isobel laughed, pushing her poles into the ground and sliding gently down the narrow track that was pointing towards the restaurants.

  They stopped a couple of hundred metres later, where a confluence of skis and poles heralded a popular stopping point, and jammed theirs in the snow with them, walking carefully along a hard-packed path that had become icy from traffic.

  A tiny hamlet of dark, almost blackened huts were clustered together, and as they rounded the corner of one, they stopped in their tracks, enormous smiles growing on their faces. The number of European languages drifting over a bleached terrace was as cosmopolitan as an ambassador’s drinks reception, as free-riding snowboarders in baggy neons shared space with euro princesses in fur-trimmed Bogner and St Barts bobble hats. They were all starting their après-ski up the mountain now that the lifts had stopped for the day. (The run back into town was a respectable blue back to the funicular.) And who could blame them for not wanting to leave? Sheepskin and reindeer hides blanketed the wooden chairs; deep sleigh-shaped benches lined up deck-side to overlook the plunging valley and were softened with more throws and rugs so that they were almost like outdoor beds. From where they were standing, Allegra could only see legs outstretched from them, heavy-booted feet resting on the veranda, lolling hands holding foamy beers and the tops of heads with hair mussed up from helmets.

  ‘Um . . . busy much?’ Isobel said rhetorically. All the tables were taken and a huge standing crowd had swelled at one end of the deck as music started pumping.

  ‘It’ll be quieter inside. Let’s try for a table in there,’ Allegra suggested sensibly.

  They crossed the terrace, Isobel beaming back at every interested stare that came her way. ‘Still got it,’ she whispered delightedly under her breath to her sister, who was far more concerned with finding somewhere to sit.

  Inside was no better. Damn.

  A beautiful girl in tight black ski pants and carrying some menus stopped by them in the doorway. ‘You want only drinks, yes?’ she asked, although it came across as more of an instruction than a question.

  ‘No, to eat, please,’ Allegra said, her eyes still scanning the various dark nooks inside. Did anyone look like they were preparing to leave, at least?

  The waitress sucked her teeth. ‘We are very full—’

  ‘But we haven’t had lunch,’ Isobel said quickly, as though this fact would sway whether or
not the waitress would find them a table.

  ‘I’m sorry. The kitchens, they are open for another five minutes, but there is no room. All the tables are taken.’

  Allegra sighed irritably. It looked like she was just going to have to put up with a bit more thigh burn until they could get into town.

  ‘They can sit with us!’

  The three women looked to their left in surprise. A guy – he could only be mid-twenties – was twisted on one of the benches at the edge of the deck and leaning towards them with a bright smile. His helmet was still on, the chin strap unclasped, his goggles pushed back on top. His accented English suggested he was either Swiss or French. ‘We got room for another two.’

  The waitress looked back at them and shrugged. ‘It’s probably the only way if you want to eat.’

  Allegra wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Great!’ Isobel exclaimed, instantly pulling off her helmet so that her long hair billowed, and walking over.

  ‘Uh . . .’ Allegra looked back at the waitress. ‘Well . . .’

  The waitress held out some menus. ‘You want to see?’

  She shook her head with a sigh. ‘No, we’ll just take the chef’s specials each, a bottle of your best sauvignon blanc and another round of whatever it is that they’re all drinking.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Allegra wandered over to the table, pulling off her own helmet and gloves. Isobel was already seated, sandwiched between two boarders, and it appeared the only other space for her, on the opposite side, was also in the middle. A gaggle of grins stared back at her. ‘Hey,’ they all nodded in chorus.

  ‘Hi.’ She felt tongue-tied and awkward. She didn’t want to sit with a bunch of complete strangers while she ate.

  ‘Take a seat,’ the guy who had called them over originally said, indicating to the empty space beside him. He had deep brown eyes and a quite beautiful smile that seemed to be highlighted by the thick stubble surrounding it.

  Allegra hesitated. ‘You’re very kind to have offered us some room on your table, but we don’t need to interrupt you. We’re more than happy to sit at the end.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ he asked with a flirtatious smile. ‘You just made us the most popular guys in here. The least we can do is give you the best seats.’

  Allegra arched her eyebrows at the compliment, trying to make eye contact with her sister, who, harbouring no reservations whatsoever about joining a bunch of total strangers, was studiously avoiding her gaze. Allegra bit her lip, feeling her confidence flee and her usual social awkwardness return. If she couldn’t talk shop, she had very little to offer – the downside of spending nineteen hours a day in the office.

  ‘What is your name?’ the guy asked as she delicately stepped over the bench seat and sat down. ‘I am Maxime. Max.’

  ‘Allegra.’

  ‘Allegra,’ the guys all echoed approvingly, imbuing the word with melodic overtones that came so naturally to the Continental languages but was flattened in the English tongue.

  ‘Eeess-o-bel and Aaaa-leg-raa,’ Max echoed as though committing them to memory. ‘This is Brice’ – the strawberry-blond guy with green eyes sitting on Isobel’s left grinned – ‘Fabien’ – the olive-skinned guy in an orange jacket on Isobel’s right nodded – ‘and Jacques.’ The man to her left with wind-burnt cheeks smiled.

  ‘It gets crazy here, no?’ Jacques said, just as the waitress came over with everyone’s fresh drinks.

  The men looked momentarily puzzled as the beers were set down before them.

  ‘It’s to say thank you,’ Allegra said quickly, as she poured the wine and handed Isobel her glass.

  ‘Man!’ Fabien laughed, raising his with a flourish. ‘To new friends, uh?’

  Isobel met Allegra’s eyes finally as their glasses were all raised in a convivial toast and Allegra looked back sternly. She had seen that look on her sister’s face before, many years ago.

  ‘So how did you find the snow today?’ Brice asked Isobel.

  ‘White and fluffy,’ she said, and they all laughed.

  ‘Your first time in Zermatt?’ Fabien asked her, leaning in towards the table and forcing Isobel to twist in his direction instead.

  ‘That’s right. Our first day, in fact. We only got here this afternoon.’

  Allegra watched with practised patience. Men had always fought over her sister. She idly wondered at what point Isobel was going to announce she was married with a kid, but she saw her sister had kept her silk liner gloves on – obscuring her rings – and knew it wouldn’t be for a while yet. Isobel thrived on male attention.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Max was watching her.

  ‘Oh. Uh . . . London.’

  He nodded as if he’d already guessed the answer.

  ‘You?’ she asked back, taking a sip of her wine.

  ‘Lyon.’

  ‘I’ve never been there.’

  ‘That’s really saying something. Legs has been everywhere,’ Isobel said, cutting in as the waitress brought over a basket of fresh bread. ‘She goes to Switzerland, like, twice a week and does things like have breakfast in Rome, lunch in Paris—’

  ‘My sister’s exaggerating,’ Allegra said quickly.

  ‘You are jet set?’ Max asked, his eyes taking in her sleek, expensive clothes and the discreet yet flawless diamond studs at her ears.

  ‘Not in the least. I travel for work. It’s very boring.’

  ‘What are you, then?’

  Isobel giggled at his error as she tore apart a small roll. ‘She’s a hedgie.’

  The Frenchmen looked confused. ‘Hedgie?’

  ‘Like a banker. Only richer.’

  ‘Iz!’ Allegra snapped. She looked back at Max and forced a smile. ‘I work in financial services.’

  Max nodded as he lifted his beer, his eyes steady and dark.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked, deciding to pass on the bread.

  ‘I am . . . how you say . . . ?’ He shut his eyes, trying to find the word, and Allegra noticed how his lashes splayed on his cheeks, like a young child’s. He really couldn’t be more than twenty-four, twenty-five, she decided. He opened them again and caught her staring. ‘I shape the gardens.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a landscaper?’ she clarified. ‘So you spend your days trying to tame all this?’

  ‘This can never be tamed,’ he said, sitting back, one arm stretched along the veranda railing behind them and staring into the view. ‘I know that every time I ride the mountains.’

  She noticed the view behind them suddenly – her focus had been more on table-bagging and carb-loading when they’d arrived – and she twisted in her seat too.

  ‘Oh wow,’ she murmured, looking down into the steep-sided wooded valley. Zermatt was hidden from view, the clouds below them here sifting snow over the streets down there, but the trees were heavily laden with powder, their fronds sagging beneath the weight. She looked up and saw the Matterhorn closer than ever, its jagged peak so familiar to her already. It almost felt like she could reach across and touch it. How could she not have noticed it before now?

  ‘Beautiful, non?’

  She nodded. Had Isobel noticed it? She went to point it out to her.

  ‘Like you.’

  Allegra looked quickly back at Max, not sure she’d heard correctly. His voice had been low, like he wanted no one else to hear, like he barely wanted her to hear.

  ‘What? It is just a fact,’ he laughed quietly, seeing her expression. ‘You must know it, surely?’

  She closed her mouth again, not sure what to say, but sure her cheeks were burning. She grabbed a piece of bread after all and made a play of breaking it apart.

  Max watched her.

  The waitress arrived with their food, setting down the plates before gathering up the empties. ‘Any more?’

  The boys looked at the sisters.

  ‘What do you say? We owe you a drink now,’ Brice smiled at Isobel.

  ‘Really, it’s fi—’Allegra began to demur.


  ‘Fab!’ Isobel cried, making Fabien jump to attention.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I meant . . .’

  Jacques, Max and Isobel all laughed.

  Brice grinned up at the waitress. ‘More beers, please.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was dark before they slid back into town – using the torches on their phones to light the way – and Zermatt looked even prettier in its night garb. The peaks of the Savoyard roofs were picked out with fairy lights, creating a miniature Alpine rendition of the Manhattan skyline, and the snow glowed golden beneath the street lamps. Another few inches had fallen just in the time they’d been on the mountain and it was getting heavier, in-filling the footprints that tracked back and forth between chalets and bars.

  The boys had rented lockers down by the Sunnegga funicular and they locked the girls’ skis in with theirs for safe keeping for the night. Allegra had picked up strains of excited plans to ski together tomorrow, but the details eluded her. She and Max had been locked in conversation for over two hours, head to head, glass to glass, and she had long since stopped keeping track of the number of beers they’d had.

  She leaned against the wall, watching as they all changed out of their ski boots. ‘We should go, Iz,’ she sighed, beginning to feel her bed beckoning. They’d been up at five thirty that morning.

  ‘What? No!’ Fabien, Jacques and Brice cried. ‘You have to come dancing with us. You can’t come to Zermatt and not go to the Broken Bar.’

  Allegra wanted to reply that actually they could. They weren’t twenty-four any more. One of them was a happily married mother-of-one, and the other was more used to socializing with bald men in bespoke suits than moshing in a sweat pit with a bunch of handsome, cocky French snowboarders. But her voice didn’t work and it felt really nice to rest her head against the wall.

  Maxime came up to her, resting his head against the wall too, his face just a centimetre from hers. ‘You must dance with me, Allegra.’

  She opened her eyes and looked back at him. Their posture felt surprisingly intimate given that they were standing up, clothed and not even touching. ‘And how am I supposed to dance in ski boots, Max?’ she asked, one eyebrow arched in amusement and wondering what it would be like to kiss him.