Chalet Girls

by Lorraine Wilson

  I thought I’d come to terms with it.

  Apparently not. It appears I never stopped hoping.

  I think he probably did love me, in his own buttoned-up way. Probably in the same way as he loved his best milking cows, but almost certainly less than he cared for Tess, our working collie dog. The big surprise is that until this moment I didn’t realise how much I loved him. Now my control is shattered, the emotion spills out in an ugly mess of childish longing and the searing pain of rejection that grew in intensity with every look of disgust or dismissal.

  Oh God. Fresh pain assaults me and I have to clench my teeth to keep from howling. My hands form tight fists, nails digging into flesh, as though I can claw the feelings back and squash them down inside me.

  ‘What can I do to help you?’ Sophie squeezes my arm and the action tethers me.

  I breathe in slowly, gathering myself together. Stepping back from the brink of something unbearable.

  ‘I need to speak to Holly,’ I say. ‘I need to go to Scotland for a week or two and I have to check if that’s going to be okay.’

  ‘It will definitely be okay. There’s no doubt about that, so don’t worry. I can speak to Holly for you if you like,’ Sophie reassures me, continuing to stroke my back. ‘So you’re going to need to go to Chalet Repos first and pack a few things. Tell you what, I’ll drive you there and then you can use your phone to book a flight to Scotland during the trip to the chalet. Does that sound like a plan?’

  ‘Thanks, Sophie.’ I pull myself together and stand up, needing to move and take action.

  Once we’re in Sophie’s car I use my phone to book a flight for the next morning before we’ve even exited the hospital car park. At least it’s ski season, so there are direct flights from Geneva to Inverness. The journey home in summer involves a lot more hassle.

  ‘Are you close to your dad, Sophie?’ I ask. I rest my head back against the headrest, exhausted by the tension of the day. My whole body aches as if I’ve got flu. It’s an effort to talk, but I need to. It’s preferable to the other option – being left to the mercy of my own thoughts.

  ‘Yes, I get on better with Dad than Mum.’ Sophie indicates and exits the automatic barrier, driving the car out towards the autoroute. ‘He’s got a sense of humour, which is a good start.’

  ‘I didn’t get on that well with mine. It sounds so awful to say that now he’s dead.’ I stare bleakly at the trail of red brake lights stretching out in front of us. ‘Now I’ll never get the chance to put that right.’

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut, willing the full weight of grief to keep its distance for a little longer.

  Sophie is quiet for a minute before she replies.

  ‘I think you’re probably grieving for the father he wasn’t, as well as for the father he was.’ Her soft, thoughtful words pierce me with their truth.

  Grief for the father he wasn’t and the father he will never be now.

  ‘I think you’re right.’ I continue to stare out the window, wondering about the occupants of all the other cars around us. Are they happy? Is there such a thing as a normal, happy family? I honestly have no idea. I suppose the other drivers are probably concerned about getting home, what they’ll eat for tea, problems at work or credit-card debt …

  Today, with Seb’s accident and Dad’s stroke, life feels incredibly fragile. All those other concerns we normally give such weight to seem trivial by comparison. So much of what we worry about is irrelevant. Death feels close, haunting me and taunting me with its power to rip away those I love in a split second. It sneers at our complacency, at our delusional belief that we’re in control of our destinies. The ground can crack around us and swallow us whole. Quite literally, in Seb’s case.

  I wonder what time Dad died. Before or after Seb’s accident? I’m suddenly seized with the bizarre notion that Dad died because Seb lived. I had to lose someone today. It’s nonsense, I know it is. I have to stop these thoughts from taking root.

  It hits me full force what Estelle nearly losing her father today means. I get Gabriella’s fury. Can I really be with a man who willingly cheats death for a living? Or do I choose to live with my nerves in shreds every time he competes or is filming? There’s a possibility that surviving the avalanche will make Seb even more reckless. He might believe he really is invincible.

  ‘Talk to me, Sophie. Talk about anything except death. I need distracting,’ I murmur.

  ‘Okay, um, what did you want to talk about?’

  ‘Tell me about your wedding. I need to think about something nice.’

  I glance over to see a pained look flash across Sophie’s face.

  ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ I frown, confused.

  I do hope nothing is wrong with Sophie and Luc. They‘re so perfect together. Sophie deserves to be loved the way Luc loves her. Why is their wedding a sore subject?

  ‘We could talk about the inside gossip from Chalet Repos and Chalet Amélie?’ She suggests. ‘Is it true Tash threatened Amelia with a bread knife the other day?’

  ‘Not quite.’ I smile, but it feels stiff, my face locked in grief. ‘Amelia blew it way out of proportion. To be fair to Tash, Amelia has been getting a little…’

  ‘Up herself?’ Sophie suggests.

  ‘That‘s one way of putting it.’ A ghost of a smile twitches at my lips.

  I settle in for a gossip session, anything to forget the numbness creeping through me. Trying not to think about how hard going back to Scotland will be and how I don‘t want to leave Seb.

  Trying not to think about death.

  Chapter 15

  SOPHIE

  By the time I get back from the hospital, Luc is locking up the bar. His forehead is creased and his face drawn with exhaustion. I get the impression we‘re both guilty of lying by omission, to avoid hurting each other. It‘s creating a barrier between us and I hate that. Maybe I should take the plunge and talk to him, properly talk to him. The idea terrifies me. I feel like our life together is a precariously balanced tower of Jenga pieces. Telling the truth about what‘s going on might mean pulling out that one crucial wooden block that is keeping the others up. If all those wooden building blocks of our life together come tumbling down, I don‘t know what I‘ll do or how we‘ll ever rebuild.

  When Luc catches sight of me he smiles and the frown lines disappear.

  For my benefit.

  Something twists inside me. We can‘t keep doing this. Lying to protect each other is still lying. Even if it‘s for all the best reasons.

  ‘How is Lucy? Is Seb going to be okay?’ He wraps his arms around me and some of the tension of the day seeps away. I cuddle into him, reassured by his solidity. I don‘t think I could ever get tired of this feeling, this instant warmth and knowledge that Luc is on my side. We‘re a ‚we‘ and I love it.

  I think of the avalanche and how precarious life can be and hug Luc even tighter.

  ‘Seb‘s got a bad concussion but he‘ll be okay.’ I sigh, my head on his chest, reassured by his solid heartbeat. ‘Lucy isn‘t doing so well, though. While we were at the hospital she got the news from home that her dad had just died from a stroke. It came out of the blue – no warning at all – so she‘s in shock. I suppose even if she’d had any warning it would still be a lot to cope with all in one day. The avalanche, Seb’s near-miss and her dad dying. It‘s terrible timing.’

  ‘Poor girl.’ Luc reacts to my firm grip by tightening his hold on me too, as though he‘s afraid to let me go. I wonder if he‘s thinking about the day he‘ll get the news about his own father. ‘Her dad can‘t have been that old, surely?’

  ‘No, he was only fifty-five.’ I leave my head resting against Luc‘s chest, still gleaning comfort from the steady, reassuring thrum of his heartbeat.

  How can something so real, so solid, at the same time be so fragile? Hearts get diseased, arteries clogged or valves leaking. One day all our hearts will fail to beat, but we
don‘t think of it happening to us.

  When we‘re young, dying is something other people do. It‘s so distant in our future we pretend we don‘t need to think about it yet.

  With Luc‘s Dad‘s prognosis we can‘t pretend any more.

  Death is closer tonight. I shiver and hold on to Luc, trying to ignore the fear that has crept into the shadows.

  ‘Sophie, I‘ve been thinking we should get married sooner rather than later,’ Luc says, then kisses me on the forehead.

  ‘What, why?’ I pull away and look up at his face, the shiver of fear transforming into full-on panic.

  I don‘t want to do this now, when we‘re both so tired. Big conversations shouldn‘t be allowed to happen when you‘re too shattered to form coherent sentences.

  ‘Dad wants to see us marry,’ Luc says. ‘Mum hasn‘t said anything because she doesn‘t want to pressure you, Sophie, but we really need to start making concrete plans soon if that‘s going to happen.’

  His frown lines make a reappearance and my chest constricts as panic grips me. Several answers rise to my lips and fall away again unspoken.

  Frick. Frick. Frick. What do I do?

  ‘Sophie?’ Luc‘s frown deepens.

  ‘Yes?’ I stall for time.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Hmm, it‘s been a draining day.’ I close my eyes and inhale his familiar scent. ‘Believe me, Luc, there‘s nothing in the world I want more than to marry you, but it‘s complicated.’

  ‘What‘s complicated?’ Luc leads me to a table and puts two chairs back down on the floor. ‘Sit, let‘s talk.’

  ‘Now? But we‘re both really tired.’

  ‘If not now, then when? We‘re always tired at the moment. What‘s so complicated, Sophie?’ He ignores my pathetic attempt at deflection. ‘You say you want to marry me and I want to marry you, so what‘s so difficult about that?’

  He holds my hand and massages the palm with his thumb, teasing away my reticence and reminding me we‘re connected.

  ‘There‘s too many people to keep happy.’ My voice catches and I blink back hot tears, but they trickle down my cheeks despite my best efforts.

  ‘All that matters to me right now is that you‘re happy, Sophie.’ He pulls me onto his lap and strokes my back.

  ‘I … don‘t … deserve … you,’ I choke out. ‘I don‘t want to add to your stress at the moment, but it‘s really not that simple.’

  ‘So talk to me now. I can handle it and you know I won‘t take no for an answer. Besides, you know I have ways of making you talk.’

  His hands skim my breasts and run over my thighs. I sigh with pleasure, more tension leeching away with each caress. With his fingers he reminds me I‘m his, his touch challenging and melting the barriers between us.

  ‘That could be fun.’ I manage a smile.

  ‘Please tell me what‘s wrong, chère Sophie. I can‘t help fix it if I don‘t know what the problem is.’ His lips tighten with frustration. ‘And it doesn’t matter how tired or stressed I am, you can always talk to me. Always.’

  ‘Okay, so to start with I told Mum,’ I whisper. ‘Like you told me to. About not being able to have children.’

  ‘How did she take it?’ Luc kisses me tenderly on the top of my head.

  ‘Um, Mum was upset but, and this is why I’m stressed …’ I pause. ‘She wants to plan us the wedding she’s always dreamed of for me. Back home in England, I mean. She and Dad have been saving for years. She’s been hoarding wedding magazines and fabric swatches. I’ve just robbed her of her dreams for grandchildren. I didn’t have the heart to reject her wedding plans too. Not at the same time.’

  I haven’t explained it properly. I’m too tired to describe the complex and precarious mother-daughter dynamic and how much a Lake District wedding, with all Mum’s WI friends, means to her. I don’t want to say I feel my loyalties are torn because that sounds unsupportive to Luc and yet he means the world to me.

  This is why you don’t have these discussions late at night. It’s so much easier by email when you can edit what you’ve written. If only speech had a delete button, so many arguments could be avoided.

  ‘She knows about my father being ill, right?’ Luc frowns and I know he doesn’t understand.

  I take a deep breath and try to assemble the right words, the ones that will enable me to walk the loyalty tightrope and reach the other side without falling.

  ‘Yes,’ I say slowly. ‘But I don’t think she’s connected all the dots. I don’t know if it’s the same in Switzerland but in England it’s traditional for the parents of the bride to pay for the wedding or at least help pay for it and the bride’s mother is usually heavily involved in the planning. I think Mum’s got her mother-of-the-bride blinkers on.’

  And in Mum’s case it’s not so much get involved in the planning as steamroller her own plans ahead regardless of anyone else! How do I explain that there’s often the emotional blackmail of being the bankroller attached, if the parents of the bride are so inclined? Probably best not to add this. I’m fairly sure Mum wouldn’t do anything like that in a calculating way.

  At least, I do hope not. Hmm.

  Luc’s frowns deepens. ‘But my parents must be at our wedding, Sophie. That’s non-negotiable.’

  ‘I know, of course I want them there and I’d far rather have a much simpler ceremony over here.’ I sigh, a hot pressure at the back of my eyes issuing an imminent tears warning. I blink them back. Yet another reason not to do these conversations when you’re tired. I bite the inside of my lip and manage not to lose it.

  ‘I also don’t want the next six months to be about choosing napkin colours or working out how to accommodate the wishes of relatives I haven’t seen for ten years,’ I add. ‘But how am I going to break Mum’s heart for the second time in quick succession, Luc? What if she never speaks to me again?’

  I battle the unshed tears while I wait for Luc’s response. He regards me silently, his expression inscrutable. I have no idea what’s going on in his head. A wave of panic surges up inside me. My chest feels so tight I don’t know how my lungs are still working.

  The cupboard I’ve squashed all my feelings into – all my failure, my inadequacies, my inability to give Luc what he needs, come crashing out, overflowing in a tide of messy, painful emotion. I open my mouth and am speaking before I know it, the words carried along on that dark tidal wave.

  ‘Also, Luc, I’ve been thinking maybe we shouldn’t rush things because of … you know, the adoption stalemate. No, please don’t say anything.’ I place a hand on his chest. Now the dam is breached, this can’t be stopped. ‘When you proposed to me you knew we couldn’t have our own biological children, but we both assumed we’d be able to adopt. Now that’s not going to be an option, I think you ought to take some time to be sure you really want a future with no children in it.’

  My voice catches and I squeeze my eyes so tightly shut it hurts to keep the tears back. There’s some initial relief that I’ve let the words escape, but now they’re out there I’m terrified of the damage they might do.

  What have I done? The thought starts as an internal whisper and quickly grows in intensity to a berating wail. I don’t care if it was the right thing to do, I already want to claw the words back.

  I need that fricking delete key.

  ‘Sophie, I want a future with you.’ The violence of Luc’s tone takes me aback and I open my eyes. ‘We will work things out.’

  ‘But …’ The words wither and die on my lips.

  Why can‘t I just shut the hell up? It‘s Luc‘s decision. I‘ve given him the choice. That‘s enough.

  ‘Shush.’ Luc places a finger on my lips, clearly agreeing with me. Then he silences me with his mouth. The long, lingering kiss is delivered with a passionate intensity that leaves me breathless.

  I feel weak, exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster of the day. So I don‘t protest when Luc stands up, scooping me into his arms and carrying me up the stairs to our litt
le flat. He heads straight for the bedroom. Once he‘s deposited me on the bed he tugs and pulls at my clothing, stripping me naked with a fierce urgency. Lowering his mouth to my body he covers my skin with kisses. He strokes my thighs, my stomach and my chest and then follows with his mouth where his fingers laid the trail.

  He caresses my breasts reverentially, making me feel treasured and wanted.

  Luc wants me. It‘s going to be okay. I can scarcely dare to believe it.

  After licking and teasing my erect nipples he kisses down my stomach and then presses his lips to my sex. I moan when his tongue makes contact with my clit. As he sucks and teases the delicate nub of nerve endings with practised ease he thrusts first one and then two fingers inside me. I contract around his fingers, wanting more and arching my hips up to meet his tongue.

  I silence the voice that says we should be talking. Luc‘s always been good at speaking through actions. I‘m not such a masochist that I want to force this issue. I need this physical reassurance of his desire for me, of his love. It heals and restores me.

  Pulsing pleasure throbs and builds between my legs. Luc holds my hips to keep me still and I cry out his name as he tips me over the edge into a shattering orgasm. Before I‘ve recovered from the aftershock he‘s stripped off and his hard erection presses at my entrance. He enters me with one hard thrust, a perfect fit. He knows I love him doing that while I‘m still sensitive.

  Although I‘m expecting the friction, I still gasp. He pauses, staring down at me, piercing me with his gaze as well as his erection.

  ‘Sophie. Je t‘adore. Toujours.’ His words unlock something deep inside me and I wrap my legs around his back, pressing the soles of my feet against his buttocks and pulling him inside me, deeper still. The hard thrusts go some way to obliterating my fear and insecurity. My fingers grip his back, pulling him in, needing to take his love into the darkest, deepest parts of me.