One Foot Onto the Ice

by Kiki Archer

  Jenna laughed before she noticed Susan’s serious face. “You’re not?”

  “No! Whatever gave you that impression?”

  “Oh.” Jenna paused. “Sorry, I just thought—”

  “Thought what?”

  “I just thought … Sorry. Maybe I assumed incorrectly.”

  “You did.” Susan looked genuinely perplexed. “Why would you assume something like that?”

  Marcus strutted back into the room catching the end of their conversation. “What are we assuming, ladies?”

  Susan patted his tall chair too enthusiastically, signalling him down and angling her legs closer to his side. She noticed the sweat on his brow and spoke with sympathy. “Did they give you a hard time?”

  Marcus seized on Susan’s closeness and apparent concern and placed a sticky palm on her knee. “Heavens no! I say stop and they stop.” He lifted his glass of sangria with his other hand and took a slow, noisy sip, turning the corners of his ginger moustache a deep shade of red. He placed the glass back down and licked the brittle hairs on his top lip. “Though I do find it somewhat difficult to ignore the miniscule items of nightwear on display.” The loud music suddenly sounded out again.

  Susan moved herself backwards. “Marcus, you can’t say things like that. And it looks like they didn’t listen hard enough.”

  Marcus guffawed and talked even louder, trying to play down the fact that Mariah was freaking beautiful once again. “I’m being tongue-in-cheek. Why would I be drawn to Eugenie Rohampton’s ample bosom, or Champagne Willington’s pert behind when I have my very own princess sitting right beside me?”

  Susan tried not to shudder as she lifted her tall glass of lager and lime, quite unsure of what to say.

  Marcus continued to drown out the music. “So, what were you ladies assuming when I was away? Let me guess.” He fingered his ginger sideburns. “How I got to be so handsome, intelligent and witty? Or how I’m tackled up like a tripod?”

  “Oh, Marcus, please.” Susan had had enough. “Comments like that just aren’t appropriate.”

  Marcus laughed loudly. “It’s banter. Teachers banter on school trips.” He lifted his glass of Sangria and tapped it against Susan’s glass in an attempt to lighten the mood. “The banter between teachers on school trips is the stuff of legend.”

  Susan lost her cool. “What is all this stuff of legend nonsense, Marcus?”

  Marcus looked wounded. “We’re making memories.”

  “What?”

  Marcus adjusted himself in his seat and addressed the two women. “Tell me one of your favourite school day memories.”

  “Why?” asked Susan.

  “Both of you, please, just do it. Just give me one memory. I’ve been at St Wilf’s for seven years now and this is the first trip I’ve been on.” He nodded his head. “Please, give me a school day memory.”

  Jenna and Susan both seemed to pause for a moment, before they responded in unison. “The Isle of Wight.”

  Jenna laughed. “Twelve years old.”

  Susan continued. “Missing the ferry back because Primrose Carter-Taite got herself stuck in the luggage conveyor.”

  “My point exactly,” nodded Marcus. “You don’t remember your maths lessons, your chess clubs, or that boring professor continually telling you to tuck your shirt in. You remember your school trips.” He smiled enthusiastically. “We need to give these ladies things to remember.”

  Susan shook her head. “No. Children make their own memories. It wasn’t Madam Fisher or Professor Richards who encouraged Primrose to ride the conveyor all the way to the bag-drop shaft.”

  Jenna bit her bottom lip. “No, it was me.”

  “Really?” Susan couldn’t help but laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me.” She held Jenna’s gaze before turning back to Marcus. “But my point is, we must all behave in a professional manner at all times. Exactly like we do at school.”

  Jenna suddenly pictured what Professor Ramsbottom might be like when his classroom door was shut and he was teaching a small group of post-pubescent young ladies.

  Susan continued. “I’m the lead teacher on this trip, Marcus. I’ve been on the past five school ski trips, albeit as a support teacher to Madam Fisher—”

  Jenna cut in. “Our Madam Fisher? She’s still skiing?”

  “Yes, she was. She retired from St Wilf’s last year.”

  “I wouldn’t expect her to still be standing, let alone skiing. What was she? Seventy?”

  “Thereabouts,” smiled Susan. “Look, I just want to get this right. I want this trip to go without a hitch.”

  Marcus closed his eyes and took a seductive intake of breath. “Isn’t she simply magnificent? So autocratic. Exactly what we need.” He tapped his own upper thigh. “Gentle discipline.” He turned to Jenna. “Was Susan as breath-taking as this when she was at school?”

  Jenna looked at her old classmate carefully. “No, she wasn’t actually.”

  “Well I doubt you were either,” snapped Marcus, coming to the defence of his maiden, not realising that Jenna had meant it as a compliment.

  Susan sighed. “Jenna was, actually.”

  Sylvie, the elderly French guest house owner wandered back into the room with a tray of pâtés and cheeses. “Supper for zee professors,” she announced in her heavy French accent. “Your girls are angels. Zee quietest we’ve ‘ad all season, isn’t that right, Jenna?”

  Jenna nodded. “Sylvie’s the best host in the area. She runs a tight ship, but as long as we drink at her bar and eat off her tray, she’ll be happy.”

  Sylvie placed the tray on the bar and reached out to squeeze Jenna’s cheeks. “And you’ve got zee best ski guide of them all.”

  “And the highest ranking too, it seems,” added Marcus.

  “Oh oui. Probably that too,” smiled Sylvie, creasing up her weathered cheeks and shuffling back behind the small bar. She noted their depleted glasses and started to fetch three fresh drinks. “When Joseph and I aren’t around, just ‘elp yourself and make a note on zee pad. We’ll settle up at zee end of zee week.”

  “Sylvie’s the best,” smiled Jenna. “You don’t get this service over at The Tavern.”

  Sylvie’s face scrunched up like she’d just bitten into the sourest lemon. “Non, non, non, non, non. Don’t mention zee name of that woman’s guest house in here.”

  “You’ve still not made up?” Jenna shook her head. “Poor Delphine. You’ve been best friends for almost forty years.”

  “Oui, before ‘er Renard passed away and she tried to steal my Joseph.”

  “You know I’m going to sort you two out, don’t you, Sylvie? Before the season’s finished.”

  “Humph,” muttered Sylvie, bending down to the small fridge and reaching for the plastic container of Sangria. She twisted the lid and began to pour, proud of the stubbornness that had seen her through the best part of eighty years.

  “Regale us, Jenna,” said Marcus, “the Club Ski story. How does it feel to be the owner of such a huge brand?”

  Sylvie forgot her self-enforced silence and tried to stifle her titter, sloshing the margarita sangria into the glass far too forcefully and splashing the red booze all over the counter. “So that’s why you’re so generous with your tips, eh Jenna?”

  Jenna didn’t dare look at Sylvie, knowing they would both burst into a fit of giggles at the idea she was anything other than standard crew. Instead she clasped her hands together under her chin and lowered her voice towards Marcus. “Have you ever seen the programme, Undercover Boss?”

  Marcus immediately twisted his head from side to side, dramatically scanning the empty corners of the room. “Are there secret cameras?” he hushed. “What a thrill! Are they filming us now? I wondered why the company owner would slum it as a basic ski guide like the rest of those uneducated, infantile, adrenaline junkies, as they like to call themselves.” He sniffed. “They’re probably just regular junkies. Thank goodness we’re blessed with you. I wouldn’t like to imagine the t
ype of character we might have been paired with. Dreadlocked and smelling of weed I might imagine.” Marcus noted Susan’s look of shock. “Sorry, sorry. Listen to me, Professor Faux Pas. I’m sure you have a great policy of weeding out the good from the bad.” He laughed at himself. “Quite literally. Weeding out the weeders.”

  Jenna ignored the provocation and nodded seriously. “I just like to keep my feet on the ground. I like to know what’s going on at grass roots level.”

  “Paramount, paramount,” said Marcus, reaching over the counter for his freshly poured sangria. “I bet you feel honoured, don’t you, Sylvie? The chief of Club Ski choosing to base herself in your little, run of the mill, guest house?” He took a swig without saying thank you. “I bet she vets the schools for you. That must be a bonus. Look at us, she’s clearly vetted out the riff raff and chosen a top lot to spend this week with.”

  Sylvie crossed her arms and screwed up her face. “It’s a shame she can’t vet out zee teachers too.”

  Chapter Six

  The first evening of the trip hadn’t actually been a long one. Marcus and Susan had both tried twice more to go up and settle the girls, to no effect, so Jenna had offered to try. It wasn’t in her remit to help the teachers discipline their students. She was more of a facilitator, organising the children and staff into the correct ski groups, managing the schools’ bespoke evening activities and providing that essential link between the schools and the slopes. Last night, however, sensing the tension rising between Susan and Marcus, she had kindly offered to have a word; and that was all it had taken. One word. Or maybe it had taken one promise. Jenna had promised the older girls a few cans of cider at the disco on Friday, and the younger girls a playlist with non-stop Bieber and One Direction. The students had, in reality, been completely shattered and were thrilled at the opportunity to go to sleep without ‘losing face’ in front of each other. Jenna wasn’t a teacher and it wasn’t like they were giving in. Instead, they’d forged a deal with the funky ski guide and it was only fair that they kept their side of the bargain. Within five minutes everyone was asleep. Jenna had returned to the bar and ignored Marcus’s insistence that it was his final warning, before her trip upstairs, which had actually made the difference. Susan had simply said thank you, relieved that the girls would be getting a good night’s sleep before the first full day of skiing.

  Now, standing at the bottom of the small nursery slope, Jenna was pleased to see the girls were indeed looking fresh faced and motivated for the day ahead. The first hour of the morning had been spent in the local ski shop, collecting boots, skis, and poles, and huge cries of injustice could be heard each time a body conscious young lady was told to get on the scales. An accurate assessment of their weight was required to ensure their ski bindings were tight enough, and no amount of protesting or assurances that they had weighed themselves yesterday and were sure of the figure, did anything to change Bruno, the ski shop owner’s, mind. He simply pointed at the scales and said, “Maintenant!”

  Jenna had taken it upon herself to shield the girls’ weight from the other gawping classmates and whisper a word of reassurance to each young lady that ski gear was actually made from the world’s heaviest fabric and the figure displayed on the dial was at least a stone heavier than they were in reality. It was enough to score Jenna an instant fan base and she was now officially the coolest adult on the slopes.

  Jenna looked up at the gentle nursery slope and rubbed her gloves together. The task for the next twenty minutes was to finalise the ski groups for the week ahead. There would be three classes, based on ability. The beginners and the intermediates led by Club Ski instructors Lisa and Hugo, and the advanced, led by herself. The girls had given Jenna a rough idea of their individual ability level, but she liked to watch them ski, just to make sure. Daisy Button and four other girls, who’d never skied before, were sitting in the snow, watching the other girls show off their skills.

  Champagne Willington was the next to traverse down the tiny slope. She displayed perfect parallel turns and an impressive hockey stop that sprayed fine powder snow all over the front of Jenna’s ski boots. It had taken her less than four seconds to ski from the top to the bottom.

  “You’ll be in the advanced group with me, Champagne,” said Jenna. “If you could stand to the left, please.”

  “Can’t I go with Hugo?” Champagne was pouting and plumping up the faux-fur hood of her all-in-one pink ski suit.

  “No, he’s taking the intermediate class. You’ll be bored.”

  “Trust me, I won’t,” said Champagne, pulling her designer shades low enough to check out his tight fitting salopettes.

  Jenna put her arm around Champagne’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sure Hugo will be happy to sit next to you when we meet up at lunchtime. Just don’t be too disappointed when he starts talking about his boyfriend.” Jenna signalled to Priggy Bunton-Chatsworth at the top of the slope. “Next,” she shouted.

  “No! What a let-down.” Champagne pouted once more then shrugged. “Oh well, he’ll have to be my gay best friend instead.”

  “I’m sure he’ll love that,” laughed Jenna, watching an equally impressive Priggy ski down with confidence and flair. “Advanced,” she shouted.

  “Yay! We’re together, Priggs,” cheered Champagne. “I might have to switch to your team though. Hugo’s a no-go.”

  Priggy Bunton-Chatsworth shuffled over the flat snow. “Don’t you dare. I’ll have no chance with Quinny if you’re on the scene with your big J-Lo hair, pouty lips and Amazonian height.”

  Jenna couldn’t help but laugh. “Girls, are you really having this conversation in front of me?”

  Champagne scanned the tranquil snowy surroundings. The majority of the group were at the top of the slope and it was still too early for the other ski schools to be out and about. “No one’s listening. Plus you don’t mind, Jenna. You’re cool. You’re one of us. Not like old Arsey and Quinn.”

  “Madam Quinn’s cool,” defended Priggy.

  Champagne pulled a face in disgust. “Yeah, if you like middle aged.”

  Jenna waved to Eugenie Rohampton who was next in the queue. “You cheeky so and so, Champagne. Madam Quinn and I are the same age.”

  “Never!” squealed Champagne with wide eyes.

  “Yep. We were in the same class at St Wilfred’s.”

  “You’ve got to be joking! You look about twenty! You wear the funkiest ski gear ever and I just love that pink belt and the way you wear your pants slightly too low.” Champagne continued her assessment. “Plus your hair’s always so cool.” She suddenly snorted with laughter. “Madam Quinn looks at least forty with that flat hair and bloody awful lilac fleece. Have you seen it? It’s already covered in bobbles.”

  “Slow down!” shouted Jenna, distracted. She stepped forwards and waved her arms up and down in an attempt to stop Eugenie Rohampton who was whizzing down the nursery slope.

  Eugenie ignored the warning and bent her knees even further, trying to gain as much speed as possible, suddenly lunging into a sharp snow plough as she realised the slope was about to end.

  Jenna gasped as Eugenie came to a wobbly stop. “You nearly hit the netting!”

  “I wanted to show you my skills,” smiled Eugenie.

  “Well, you can only have speed when you have control, Eugenie. I want you to start off with Hugo in the intermediates.”

  Eugenie grinned and shouted back to the top of the slopes at the remainder of her classmates. “Be good, but not too good, and you get Hugo!”

  Jenna heard someone puffing behind her and turned around. Marcus had been delayed at the ski shop after insisting on a pair of 180cm skis even though he was only five foot five. Jenna had gone ahead with Susan and the girls leaving Marcus to sort out the situation. “Did you get the 180’s?” she asked.

  Marcus dropped his shiny new skis and poles into the snow. “I ended up buying a pair. That Bruno character wasn’t shifting. He said he didn’t think they were the right length for me
and he wasn’t willing to have me skiing around in the wrong sized skis when they have his shop name on them. So I’ve bought myself a pair of Rossignol 180’s instead.”

  Jenna shrugged. “I’m five foot nine and I only wear 170’s.”

  “Ahh, but the more skilled the skier, the longer the skis.”

  Jenna didn’t have time to get into a discussion. “I’m not sure that’s true, but you can prove your point right now. Get them on then and jump onto the magic carpet. I’ll need to see you coming down the nursery slope.”

  Marcus briskly shook his head. “Heavens no, I’ll be with you and Susan in the advanced group.”

  Jenna signalled to the top of the snowy mound at Susan and the remaining St Wilf’s girls. “I’ve asked Susan to ski down too. I just like to be sure.”

  Tiara Taundry-Thompson was frantically waving her ski poles at the top of the slope desperate to have a turn. “Come on then, Triple-T,” shouted Jenna, “show me what you’ve got!”

  The girl with the luminous green ski suit fixed her legs into the snow plough position and pushed off with her poles. The resulting trip down the slope was slow and unsteady.

  Jenna clapped her hands together. “Good attempt. But I’d like to start you off in the beginners with Lisa, please. Could you go and stand over on the right hand side, Tiara.”

  Tiara Taundry-Thompson looked slightly miffed. “Really?”

  “Yes. But Lisa will move you up if she thinks it’s too easy for you.” Jenna smiled. “You definitely win the award for the best outfit though.” She gave the young girl a thumbs-up. “I love luminous green!”

  Tiara’s face burst into a huge smile. “Thanks, Jenna!” she said, shuffling happily to the right.

  Champagne was jabbing the fresh snow with her ski pole, stabbing out her initials. She looked up at Jenna who was coming back over to the group. “Professor Ramsbottom, did you know that Madam Quinn and Jenna were in the same class at St Wilf’s?”

  Marcus was still struggling to clip his boots into his skis. “That I did. I’m sure they’ll regale us with many an anecdote when we’re up on the slopes.”