‘Ober-what?’ Miles mutters to Paloma, clearly unimpressed. She shrugs.
Louis continues, ‘The Swiss and Austrian chalets are, of course, so charming. But what the Trois Vallées lack in that regard, they make up for in fine dining and après-ski. After a hard morning skiing you sit down for a proper lunch – raclette, fresh salads, a selection of gâteaux. The dining rooms are always beautiful – sheepskins and copper accents. And there is always a Saint Bernard.’
‘You’re in for a rude shock,’ I say. ‘This,’ I point to the homely meal shaping up in the kitchen, ‘is the best feed you’ll get all weekend, I’m afraid.’ Louis wrinkles his nose, not quite imperceptibly, and reaches for a block of dark chocolate.
‘Hey, I think it’s looking pretty good,’ Miles says, regarding the bolognaise, which is beginning to bubble. He cracks open a bottle of shiraz, adds a slosh to the pot, and bigger sloshes to six glasses. ‘Cheers.’
After dinner, we set ourselves up in the living room, lighting the cedar-scented candles on the mantelpiece and opening another bottle of wine. James rummages through the stack of board games in the linen closet and offers up Articulate. ‘Yes!’ we all chant unanimously, save for Louis, who is unfamiliar with the game.
Cameron explains. ‘You get a card with words on it from different categories – Object, Action, Person, Random and so on. Depending which category you’re on, you have to describe that word, without saying it, to your team as quickly as possible. And get through as many cards as you can before the timer runs out.’
‘Okay,’ Louis nods slowly.
‘Teams will be couples,’ Paloma says bossily. ‘Well, couples and then Romy and James.’
‘You ready for this?’ James asks me.
‘Sure,’ I say, taking a long gulp of wine.
Once Louis gets the hang of it, it’s a quick-paced game. Miles and Paloma power through their cards with only minor bickering. James and I hit a winning streak as I seamlessly supply answers to his descriptions:
‘Referring to’ – ‘Alluding’
‘African country, also a frat boy’ – ‘Chad’
‘Cutlery trident’ – ‘Fork’
‘Action word, thing you do in a field’ – ‘Frolicking’
I’m so caught up in the game, I almost knock over a wine glass in excitement. The last bit of sand trickles through the timer.
‘Yeast chew toy’ – ‘Bagel!’ I shout confidently.
‘What the –?’ Miles says, brow furrowed, as we sail our red plastic token past theirs.
‘What can we say,’ James shrugs, ‘great minds.’
The game carries on frenetically until one card stymies Louis, bringing his and Cameron’s turn to a standstill.
‘I don’t know what this is,’ Louis says, squinting at the card.
‘Skip the card,’ Cameron urges, glancing at the timer.
‘I don’t know this one either.’
‘Try to describe it anyway!’
‘Okay, there are two words.’
‘Yeees.’
‘The second word is “not day”.’
‘Okay, night. Something night. Right, what’s the first word?’ I can almost see the veins in Cameron’s temples throbbing.
‘I don’t know.’ Louis shakes his head, refusing to give more. ‘I can’t describe it.’ He sighs slowly as the timer runs out.
Cameron throws up his hands in frustration and grabs the card from Louis. ‘What’s the word . . . stag night! How do you not know what that is? It’s a bachelor party – you know, before a guy gets married?’
Louis shrugs. ‘In French we don’t have that term. We call that party the Enterrement de vie de garçon – burial of the life as a boy.’
As the cold sets in, we drag a couple of heavy wool blankets out of the linen cupboard and start on the peach schnapps, huddled on the floor around the coffee table. We move on to Texas Hold-em, and then, because Louis and I are terrible at that, Bullshit. We play three rounds, until the candles start to gutter and we tire of Paloma calling bullshit on Miles’s every play.
Well after midnight, we retire to our rooms. Miles looks like he’s going to comment as James makes up the sofa with the spare blankets, but I notice Paloma stop him with a pinch to the elbow.
Lying in bed alone under a slightly musty doona, trying to warm up, I think about James out on the sofa. He seems fine, unaffected, by seeing me. I wonder if he thinks about the wedding at all. Or if, for him, it was just a drunken moment, or not even that; a non-event. I wonder if he’s thinking about Kate. Why she broke up with him. Or he with her. I roll over, reaching out to the cold, empty space besides me, and realise that this is the first day in weeks that I haven’t thought about Hans.
28
The next day we rise early, treating our hangovers with strong coffee and a blast of cold air from windows thrown wide open. Out on the slopes, we head up to Central Spur, a series of blue runs high up the mountain. We do run after run, determined to make the most of the freshly groomed snow before the crowds and sun turn it to choppy slush. For the first time in a long time, my mind feels still – overwhelmed by the beauty of my surrounds, aware of every muscle of my body as I race down the runs, revelling in the freedom. The air is so fresh it’s shocking, and my every sense – of being outdoors, of being carefree – is heightened.
We’re childish in our giddiness. We jostle to be first down to the bottom of each run, and spray each other with snow with decidedly non-technical hockey stops. We stomp on each other’s ski bindings before we get on the chairlift – at least until we get told off by a stern liftie (‘Oy! Stop being dickheads!’), much to Louis’s chagrin. We try the rails and jumps in the snow park at the top of the High Noon run – with mostly disastrous results.
By the time we stop for lunch, we’re exhausted. We dump our gear into the metal racks outside the lodge and traipse inside, undoing jackets and pulling off beanies and helmets, gloves and goggles. We spot Cameron, who gave up an hour ago, over by the window at a big wooden table, scrolling happily through his phone and munching on hot chips. We clomp over to him and collapse into the chairs, slumping down in contented silence. Miles massages Paloma’s neck, which she complains is sore from having to crane backwards to look for us all the time.
Over burgers and chips, we relive the morning’s highlights. Louis’s spectacular cliff jump. Miles’s attempt to follow him and consequent crash and yard-sale tumble down half a run. Cameron’s repeated near-collisions with ski-school groups. Paloma’s mischievous attempts to get me on chairlifts and T-bars with good-looking guys.
‘Hey,’ she says, unabashed, ‘I’m just testing my theory that the ski fields are the perfect pick-up spot. People are a lot friendlier, and more open to possibility. And catching chairlifts is like speed-dating. You comment on the snow conditions as an opener, chat to them for five minutes, ask if they want to join you for après-ski at the end of the day if you’re interested, go your separate ways if you’re not. Cinch.’
‘Any luck so far?’ Miles asks. I throw a chip at him.
He turns to James, who’s been sitting quietly. ‘What about you then? I’ve never known you to waste an opportunity. And now that Kate’s out of the picture . . .’ James shoots him an annoyed look.
Miles immediately backs off. ‘Whoa, sorry, touched a nerve. Well, I guess we’re all here to ski then.’
Fed and watered, we spread out a resort map and plot our next move. Cameron elects immediately to ski on his own – he wants to practise on the blue runs around Central Spur. Miles, Paloma and Louis zero in on the series of black runs on the far side of the Kosciuszko Express. I baulk – while I’m happy to do the odd black run, an afternoon of them sounds painful. I’m confident on the slopes, but don’t have anywhere near Louis’s skill, or the others’ daredevilry. ‘I’ll ski with Cameron,’ I announce.
‘I’m happy to ski by myself,’ he protests. ‘You don’t have to babysit me.’
‘Are you kidding?’ I say. ‘No
way I’m doing double-black diamonds with those hotheads. I like my ACLs.’
‘James, you’ll do these black runs, won’t you?’ says Miles. ‘If you just came here to ski, we’d better get some proper skiing in.’
James glances at me, then back at Miles. ‘Sure,’ he shrugs.
Heading back outside, we notice immediately that the temperature has dropped. The sun has disappeared and the whiteness closes around us, the wind soughing insistently through the snowy clearing and down the mountain. I crunch my fingers up inside my mittens to try and get the blood circulating, wiggle my toes and hope for the best. We agree to meet back at the car park at 4 pm, and part ways.
Cameron and I ski down to the bottom of the Sponars T-bar. We arrange ourselves at the lift bay and wait for the T-bar to circle around. The liftie grabs it and yanks it down, but it smacks us hard – me just under my bum, Cameron mid-thigh, causing his legs to buckle as we’re wrenched up the slope.
‘Are you okay?’ Cameron asks.
‘Yeah, fine. Might bruise a bit, but it’s all good.’
‘No, I mean, in general. You seem kind of quiet. Are you okay about being here with James, after everything that happened?’
My skis chatter over an uneven patch of ice. I struggle to answer. ‘Yeah, I’m finding it a bit awkward. I guess I’m still . . . grappling with my feelings.’
‘Maybe you should just hook up with him,’ says Cameron. I glance sideways at him to check if he’s joking, but all I can see is snow and grey sky reflected in his goggles.
‘Why would I do that?’ I say. ‘So I can become another of his one-night stands? Like your housemate Elly? I’m supposed to be finding my life partner, remember? And I’ve already screwed that up. I’m probably down from a 37 per cent chance of happiness to what, like, 30 per cent, assuming I get it right next time?’
Cameron wobbles on the T-bar, almost losing his grip. ‘No, you should hook up with James to get it out of your system. You said it yourself, you being attracted to him is what ruined things with you and Hans. So why not indulge, clear the sexual tension and get on with your life? You know I’m on board with your quest to find the right guy, in accordance with optimal stopping theory, paying attention to traits and all that. But one night with James isn’t going to ruin your timeframe. After that, you can get back on track.’
I think about this as we reach the crest of the hill. Maybe Cameron has a point.
At the end of the line, I keep hold of the T-bar while Cameron clambers away, then skate across the landing to him.
‘Ready to rumble?’ he says, looking down at the slope.
‘Yep. Ready.’
Back at the lodge, we take turns to shower (which takes longer than necessary, as Louis refuses to let any of us use his and Cameron’s en suite), then rug up to go out.
We head for The Blind Bear, the biggest pub in the village, which we’ve heard does amazing wood-fired pizza and turns into a semi-decent club after dark. After a short walk through the receding daylight, we’re soon ensconced in a leather booth, luxuriating in the warmth of a crackling fireplace. Hot toddy between my hands, waiting for our food, I look around at our group of friends. ‘This is exactly what my fourteen-year-old self hoped adulthood would be,’ I say.
Paloma rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile. ‘You are such a sap. But yes, this is pretty perfect.’
We drink into the night, moving on from hot toddies to beers and then, as the DJ set starts and the bistro side of the pub starts closing down, spirits. The place is packed, from those in going-out clothes (tight dresses and tight shirts) to those who have come straight from the ski fields (perspiring in their ski pants and thermal underwear; jackets and accoutrements long discarded).
I lose track of time. At one point, we’re all at the bar doing tequila shots; wincing at the salt, the burn of the cheap spirit and the puckered relief of the lemon. And then, Paloma drags us through the heaving crowd to the centre of the dance floor and I find myself whirling through darkness and streaking lights. We dance as a group, pressed close together. My head spins from the alcohol, dehydration from the day of skiing, and the pulsating house music. When I start getting the jitters, feeling the bass reverberating unpleasantly in my chest, I jostle my way out of the crowd and over to the banquette seating. I shove aside a huge pile of ski jackets, which are slightly damp and sour with sweat, flop down, and close my eyes.
Some time later, I feel someone sit down beside me. I open my eyes. It’s James. ‘Fading?’
‘Yesss,’ I say, fingers pressed to my temples.
‘Me too. Want to head soon?’
I nod, eager and exhausted, and he offers to go find the others.
He returns a few minutes later with Cameron and Louis. ‘No sign of Miles and Paloma,’ he says. ‘Cameron seems to think they left a little while ago?’
‘I don’t know where they went,’ Cameron slurs. He shrugs, glass in hand, slopping what remains of his drink onto the floor.
James tries calling Miles, then Paloma, but their phones ring out.
‘Hey, so what was the deal with Elly?’ Cameron says, thrusting his empty glass at James. ‘You remember Elly, right?’
‘What?’ James looks confused. I spectate from the bench, too tired and too far away to shoot Cameron a look. I don’t know why he’s bringing this up.
‘My housemate, from like, two years ago. Don’t you remember? You had a thing with her, scarpered in the morning, saw me in the kitchen, asked me what brand of protein powder I was using . . .’
A look of dawning realisation crosses James’s face and he clicks his fingers at Cameron. ‘That’s where I recognised you from. Of course, the Mutant Mass.’
‘And Elly?’ Cameron is combative in his drunkenness.
Even in the darkness of the club, I can see James colouring a bit. ‘I mean, she was a cool girl . . .’
‘So why’d you ghost?’
James looks supremely uncomfortable. ‘Well, we had a one-night thing, both agreed it would be casual, and then the next morning she asked me to go with her to her sister’s wedding. Which seemed to be part of some weird attention-seeking, retaliation plot, and she was really insistent. So when she was in the shower, I kind of just . . . left. I’m not proud of it, but I also didn’t know how to deal.’
‘Okay.’ Cameron accepts this with a slow nod. He chuckles. ‘She tried to make me go too, and pretend to be her boyfriend.’ I smile inwardly. It’s nice to know that James wasn’t just being a jerk.
‘Okay, enough reminiscing,’ says Louis impatiently. ‘Can we leave already?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ says James. ‘Miles and Paloma have a key. If they’re not back at the apartment, haven’t turned up or answered our calls in the next hour, then we start to worry.’
‘Good, let’s get this one home,’ says Louis, propping up a very droopy Cameron.
Back at the apartment, the lights are on. The door to Miles and Paloma’s room is shut – they are obviously inside. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ Louis rolls his eyes. ‘They couldn’t text?’
Cameron, leaning heavily on Louis’s shoulder, stumbles on the corner of the rug, oblivious to the sounds coming from Miles and Paloma’s room. ‘What’s going on?’ he slurs.
‘I think we’d better put Cameron to bed,’ James says, matter-of-factly. ‘Looks like he needs to sleep it off.’ He ducks under Cameron’s other arm, and he and Louis escort Cameron to his room.
I flop down onto the couch just as James emerges.
‘Do you want to crash, or are you up for a drink?’ he asks.
I look up at him, ski jacket slung over his shoulders, floppy fringe sticking slightly to the sheen of perspiration on his brow, hazel eyes twinkling despite the late hour. How is it that he always seems so effortless, so ridiculously attractive? I feel a flutter in my chest. Cameron’s right – I need to get him out of my system. ‘Um, sure, I could go for another drink.’
James goes over to the kitchen and pours us each a whis
key, adding a generous squeeze of maple syrup to mine. I’m surprised that he remembers my distaste for straight whiskey.
‘Almost a Maple Old-Fashioned,’ he says, handing me the glass and settling back onto the couch with me. We sit facing each other, our feet a few inches apart.
‘Thank you,’ I say quietly, feeling suddenly nervous. How is this going to play out? Seduction is not exactly my métier.
‘Are you warm enough?’ he asks, unfolding a wool blanket and draping it over our legs.
I smile shyly at him and take a sip of my syrupy drink. ‘Yep, warming up.’ I reach for something to say. ‘You know, I read that if you’re stuck in a snowstorm on a mountain, you’re supposed to dig a snow cave and lie with your hands in the other person’s groin and feet in their armpits. Or maybe it’s the other way around?’ I narrow my eyes and try to remember.
‘Mmm . . . that wouldn’t be too bad at all,’ he says, looking straight at me. I pause, trying to discern if there’s anything beneath his cheeky grin.
‘Your armpits look like great foot-warmers,’ he clarifies.
I extend my foot and kick his ankle, lightly. He kicks mine back.
I set my drink down and scooch down the couch until I’m lying beside him. My heart is thudding in my chest. James readjusts his weight so he’s lying on his side – we’re not in snowstorm scout position, but two spoons under a lasagne of blankets.
I’m so aware of the length of his body pressing against mine. He gives my shoulder and arm a friction rub, in a bid to impart some heat.
‘Did you ever see The Revenant?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘I’m actually quite cosy right now. This is what I imagine Leo felt like curled up in a horse’s stomach.’
‘I’ve never had someone compare being under the covers with me to being in a horse’s stomach. You’ve got me blushing like a schoolboy.’
I can feel his warm breath on my neck. My back pressed against him. His hand is no longer scuffing my shoulder but smoothing the length of my arm. He moves it slowly down my side to caress the dip of my waist, then to circle my hip. My breath catches as I feel his deepen. I turn towards him, our faces inches apart, and look straight into his hazel eyes.
Love, in Theory Page 24
