Rather than have dinner in the chalet, the others have decided to go out for a pizza. I could eat ten pizzas after my day on the slopes. We head to a big, noisy place off the main square, with red check vinyl cloths and bright overhead lights. It’s perfect, except that Jenny is opposite us, going on and on at Leo about their skiing today. Her voice is so deafening, I would put my fingers in my ears if I could get away with it.
I’m dreading trying to make sure I get a meat-free pizza in my rusty GCSE French, but the waiter speaks reasonably good English. Nina surprises everyone by ordering in perfect French. I make a mental note to ask her how to say ‘boiling water’ so that I can get a proper cup of tea tomorrow.
‘You never said you spoke French,’ Jenny says in an accusing tone, as if Nina’s some kind of spy. ‘How come?’
‘My dad is French,’ Nina says. She’s wearing a chunky white polo neck, which doesn’t suit her quite as well as her ski gear; she has such a great figure, I think she should show it off more.
‘Oh là là,’ Jenny says sarcastically, drumming her fingers on the table. I look over at David, but he either hasn’t heard or is pretending not to. I can’t understand why he and Oliver are friends with Jenny. It’s not as if either of them could fancy her. She’s expensively put together, but her eyes are cold. She seems to be flicking her hair at Leo a lot this evening, but I’m fairly sure David’s the one she’s really in love with.
‘What do you do, Maggie?’ Rachel asks. When I tell her, Jenny says, ‘Really? You look like you work in fashion or PR or something.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I say, smiling, though I’ve heard this before and I think it’s ridiculous – as if scientists can’t take an interest in fashion or make-up. Jenny’s a doctor, but those Chanel sunglasses didn’t come out of a medical catalogue. Or that stupid fur hat.
‘This is more like it,’ Oliver says happily, when our pizzas arrive. ‘Wipe-clean tablecloth, elbows on the table. All that silver service at the chalet makes me nervous. I keep thinking I’m going to break something.’
‘Oh, come on,’ says David. ‘You must admit this is a lot nicer than that trip of yours last year – with the bunk beds and no electricity.’
‘Ah, that was great. Ski trip in Norway,’ he explains to Rachel. ‘It was all off-piste and we skied from one cabin to the next, carrying our food with us in backpacks, cooking on camper stoves and making fires – it was brilliant.’
‘But how did you dry your socks?’ Rachel asks him gravely.
‘They hung them up on the bunk beds,’ says Jenny. ‘Face it, Oliver. We’re not students any more. You don’t have to cycle to the hospital: you can afford the bus. Or even the Tube.’
‘It’s not the money, it’s the adventure,’ says Oliver.
This makes me smile. Oliver seems an appealing mixture of old-fashioned and down-to-earth: he’s a stickler for holding doors open and I’ve noticed he never lets Rachel buy a drink, but at the same time he’s not fancy.
‘Ugh, it’s work. Excuse me,’ Rachel says, looking at her phone. ‘I’ve got to take this.’
‘What does Rachel do?’ I ask, watching her pace around talking on her phone. She’s wearing a shirt, a pencil skirt and flat boots; she looks almost as if she could be in the office, instead of being on holiday.
‘She’s a lawyer,’ Oliver says, sounding proud. ‘They’re in the middle of a big case … I think that’s one of the other associates asking her for advice.’
I nod, thinking that being a lawyer would be my worst nightmare: arguing for a living. Of course there are all kinds of politics in my lab – whose name goes on a paper, who gets the funding, who’s flavour of the month with the professor – and we often collaborate, but my favourite part of the job is when it’s just me, my bacteria and my microscope. I don’t think I’m especially shy or antisocial; I just prefer working alone.
‘I hope you remembered to switch off your phone,’ David says to Nina, putting his arm around her.
‘You’d hardly get calls from work, would you?’ Jenny says to Nina.
‘No, people do call out of hours,’ Nina says.
‘About a pet? Seriously?’ Jenny says, pouring herself yet another Diet Coke.
‘You’re obviously not a pet person,’ Nina says. Her tone is so mild that I don’t think Jenny even registers that this is an insult. She loses interest in the discussion and turns to the others.
‘So tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Who’s up for going off-piste?’
‘That would be fun,’ Oliver says. ‘Rachel might be up for it.’
‘I’m not sure,’ David says, looking at Nina. ‘Didn’t we say we’d aim for an easier slope tomorrow that we can all do?’
Nina shrugs, indicating that she doesn’t mind either way. I look at Leo, who says, ‘I’ll go with whatever the group decides.’
‘But …’ I’m about to remind him what he said at lunchtime – that we could go out together – but I stop myself. I don’t want to rock the boat if the others are all dead set on going off-piste.
‘We were just discussing tomorrow,’ Oliver says to Rachel, who’s finished her phone call and sat back down. ‘Which would you prefer: for us all to do an easy blue slope, or to go off-piste with me and Dave and Jen?’
‘Oh, blue slope definitely,’ Rachel says. ‘Isn’t that what we said? Blue slopes and red wine?’
Jenny pouts. ‘You’ll go off-piste with me, Dave, won’t you?’
‘Do you mind?’ he asks Nina.
She shakes her head. ‘No, not at all.’ And she genuinely seems to mean it: she’s munching away at her pizza without a care in the world. Either she doesn’t notice Jenny’s weird possessiveness with David, or else she’s reached some kind of Zen-like state where it doesn’t bother her. Whichever it is, she’s taking it a lot better than I would. I might find Leo too ready to put the group first, but at least he wouldn’t let another girl monopolise him. Especially a nutter like Jenny. Earlier today she was talking about some new registrar she works with who keeps on trying to get people on her team out for drinks. ‘I mean,’ Jenny said, ‘she’s just got to accept that there comes a certain point where it’s too late to make new friends.’ I couldn’t believe my ears.
‘Jenny’s awful, isn’t she?’ I say quietly to Leo when we’re in bed later on.
‘Shh,’ he says automatically.
‘Leo, she’s not going to hear me. Don’t you think she’s a pain?’ I know he doesn’t like me saying mean things, but he’s got to agree with me in this case.
‘Chillax, Maggie,’ he says, yawning. ‘She’s fine. Anyway, what’s she ever done to you?’
I can’t come up with an immediate answer to this, but something about Leo’s tone really gets on my nerves, and I lie awake thinking of possible replies for at least five minutes, until I fall fast asleep.
The notion of a blue slope sounded so easy last night after a glass or two of wine, but the next afternoon, when we meet up after my morning lesson, I’m feeling much less confident. For a start, my thighs are screaming after yesterday, and also the ski lift itself looks terrifying. It’s bigger than a ride at Alton Towers – a gigantic metal clanking thing that goes hundreds of feet up in the air. The tiny metal mushroom seat lands on the snow and then you have two seconds to jump on it before it lifts in the air again. I don’t see how I can get on it, let alone stay on.
‘Leo … I’m not sure about this,’ I say quietly, hanging back. ‘I think maybe I’m not ready.’
‘Come on, Maggie,’ he says. ‘You said you wanted to do it, and we’re all here now. I could have gone off-piste but I’m doing this so we can be together.’
‘OK, OK,’ I mutter. After all, if those tiny children can do it, surely I can.
I walk ahead and line up behind Oliver and Rachel, waiting for a mushroom seat with my name on it. It approaches, I manage to grab it, and then we’re flying high in the air. I can see the café below and all the lucky, lucky people safe on the ground. I hope
one of my skis doesn’t fall off and kill someone. And that I don’t fall off. My lunchtime croque-monsieur is churning in my stomach and I’m beginning to realise I’ve made a huge mistake. I’ve also realised the ski lift makes lots of different stops and I don’t even know where we’re meant to be getting off. I could end up in Switzerland if I’m not careful.
Up ahead, Oliver turns around and calls back to me, ‘We’re next, Maggie.’
‘Remember to put both your skis on the ground and push with your poles as you get off,’ calls Leo, from behind me.
The ground is approaching. Rachel and Oliver have both jumped off smoothly and are skiing away. Now it’s my turn. I manage to hop off the seat but the stupid thing actually gets caught in the belt of my ski suit and I’m almost rear-ended by the people behind me.
‘You OK?’ It’s Rachel, gliding up to me. ‘Those button lifts are the worst. They’re much harder than the actual skiing. You’ll be grand once we get on the slope – let’s go and take a look at it.’
We go and join the others, who are poised at the top of … a giant Everest-style mountain. I thought blue slopes were meant to be easy, but this looks practically vertical. We’re so high up I can’t see the bottom, and the slope below is packed with billions of skiers all bombing along at top speed. It’s also clouded over, and I’ve felt several flakes land on me; we’re obviously in for snow. Or a blizzard.
‘Guys, I think I might walk down,’ I say faintly. ‘I’ll see you back at the chalet.’
But this isn’t a popular suggestion. ‘Walk down! No, you can’t. You can’t walk down,’ they all say at once. I get the message: no walking down.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Leo says. ‘It’s ten minutes to the bottom, max. I’ll stay with you.’
‘This is the only steep bit,’ says Rachel. ‘Once you get round that corner, it all evens out and it’s lovely.’
I’m clearly going to have to do it, so I nod, deciding I’ll snowplough down as slowly as possible. And if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll slide down on my bum.
Leo offers to ski behind me but I tell him that would make me more nervous, so we set off in convoy: first Rachel and Oliver, then Leo, then me. I cautiously push myself along, keeping my skis as far apart as I can and trying not to look down. Ten minutes, I repeat to myself. Or maybe an hour, at the speed I’m going. Suddenly, something huge and yellow zips by me, missing me by millimetres. I shriek out loud, slip and go into a frantic cartoon-type slide before I can get my balance back.
‘You OK?’ Rachel calls back. She’s stopped to wait for me. I can see that the guys have already gone way ahead. What happened to Leo staying with me? ‘Stupid snowboarders – they’re always bashing into people. They’re not dangerous, though,’ she adds, seeing my face. ‘Let’s take it nice and easy for the rest of this bit,’ she continues tactfully.
But even her nice and easy is much too fast. I don’t want to make her babysit me all the way down, especially because I have a horrible feeling I’m going to cry and I don’t want to bawl on her ski suit.
‘I think my boot is loose … I’m going to fix it. I’ll catch you up, OK?’
‘No, no, I’ll wait.’
‘Honestly, I’d much prefer you to go ahead.’
Seeing that I mean it, she nods and skis ahead slowly. I stand there and contemplate the slope below, which I can barely see as the snow’s coming down more thickly now. This is a nightmare. I’m tempted to sit down and try and go down on my bum. Except it would take hours and I’m freezing now that we’re up so high and I’m not moving. I start snowploughing again, and I’m making reasonably good headway until I realise I’ve completely lost the others. I can see that the path ahead splits – which way am I meant to go? I could easily take a wrong turn and end up on a black. I need to hurry and catch up.
Cautiously I bring my skis together to try and increase my speed, but then I start going too fast. Whizzz! I’ve hit a patch of ice, and I’m sliding towards … Oh God. Is that a cliff? I frantically try and stop myself by leaning back, forgetting that that’s what makes you fall, and then my skis shoot out from under me and I’m on the ground, covered in snow and very, very sore.
I’m giving up. I’ve had it. I’m going to lie here and they can just sweep me up when they tidy the slope in the evening.
‘Are you all right?’ says a voice. Male, French, unfamiliar.
I squint up and see through the snowflakes in my eyelashes that it’s the gorgeous tawny-haired instructor, in black ski gear – he’s out of uniform and obviously skiing for fun. He’s also with two friends, who’ve stopped to watch. How humiliating.
He turns to the guys and says something to them in French; they nod and go on ahead, leaving him with me.
‘Take my hand,’ he says. God, his accent is sexy. ‘OK, now straighten out your skis and stand up slowly. Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Are you hurt?’
‘Just my pride,’ I mutter.
He laughs, showing heartbreakingly white teeth. ‘That’s funny. OK, we’ll go to the bottom together, yes? I’ll stay with you.’
‘No, you don’t …’ But I don’t have the heart to send him away. If I’m left here alone, God knows when I’ll make it down. He looks like the kind of guy who could carry you down a ski slope. Or out of a burning building … OK, concentrate, Maggie.
‘Here’s how we’re going to do it. I ski ahead, not too far, and show you the place to go.’ Barely seeming to move, he turns himself around and skis effortlessly backwards until he’s ten metres or so below me.
‘Yeah? Easy. Forget about the rest of the mountain; you only need to ski to me.’
Backwards. The man can ski backwards. He’s like Bond. Or Jason Bourne. Does Jason Bourne ski? I launch myself towards him cautiously, and end up right beside him. Very close to him, in fact. I’m suddenly out of breath, and not just from skiing.
‘Great. Now again.’ He glances behind him, and skis backwards another little bit. ‘Eh oh, attention!’ he yells to a snowboarder whizzing past. ‘Don’t worry about looking behind you. I’m backwards so I keep a watch out behind you. OK?’
We repeat the process four or five more times, until the ground levels out and we’re on a flatter bit of the slope. Everyone else seems to have taken the right-hand turn and this stretch is much quieter. It’s even stopped snowing. I nearly slip when I reach him, and he catches me by the arm. He feels so … strong. Manly. Get a hold of yourself, Maggie, I tell myself sternly.
‘OK, we made it through the hard part! You did good. How many lessons have you had?’
‘Two yesterday and one this morning.’
He mimes surprise, pulling up his goggles. ‘No way! You are excellent! Really, really, you did good. Now you want to ski with me to the bottom?’
We set off together, and he keeps an eye on me the whole time, giving me little tips occasionally. It’s stopped snowing. The sun’s beginning to sink down and it’s turning the snow pink and orange. The air is so fresh and crystalline, it feels like you could drink it. The snow is soft, with just enough of a slope for us to glide along effortlessly. It feels as if we’re flying through the white landscape, alone on the slopes under the darkening blue sky. I wish I could bottle this feeling: I think this is one of those moments I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
‘This is incredible!’ I yell.
He laughs and nods as he skims along beside me.
‘Skiing’s the best feeling in the world,’ he says. ‘Nearly.’
Was that a sex reference? Is he flirting? Probably not, but I should be careful in any case. Leo wouldn’t appreciate me discussing sex and skiing with a hot instructor. I see the bottom of the slope coming into sight; we’re nearly there. I can hear the pop music they always play at the main lift getting louder and louder. I manage to stop myself with a more-or-less respectable snowplough and land beside him, both of us laughing and breathless.
‘Congratulations, you made it,’ he says, grinning at me and pushing his tawny hair o
ut of his eyes. He’s squinting in the late-afternoon sun. His eyes are dark green and there are little freckles across the bridge of his perfect nose. I hope I’m not staring at him.
‘Thank you so much,’ I say, slightly awkward now that we’re face to face. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you.’
‘Why were you skiing alone?’ he asks. ‘Where was your boyfriend?’
‘Oh, he went on ahead,’ I say without thinking. Damn! I’ve just told him I have a boyfriend. Maybe that was what he was trying to find out. But I do have one!
‘Tant pis pour lui,’ he says, with that lazy grin again. ‘So where are you—’
‘Maggie! There you are!’ It’s Leo. ‘Where did you get to?’ He’s clumping towards us on his skis, looking concerned but also annoyed. I’m pretty peeved myself but I’m not going to get into it now, so I explain briefly that I got stuck on the mountain.
‘And, um …’ I turn to my rescuer. ‘Sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Sylvain. And you?’
‘Oh, I’m Maggie. And this is Leo. My boyfriend. Leo, Sylvain helped me down.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ Sylvain gracefully kicks his skis into a start position. ‘Enjoy the rest of your holiday.’ And he skis off, leaving me dazzled with a tawny vision. I love the way he says holiday. Ollyday.
‘Maggie, what happened to you? I was worried!’ Leo says, sounding annoyed.
I can’t believe he’s cross at me; I’m the one who should be cross. ‘Then why didn’t you stay with me? And why did you make me go up there in the first place? I told you right before we got on the lift that I wasn’t ready.’
‘I thought you were with Rachel! I was going to go back but I saw you were together. Then we lost you both, and we found Rachel but not you.’
He doesn’t answer my second question.
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