Christmas in the Snow

by Karen Swan

  Isobel blinked. ‘So then what are you doing staying under the same roof as him?’

  ‘Well, what do you think, dummy?’ Allegra motioned to Isobel’s strapped leg.

  ‘Oh no.’ Isobel shook her head, rebutting the point. ‘You know you could have got us back to the apartment if you’d really wanted to. No one stands in your way.’

  Allegra inhaled. ‘Fine. It also turned out things aren’t quite as finalized on the business side of things as I’d thought.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning I’m still in the running for the deal.’

  ‘Against Sam?’

  Allegra nodded.

  ‘Does he know?’

  Allegra shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’

  Isobel let out a low whistle, watching her sister for a long moment. ‘Yeah, well . . . you’re probably right anyway,’ she said finally. ‘I mean, regardless of the vibes, the two of you together had disaster written all over it.’

  There was a short silence. ‘Disaster how?’

  ‘Well, as much as he’s really good-looking . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Allegra prompted after a moment.

  ‘I mean really, really good-looking . . .’

  ‘Yes!’ Allegra huffed impatiently. ‘Got that.’

  ‘He’s not right for you. He’s too easy-going.’

  ‘Ha! You haven’t seen him in meetings. He’s as cold-blooded as a shark then.’ Allegra remembered his chilly demeanour that morning in Pierre’s office when they’d both faced the sack, his stony expression opposite at the dinner table as Zhou began to talk to her. ‘What else?’

  ‘Well, he’s really funny. Have you seen his Ed Milliband impression?’

  Allegra shook her head irritably. When had Isobel seen his Ed Milliband impression?

  ‘And you hate laughing. You don’t even like smiling.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Plus he’s clearly ambitious and successful.’

  ‘Why’s that a disaster?’

  ‘Because you are too! You’d constantly be butting heads. You do not need another winner in your life, Legs. Trust me, you’d be miserable, constantly trying to come out on top. No, what you need is a dismal failure. A loser.’

  Allegra groaned, dropping her head back against the wall. She had walked right into that one. ‘You are a nightmare!’

  Isobel laughed out loud. ‘I’m right. You’ll see.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Nice. Classy. Hey – where are you going?’

  ‘To get away from you and your ridiculous conspiracy theories. I need to do a bit of work before the party.’ Mr and Mrs Yong would be arriving imminently. Zhou had said yesterday they’d be at the party and she knew she had to give him her new proposal tonight, before he made his announcement tomorrow.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m going to miss the swankiest party of my life by six sodding feet,’ Isobel moaned.

  Allegra frowned. ‘Why are you going to miss it?’

  ‘Well, I can hardly go to a party with this thing on, can I?’ Isobel pointed to the black knee brace.

  ‘Of course you can! Just make like Cleopatra and lounge on the sofa. You know everyone will end up coming to you.’

  ‘No they won’t. What would I have to say that’s interesting to a load of billionaires?’

  ‘Just stop that.’

  ‘Besides, I’ve not got anything to wear and—’

  ‘Check out your wardrobe, Iz. You may find there’s a surprise in there for you.’

  Isobel’s eyes widened as she propped herself up on her elbows. ‘Is there? What is it? Tell me!’

  ‘No. Go and see for yourself,’ Allegra said with a wink, much preferring to play the role of Fairy Godmother to that of Cinderella.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  She sat alone in her room, Bob’s report spread around her on the bed as she stared, unseeing, at the wall, Isobel’s words spinning like a top in her mind. It wasn’t true what she’d said about Pierre, or about Sam. All they shared, the three of them, were ambition and a knack for making money.

  She looked down at the papers again, determined not to be swayed from her planned course. What the hell did Isobel know anyway? Allegra operated in an entirely different universe, one her sister had only gleaned in films. How could Isobel possibly understand that a bumper year-end reporting was the nearest thing to a happy ending in her world?

  With renewed focus, she read the charts one more time. Kemp had headed the New York office’s commodities desk, and from going over, one by one, the trades that he had made on the Besakovitch fund for the past two years, she had found a clear bias to trading in stocks with an ethical manifesto, like fair-trade coffee producers in Nicaragua and organic green bean growers in Kenya. None of the traditional ‘sin’ stocks – cigarettes, alcohol, betting or casino companies – which usually offered higher returns, had featured in the portfolio, and yet Kemp had still managed to yield a 13 per cent profit for Besakovitch.

  In addition, he had set up a secondary pot from which anonymous donations were made to a host of eminent charities: $500,000 here, $750,000 there to Médecins Sans Frontières, Kids Fighting Cancer, PeaceSyria, Water for Children Africa . . . But it wasn’t an entirely selfless initiative; rather, it was a complicated tax-relief scheme that meant Leo got to make yet more money by giving some away.

  She ran her eye over the main investments again. Everything seemed . . . normal. Besakovitch got the philanthropic feel-good factor of both an ethical trading policy and charitable giving, topped off with better-than-average returns. So why was he leaving? There had to be a reason he was sundering a ten-year partnership that had delivered on every count. And that reason had to be somewhere in this report.

  Upstairs, she could hear the music start pumping as the DJ ran through his final checks on the PA system and she knew she had to start getting dressed. She didn’t put it past Massi to come down here and carry her through in a fireman’s lift in her underwear if she was late.

  She stood in front of her wardrobe and sighed at the scant selection. With the gold dress already approved by Isobel – she had heard the scream of delight across the hallway – pretty much all she had to choose from was her skinny black ski pants, skinny black jeans and a pair of skinny black trousers. Tops-wise, she had some thermal underwear, a Napapijri Nordic jumper, a red six-ply cashmere polo neck and a black T-shirt. ‘Oh, Cinzia,’ she murmured, pulling out the skinny jeans and T-shirt. ‘It’s as well you can’t see this.’

  She quickly did her make-up – applying a smokier eye than usual to compensate for her minimal outfit – and changed into the all-black ensemble that had no decoration other than the tight, lean lines of her figure. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she felt it was too plain. She tousled her hair with her fingers and applied a quick dab of berry stain to her lips, but it still wasn’t quite enough and she wished she’d brought some jewellery out with her. Usually she travelled with a selection of pieces for different moods, but she’d deliberately left everything at home this time. There was something very ageing, she thought, about skiing in diamonds.

  What she needed was something . . . funky, something to get a rock-chick vibe going. She wondered whether Isobel had brought any of those woven leather bracelets with her.

  Leather . . . The red leather strap of the cowbell.

  No, she dismissed the idea as instantly as it came. It was too unusual, it would attract too much attention, and it didn’t feel appropriate to wear something so significant to a party as a mere fashion piece.

  Then she remembered the rings.

  She found the small cardboard box and pulled them out. The engagement ring, with its three diamonds, was too sentimental to wear to a party. It, too, carried a story that deserved more respect than to be reduced to a mere fashion accessory.

  The other one, though . . . The metal was so dull and blackened it was somehow cool, and it had no intrinsic value or symbolism attached to it that she could see.r />
  She gave a shrug and slipped it on her finger. It was better than nothing.

  Of course, she saw him first, the last one she wanted to see. Even in a crowded room, he stood apart. On a plane, in a boardroom, in a club, at a party, her eyes found him every time. He was talking to a woman who had her back turned to the rest of the room, her brown hair swinging as she talked, one manicured hand gesticulating elegantly. She was wearing a teal dress that had a daringly low scooped back and Allegra wondered whether Sam had been treated to a tantalizing glimpse of it yet.

  He was wearing a black velvet jacket, white shirt and narrow black trousers, but he hadn’t shaved, the stubble glinting like metal filings under the lights and lending a rougher element to his look.

  She looked in vain, instead, for Pierre’s distinctive salt-and-pepper hair, barely noticing how enchanting the room looked. Heady sprays of white dendrobium orchids almost as tall as the men were grouped in huge crystal vases, and the lights had been dimmed to their lowest setting, candles a flickering accent on every surface, so that the opulent Christmas tree and Zermatt itself took centre stage in the snowy room.

  The guests themselves were no less showy, in sequins and feathers, velvets and silks, the women’s skin tanned and gleaming, their hair as shiny as jewels, high heels tip-tapping daintily across the wooden floors as they began to drift into the panoramic glassy corner of the room that had been set up as a dance area. Anyone in the town who happened to look up would be treated to a display of how the super-rich played: flowers, lights and ultra-short dresses.

  Allegra felt a stab of doubt as she looked down at her own outfit. Should she have worn the dress herself, after all?

  A crescendo of laughter rang out, a top note to the vodka-based buzz of conversation, and she saw Massi and Isobel already in full flow, entertaining a group by the vast window. Isobel really did look like a goddess in the dress, propped as she was on a tall bar stool, with her leg outstretched on the other, Massi standing by her protectively and looking like one of the town’s giant St Bernards. He was wearing a black suit and pale pink shirt, no socks, his hair as wild and unruly as his clothes were tailored, perfect teeth flashing with every smile, every joke. Women couldn’t take their eyes off him, she noticed, and they kept touching him like he was some sort of interactive art exhibit. She thought of cupcakes again and smiled. He was such a delicious juxtaposition: lover looks, adrenalin junkie, heart of a poet.

  Allegra wanted to go over to them both; they were already fast becoming the heart of the party. For all her self-doubt, Isobel was regaling people easily – no doubt with horror stories about weaning Ferds – and the two of them made such easy company, such a good-looking couple. Were they aware of the attraction between them? They looked right together too: Isobel’s bright hair and lightly freckled slender limbs against Massi’s swarthy Mediterranean bulk. If only Iz hadn’t settled for the first guy who’d asked for her hand.

  But Allegra couldn’t play yet, maybe not at all. Everyone else in the room was here to party, but she was here to work. She looked around for the Yongs – it would be good to make her pitch early before she found Pierre – but she found only Zhou, who was holding court by the Christmas tree.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted over the music.

  ‘Legs! Where have you been?’ Zhou beamed, kissing her enthusiastically on each cheek. Legs? He’d called her Legs? Over the course of last night and today their relationship had naturally shifted from being purely professional to something more personal, but this was a quantum leap again. Then she saw the unnatural brightness in his eyes and realized he was cruising on more than just adrenalin.

  She noticed he was standing with an auburn-haired woman who appeared to be trying to burrow into the crook of his arm and Allegra suspected she wouldn’t be the first – or last – woman vying for an overnight stopover in the chalet with him.

  She leaned in and spoke in his ear. ‘Are your parents here yet?’

  He pulled back, an apologetic expression on his face. ‘Oh, Legs, I’m sorry. They called about half an hour ago to say they can’t make it. They’ll be here in the morning instead.’ He squeezed her arm lightly.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed. She’d geared herself up for the meeting and it felt hard to just let the focus go.

  ‘Hey! That’s a good thing! It gives us twelve more hours to party!’

  She smiled and nodded, realizing that was why he was letting loose. She knew he wouldn’t be this unbridled – or off his head – in his parents’ company, although it was hard to imagine them at a party like this under any circumstances, no matter how he behaved.

  ‘Is . . . is Pierre coming, by the way?’ she asked as casually as she could.

  ‘Pierre?’ Zhou said in a scoffing tone. ‘Why would he be coming?’

  Her heart plummeted at his scorn. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, as lightly as she could. ‘I just thought that, you know, because you’d invited me, maybe you’d have invited him too . . .’ Her voice trailed away, a weight beginning to press down on her chest.

  Zhou disentangled himself from the brunette and threw his arms around her in an exuberant hug. He was definitely high. ‘Legs, tonight is about fun! Not work! We are going to party and we are all going to let ourselves go.’ He brought his face close to hers. ‘Including you. In fact, especially you. OK?’

  She nodded, hoping she wasn’t going to cry. The tension cables that held her together felt slack suddenly. No Pierre? No Yongs? He stopped a passing waiter and grabbed her a vodka. From the taste of it, it was a double.

  ‘Good! Now, where’s Sam?’

  ‘Sam? He’s . . . he’s talking to someone.’

  ‘We should find him.’

  ‘No! No! He . . . uh, he didn’t look like he wanted to be disturbed.’

  Zhou grinned. ‘Trust me. He does.’

  ‘Wait! Why . . . why don’t you introduce me to these people here?’ And before he could protest, she turned and burst in on the conversation of the men beside them. ‘Hi. Allegra Fisher,’ she said, pulling out one of her legendary smiles.

  Zhou sighed, not discreetly. ‘Allegra, this is Anatoly Greshnev.’

  ‘A pleasure.’ Allegra shook his hand; she knew the name: Russian gas company.

  ‘And this is Jae Won. He’s just sold his app to Google for half a billion.’

  ‘Wow, congratulations!’ she shouted. Was it her imagination or was the music getting louder and louder? ‘I guess drinks are on you, then.’

  ‘And this is Frank Kopitsch.’ She knew the name again – the Alps’s rock-’n’-roll architect, who designed megachalets, in fact probably this one.

  She kept smiling, kept shaking hands. To have all these high-net-worth individuals in one room, much less one group . . . It was a brilliant networking opportunity to bring in a portfolio from even a couple of these guys. She looked across at Zhou, remembering his suggestion that she could start up on her own. No matter what he said, she was going to be working tonight, one way or another.

  Anatoly was mid-flow about his new yacht in the Azores and she tried to listen, to look for ways in with him, but her eyes drifted and she saw plenty of other women ‘working’ too. She wondered about the woman still with Sam. Was she here on business?

  The backless brunette was laughing at something he’d said – Ed Milliband impression maybe? – and as the woman stepped right, slightly, letting a waiter pass, Allegra, engrossed, automatically stepped right too, inadvertently standing on Frank’s foot.

  ‘Oh, sorry!’ she shouted, stepping back again.

  Frank, whose hair was long – 1980s heavy-metal-long – and grey, with some blond highlights at the front, clasped her elbow lightly, as though she’d lost her balance. He was wearing a black shirt and leather trousers, and was no doubt here for the networking opportunities too. She saw his gaze dragged along with a passing blonde in stacked Louboutins and a fallout dress, her arms held high as she ‘squeezed’ through the crowd.

  ‘Did you build
this chalet, Frank?’ she asked, having to lean in to him to make herself heard.

  He responded in kind. ‘I did!’ he said, clearly flattered to learn she already knew of him. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s magnificent. I’ve never seen a pool with quite such a wow factor.’

  ‘We had every tile hand-gilded,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Really?’ she nodded, not remotely interested. ‘And the glass walls and roof in here . . . just amazing.’ She took a sip of her drink. Pierre wasn’t coming.

  ‘If I was to tell you about the thermal restrictions, the load-bearing calculations of the snow on the glass . . .’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Every time on a build I say to myself, Frank, this is the last time you are putting yourself through this. The demands are crazy; frankly, it’s inhuman. And yet . . .’ He held out his hands. ‘I’m a sucker. My job is my mistress.’

  It wasn’t a great thought. She tipped her head to the side sympathetically. ‘And what are you working on at the moment?’

  ‘An eighteen-sleeper in Winkelmatten. Cinema, snow room, conference room, private nightclub . . .’

  ‘Anyone I’d know?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He strummed a few chords of air guitar and then pretended to smoke a spliff, as if that would tell her the client’s identity, as opposed to holding up a mirror to the entire music industry.

  ‘Allegra!’ The word surfed the crowd and she turned to see Massi pushing his way through the bodies towards her.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked, hands held out low towards her, disappointment tainting his voice.

  ‘As well you know, I gave the dress to Iz. You’ve just been looking at her in it!’

  Massi looked aghast at her. ‘But you are supposed to be golden tonight,’ he explained. ‘The golden girl. This is what we said. Tonight is a beeg night.’

  ‘Massi, I’m not auditioning for The X Factor,’ she laughed, trying to lessen his devastation.

  ‘But you look like . . . a member of the stuff,’ he hissed, desperation in his eyes.

  Frank frowned, clearly not keeping up with Massi’s stranglehold of the English language.