All Dressed Up

by Lucy Hepburn

  “Yes, but…”

  “You don’t live in places like this without being equipped for extreme conditions. I’m going to go and have a word—maybe they’ve got a four wheel drive or something.”

  “O-kay…” Molly wasn’t sure. But she couldn’t resist a quick dig: “Bet you wish you had some ridiculous hi-tech ski-wear now, don’t you?”

  “Do I heck!” He indicated his woolly jumper, which was already turning white from the driving snow. “If it’s good enough for sheep, it’s good enough for me!”

  He began to trudge through the snow toward the house, then stopped and turned around. “Pascal?” he called.

  “Oui?” Pascal was crouched on the ground in front of his open suitcase. He was pulling out a long camel cashmere coat and huge fur Cossack hat.

  “Will you come with me?” Simon asked him. “Maybe they speak French.”

  Tutting and fussing, Pascal donned the hat and coat and stumbled through the snow toward them.

  “I’ll come too.” Molly’s teeth were chattering, even though she was wearing several layers of clothes. “Won’t be long!” she called over her shoulder to the driver, but her voice was caught up in a swirl of wind and carried off into the distance.

  They were only about half way to the house when they heard a ‘clunk’ behind them, followed by the noise of an engine starting up.

  All three stopped dead, and turned around slowly.

  The driver had unloaded all of their luggage, including Caitlin’s wedding dress, onto the deep snow at the side of the road and, with a beep of his horn, had executed a gliding U-turn and begun heading off back down the mountain.

  “Merde,” Pascal whispered.

  “Merde indeed,” Molly repeated. “Come on, help me grab the bags—the dress will be ruined at this rate!”

  They hurried back and gathered up their luggage. Relief washed all over Molly as she saw that the dress carrier seemed to be bearing up well—luckily, it was made of a fabric which had been expertly waterproofed.

  “Come on,” Simon said as they made their way off the side of the road. “Let’s go and throw ourselves on the mercy of whoever lives here.”

  “Or else we die,” Pascal pointed out, genuflecting and shaking his head.

  They slipped and slid all the way to the door of the wooden house. Falling on each other and using each other’s shoulders as walking sticks.

  “Horror films usually start something like this,” Molly said. “We may be about to get murdered.”

  “Are you always so chirpy?” asked Simon.

  “Sorry.”

  “These shoes are not meant for wet conditions,” Pascal pointed out.

  Simon rolled his eyes.

  His knock on the door was answered by a small, stout man aged around fifty, who did not seem unduly surprised to see three snow-covered adults, with no visible form of transport, appear on his doorstep.

  “Allo?”

  “Do you speak English, please?” Simon asked. “Or French?”

  He nodded and answered in English. “What’s up? Have you had an accident?”

  Molly sighed. Last thing they needed was a language barrier.

  “Not really,” Simon replied, offering his hand. “Simon Foss. These are my friends Molly…”

  “Wright and Pascal Lafayette,” Molly supplied, giving a silly little wave and embarrassed smirk, as Pascal bowed from the neck.

  “Bourdain,” the man replied gruffly, shaking Simon’s hand. “Come inside, let’s leave the weather out here.”

  They followed him gratefully into his warm hallway, knocking as much snow as they could off their shoes and clothes before going inside. Molly could see a cozy living room on one side and on the other, some kind of office, lined with maps and with all sorts of radio equipment, which was blinking with important-looking little red lights.

  He listened as Simon explained their emergency, shaking his head throughout.

  “So we were wondering,” Simon finished, “whether you could help us get to the other side of the Pass, so that we can get to Domodossola?”

  “I cannot leave here,” Bourdain said with a shrug. “I am the senior paramedic for the area, and I must remain here to coordinate radio contact with my crews on the mountains.”

  “Ah,” Simon nodded. “That is a problem.”

  “Anyway,” Bourdain pointed to the window, “the weather is too bad to go out—look!”

  Molly felt they didn’t really need to look as they’d just been standing in it, but they all turned obediently—to see that the wind seemed to have disappeared and the snowflakes were falling perfectly vertically downwards.

  “The only thing that’s going to get over the pass today is a snowmobile. But even that might—”

  “Do you know where we might find one?” Molly asked.

  He hesitated.

  “Sir,” Simon said, “do you have one we can borrow… Or hire?”

  “Or buy?!” Molly added. Money was no object when it came to this mission.

  Bourdain scratched his head as he stared at them. “Well…I do. But I can’t give it to you!”

  A short pause.

  Pascal was willing to beg. “Monsieur, why not, please? You can trust us!” Pascal, in his Cossack hat looked devastatingly dashing but also rather like a Russian spy.

  “Well…no,” Bourdain shook his head. “It is impossible. I am sorry.”

  “Sir,” Simon began, “It must seem like we are asking a lot, but I assure you, we will take care of it.”

  “And we’re stuck,” Molly reminded him.

  Simon shot her a let me handle this look. Molly made a face back at him, which he ignored.

  “Presumably there’s only one route down the other side of the Pass?”

  Bourdain nodded.

  “Do you know people down there? You could phone ahead to somebody to make sure we don’t just disappear? We could, I don’t know, check it in somewhere?”

  Bourdain thought hard. Then he looked at Simon, a little slyly, Molly thought. “That is not how I do business, I am afraid.”

  Molly’s heart sank.

  “Tell you what,” Simon said after what seemed like ages, “why don’t you and I go and talk somewhere private? I have a very good reason for wanting to do business with you.”

  Bourdain hesitated. He glanced at Molly, then back at Simon, as though weighing them both up, drawing conclusions. Then, at last, he nodded.

  “This way,” he said stiffly, indicating his office.

  Simon followed him in, and the door closed softly behind them. Molly wondered what he was offering. A starring role in his next movie? A kidney? Either one would be worth it.

  “A snowmobile,” Molly said to Pascal. “I’ve never been on one before.”

  She envisaged a huge, tractor-like contraption with tank treads, radar, giant headlamps, and hopefully decent heating and a stereo.

  “Nor I,” Pascal replied.

  Molly could hear the two men talking but couldn’t make out what they were saying. But the tone sounded good-natured enough.

  “If he’s going to offer money,” Molly said. “We should chip in.”

  “Chip in?” Pascal looked blank.

  “You know—we should contribute some money. Actually, Delametri Chevalier should pay for some of this! Getting to Venice as fast as possible wouldn’t be such a big deal if he’d just couriered the dress like he was supposed to.”

  “The House of Chevalier prides itself on—”

  “Whatever,” Molly interrupted. “It’s not important for me to make it to the wedding in time, not with my family track record. Caitlin probably wouldn’t notice if I turned up in a clown suit—or not at all. But my goodness, if the dress doesn’t get there in time for Bridezilla, she’ll destroy the city!”

  “Are things really so bad with your family?” Pascal asked softly.

  “Yes!” Molly shot back. Then: “No, not really
. Well, in some ways…”

  Pascal leaned forward, cupped her face with his hands, and kissed her gently on both cheeks.

  Molly felt tears prick the back of her eyes. “I know Mum and Caitlin love me,” she explained, her voice shaky, “and I love them, too. But it’s just that Caitlin’s the special one, and that’s the way it’s always been, even before dad left. And ever since I was a little girl I’ve tried to change that, but I’ve always screwed up—I’m such a klutz…”

  “Klutz?” Pascal’s English was good, but not that good apparently.

  “A clumsy idiot! Everyone has a role within a family, don’t they? Well, you’re looking at the clown.”

  “My dear, you are not that.”

  “Yes I am! Ever since I smashed the music box! You see…”

  Perhaps it was just as well that the door to Bourdain’s study opened at that point and he and Simon stepped back out into the hallway. Bourdain had a chummy arm around Simon’s shoulder and was explaining to him about the brakes on the snowmobile.

  “Should be fine,” Simon said. “Can we get going?”

  “I will get the key,” Bourdain smiled. “A moment, please.”

  “He’s agreed?” Molly gasped. “Simon, you legend!”

  She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

  Then withdrew slowly and blushed.

  Simon cleared his throat, also flustered by the hug. “He has. We can take it as far as the post office in Varzo—the village at the bottom of the mountain. We’ll get a bus to Domodossola from there.”

  “Can you drive this snowmobile?” Pascal asked nervously.

  Simon shrugged. “How does ‘probably’ sound as an answer? I’ve driven similar stuff before.”

  “It’s good enough for me,” Molly said. “How much are you paying him? We’ll share the cost, of course. Won’t we, Pascal?”

  Pascal pretended not to hear.

  “What makes you think I’m paying him?” Simon said, turning away.

  “Because I wasn’t born yesterday!”

  He tapped the side of his nose. “No money changed hands in the procuring of the vehicle.”

  But just then Bourdain reappeared, jingling a set of keys. “Shall we?”

  They followed him back out into the cold—which felt twice as strong seeing as she hadn’t dried out from being outside a few minutes ago. Bourdain led them across his driveway to a garage. He unlocked the door and lifted it open.

  In the garage stood a black machine. It looked like a jetski adapted for snow.

  Molly stared. “Is that it?”

  She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the sight of the sleek little skidoo.

  “This is it,” Bourdain replied proudly. “Votre chariot, Mademoiselle!”

  Molly walked close to it and had a better look. “I’ve seen bigger lawnmowers!” she breathed.

  Pascal, speechless, had whipped a silk handkerchief from his pocket and was leaning against the wall mopping his brow. “We’ll never get all our stuff on that – there’s barely enough room for us all to sit!”

  Sleek, electric blue and bullet-shaped, the skidoo looked more like an Olympic bobsled on skis than a mode of transport for three people, their luggage and a wedding dress.

  “Do not worry about your bags,” Bourdain said quickly. “I have this!”

  Propped against the wall was a gray plastic contraption that resembled a giant ironing board. He unhooked it and lowered it gently onto the garage floor.

  “My stretcher!” he beamed. “You can tie your bags on it and tow it down the mountain!”

  “You have got to be kidding!” Molly gasped.

  Simon glared at her. “I suppose you’ve got a better idea?” he snapped.

  “I rode the Cresta run in St. Moritz ten years ago,” Pascal said, stroking his chin. “A good friend’s birthday party. It was not so bad. Though I had drunk a little champagne.” His eyes twinkled. “Come on Molly, let’s have an adventure!”

  “Pascal!” Molly was outraged. “You have to back me up here! Strapping Caitlin’s couture Delametri Chevalier to a giant plastic tray? Are you out of your mind?”

  “I think it has been through worse already at the airport,” he pointed out. “Anyway, I can fix any creasing when we get to Venice.”

  Molly was out of excuses. Bourdain rummaged in a trunk by the door and brought out three helmets and three pairs of protective gloves. Molly and Pascal strapped the luggage onto the stretcher, placing the dress carrier carefully over the top of the bags. It looked more like a body bag than ever, about to be removed from some hideous crime scene. Meanwhile Bourdain instructed Simon on the workings of the engine. Finally the machine was dragged out onto the snow and Simon began to attach the stretcher to the back.

  Bourdain stepped forward to help. “No, no, you do it like this,” he said, easing the first strap round and underneath the stretcher.

  “I’ve got it, thanks,” Simon replied, deftly hooking up a second and then a third strap from the other side.

  “Are you sure?” asked Molly, clenching her teeth.

  Simon didn’t look up, and he fiddled with the sledge. “I’m so sure! I’m good at this sort of thing.”

  Bourdain stepped away, his hands raised in a backing-off gesture. Finally, Simon stood up with a satisfied smile and closed the visor of his helmet. “All aboard!”

  He shook Bourdain’s hand and climbed onto the front seat. Molly and Pascal looked at one another.

  “Pascal!” Molly laughed when she saw him. Somehow he had managed to jam his Cossack hat onto the top of his helmet.

  “I don’t think there’s room for three of us to squash on,” Molly muttered before clambering onto the seat behind Simon and shuffling forward.

  It was indeed a tight squeeze for Pascal to join them on the skidoo, which was only designed for two people. Molly found her entire upper body pressed against Simon’s back; she could feel the warmth of his skin through the thick green wool of his awful jumper.

  If she hadn’t been so nervous, she would have realized that it didn’t feel too unpleasant at all.

  “I do not know where to put my arms,” Pascal complained.

  “Just hold on tight round my waist,” Molly called back.

  She snaked her arms around Simon’s waist and squeezed tightly. Even underneath the terrible knitwear, his torso felt warm and firm. Hello Mr. Muscles!

  “Is this okay?” she shouted, her voice strange and muffled in the ridiculous helmet.

  His reply was along the lines of ‘the only way to travel!’ but it was almost drowned out by the roar of the engine as he started it up and gave the throttle a couple of nervous test revs. Then, almost immediately, it jolted into motion and with a rasping crunch, the machine’s skis began inching across the fresh snow towards the road. They were off!

  Bourdain walked anxiously beside them for a few meters, shouting instructions to Simon about how hard he should gun the throttle and how to adjust the steering, but gradually the machine picked up speed, and they were gliding along the road, breaching fresh powder snow, making their way up the final part of the hill before the downward rush to the other end of the Pass.

  Molly, sandwiched between Simon and Pascal, looked over her shoulder with some difficulty, to check on the stretcher following obediently, snaking its way behind them, the bottom of the dress carrier just inches above the snow.

  It was the most surreal experience of her life.

  With a final wave, Bourdain stopped running beside them, and they were on their own. The wind had dropped, and the snow was falling far more lightly, but the earlier fall had been so heavy that even Molly could see that it would be ages before the road would have been cleared for traffic.

  The little snowmobile, on the other hand, was in its element despite being so overloaded. It roared across the top of enormous snowdrifts, which had been blown by the earlier gales into freaky, wave-like shapes, making bri
sk progress uphill.

  They reached the top of the Pass in around fifteen minutes.

  “All set?” Simon shouted back to them. “Hang on tight!”

  “No too fast!” Pascal yelled in Molly’s ear, though she was sure Simon would have been unable to hear. She tightened her grip around Simon’s waist, enjoying the firm tension in his muscles, and pressed herself to him as closely as she could. Behind her, Pascal was maintaining only the lightest of grips around her middle.

  But that changed as soon as the skidoo slid downhill. It felt like being astride a racehorse just released from the starting gates. The skidoo surged eagerly forward and shot off down the hill, picking up speed all the time until, as the cold mountain wind whistling past them, the snow-laden pine trees all around them faded into a green and white blur.

  “Wahoooo!”

  Molly realized that the whoop had come from her. The icy wind brought stinging tears to her eyes despite the fact that Simon must have been taking the full force of its blast. He was steering the skidoo like a pro, guiding it left and right toward the flattest points, slowing down on corners, constantly looking all around for danger.

  “This is incredible!” Molly cried out, thrilled by the sensations coursing through her body. “Better than any fairground ride!”

  She could even hear muffled laughter from behind—Pascal was enjoying himself too. On and on they rode, leaning into the bends, following the snowbound roadway down toward Varzo. Molly found herself thinking about her college days. She’d yearned for European trips and had all sorts of vague notions about the adventures her future in fashion would bring her—but she’d never exactly imagined she’d fetch up on a skidoo with a Hollywood movie maker, a couture wedding dress, and Delametri Chevalier’s right hand man along for the ride…

  The snow was far less deep on this side of the valley, and as they skied lower and lower down Molly began see patches of exposed rock to either side of them. And gradually, she felt the dump dump dump of the skidoo, with the occasional rasping noise as it scraped on exposed stone. Cautiously she looked around again. The stretcher was veering from side to side, sometimes tipping at awkward angles; she realized they were going to have to slow down or else it might flip over completely.