Googling photos of the town was one thing, but there were no photos she could scroll through to get a sense of the man she was about to meet – he didn’t even have a social media account.
At home, she’d booked a shuttle transfer online to take her from the airport to the resort and now, exhausted from a lack of sleep the night before and her mind-numbing flight, she was glad she had. With an apprehensive tickle deep in her gut, she grabbed her suitcase and began to drag it towards the exit. Eyes trained on the signage for her shuttle company, she hardly noticed the huge lumbering suitcase roll into her path until she tripped over a wheel and found herself thrown into the arms of a stranger.
‘What the…’ She blinked, horrified as she looked up at the man. But he looked as shocked as she did.
‘I am so sorry! My case just sort of… veered off… on its own merry way…’
Extricating herself from his arms she smoothed a hand over her jacket and shot him an indignant glower.
‘You’re alright?’ he asked, seemingly untroubled by what Isla thought was her best death stare.
‘This time. But it’s only through a huge stroke of luck – it could have been much worse.’
As she walked away she could hear him continuing a stammered, shame-faced apology. She was stressed, alone in a foreign land and uncertain of what lay ahead of her – the last thing she needed right now was some goofball trying to floor her with his suitcase and then a fifty-page dissertation explaining how sorry he was. The fact that he wasn’t a bad-looking goofball didn’t even begin to excuse it. Isla shook herself. He was wearing a tweed jacket for God’s sake. And was that an actual bow tie? Who in the hell under the age of sixty even wore bow ties these days? This guy and James Bond apparently, although James Bond never wore one that was blue with white polka dots. Isla’s thoughts drifted to Dodie. Her best friend, with her nutty obsession over all things vintage and quirky, would probably love this guy. Maybe she ought to go back and get his number – he’d be a darned sight better suited to Dodie than her current boyfriend, Ryan, was.
Isla batted away the idea. Her stress levels were filling her head with the strangest ideas. There was a shuttle seat with her name on it and all she needed to think about right now was getting to St Martin-de-Belleville. The sooner she could see what was waiting for her, the better she could start figuring out how to deal with it.
She woke with a jolt, peeling her cheek from the bus window. She’d been determined not to fall asleep and miss the scenery and yet she’d done just that almost as soon as the shuttle had left the airport compound. The bus was already pulled up in a parking bay, the cut of the engine waking her, and her fellow passengers were grabbing bags and coats in their haste to get off. A low rumble of barely contained excitement and anticipation rippled through the coach. Isla rubbed her eyes and leaned her head back on the seat; what did it matter if she took five minutes or fifteen to get off? It wasn’t like she had anywhere to rush off to. At least, not today.
With a yawn she pulled her phone from her bag and flicked to her emails to check the booking details for her stay over the next week. The confirmation message contained a map and a link, which Isla clicked. Her hotel, Residence Alpenrose, was a ten-minute walk, just off the main street of the town, though the hotel’s website photo had mountains in it, and she wasn’t sure how on earth it could be just off the main street if there were mountains behind it. No doubt her phone’s GPS would get her to the right place.
Holding valiantly onto that thought, she pulled her coat and hat on, ready to brave the sub-zero temperatures outside. Already the roads had a generous coating of ice and snow, though the bus had felt so sure and safe as it had whizzed to her destination that Isla wondered how it was that one flake of the stuff in Britain would have had the entire country’s road and rail infrastructure at a standstill.
But as she finally stepped off the bus and made her way to the side where the driver was retrieving suitcases from the boot, she looked around herself properly for the first time and stopped breathing. For a lost moment all she could do was stand and stare at the vista that greeted her. The driver cleared his throat and threw her a wry grin as she pulled in a lungful of frozen air and turned to him.
‘Your first time?’ he asked, his perfect English laced with the most delicious French accent.
Isla nodded mutely, her gaze drawn involuntarily back to the white frosted hulks of mountains bearing down on a town of adorable wooden chalets. It was like standing in the middle of a movie, or a travel brochure, and even though she’d looked at a thousand photos of this very same place before she’d left England, nothing could prepare her for the sight of it now. It was right in front of her, but still hard to imagine a place this beautiful could even exist outside of a snow globe.
She continued to stare as the driver moved to help the next passenger retrieve their belongings from the cavernous space beneath the seats of the bus. She’d seen mountains before on a visit to Scotland; she’d even climbed Snowdonia in Wales one particularly energetic Sunday, but this was like nothing she’d ever seen before. Those mountains were like Lego models against a skyscraper. She swivelled round and in every direction was more of the same – high, jagged peaks that bit into the sky, caressed by tendrils of lazy cloud drifting in a sky of vibrant blue, like a fortress of rugged rock throwing its arms around a town of toy-like wooden chalets which tumbled down the lower slopes.
‘Which hotel are you staying at?’
The driver’s voice broke the spell. Isla shook herself, now painfully aware that she probably looked like a simpleton standing and staring ahead.
‘Oh… Residence Alpenrose. Do you know it?’
‘Oui.’ He stuck his arm out to indicate a track covered by snow. ‘Follow this road round to the left and you will see it.’
It didn’t look like much of a road, more of a ski run. She almost wondered whether she ought to be wearing skis, or at the very least snowshoes, though it was too late to worry about that now. She wanted to ask if the hotel was any good, but perhaps it was better if she didn’t know before she got there. He was hardly likely to tell her if it was no good, and even if he did there wasn’t a lot she could do about it anyway. The reservation was made and she was lucky to have one considering the time of year. So she simply nodded. ‘Thanks.’
‘Enjoy your visit,’ he called as she turned to leave.
Beautiful as St Martin-de-Belleville was, under the circumstances that was hardly likely to happen, Isla thought dryly. But he didn’t need to know that.
‘I’m sure I will,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
As she’d feared, madly in love with them though she was, her wedge-heeled boots had turned out to be entirely unsuited to pavements that were layered with a thick crust of solid ice. How she’d arrived at Residence Alpenrose without a broken ankle was a conundrum for the greatest minds of the age to tussle over. One thing was for certain – once her luggage was unpacked, she’d have to head out and get some more sensible footwear. Hefty hiking boots, preferably with crampons or something ought to do it, though they wouldn’t go with a single item of clothing she’d brought with her. Luckily it seemed that every other store she’d passed had been dedicated to the pursuit of the great outdoors, so there were plenty of places to get some. At least the down-filled coat she’d purchased the day before she left England had been a sound investment, although by now, as she stood at the entrance of her hotel, she was sweating beneath it from the exertion of staying upright on her dodgy heels and dragging her massive suitcase behind her.
Residence Alpenrose slotted into its surroundings perfectly, almost as if it was a part of the natural landscape. Built in the style of a typically traditional alpine chalet, unlike some of the more contemporary concrete structures she’d seen, it was nestled in pines and shadowed by the mighty snow-capped peaks. It was a cliché, but as Isla turned her gaze once more to the mountains that stood guard over the town, she could swear that eagles soared high over their snowy hea
ds. It was like a tourism video made real, and for a moment she could hardly believe she was actually here. To her left was the patio area of the hotel – deserted apart from a couple sitting at a table, wrapped in ski gear and removing their boots. They looked up and gave her a vague smile, then continued a conversation they’d been having in French. Isla’s French was rudimentary to say the least – odd phrases alluding to how fond she was of swimming and requesting the way to the train station were about as much as she could remember from school, and now she was beginning to wish she’d made an effort to improve it before she’d come. Perhaps most of the tourist establishments would have English speakers helping out, otherwise she’d have to get a translating app for her phone or track down a phrasebook in one of the many shops.
She was caught by a sudden yawn. After all the excitement (or trauma, depending on how you looked at it) of getting here, maybe a little nap was in order.
Making her way up to the steps that marked the entrance, tracks on them showing they’d recently been cleared of a fresh snowfall, she let out an impatient sigh. Of course she’d booked the one hotel that had steps to negotiate with a heavy suitcase, the very last thing she needed right now.
As she opened the front doors, however, she quickly decided that she could forgive a few steps. Setting foot in the lobby, she felt immediately at home amongst the rustic wooden furniture, stone floors and warm terracotta-painted walls. She was greeted at the reception desk by a welcoming smile from the grey-haired attendant. ‘Bonjour.’
‘I have a reservation,’ Isla said, deciding that any attempt to reply in French might lead to a response she couldn’t hope to understand. Besides, the hotel website had made a great point of the fact that their staff spoke English. ‘At least I hope I do. In the name of McCoy. Isla McCoy…’
The receptionist nodded with that supremely reassuring smile that only hotel receptionists know how to give. ‘One moment please,’ she said, and it was now Isla noticed that although she spoke perfect English, her accent sounded American. Isla peered over the desk as the woman checked a ledger with a list of handwritten names snaking down the page, intrigued by the quaintness of it and wondering where the computer was hidden. But there was no sign of one, just lists and paperwork and the vast leather-bound ledger. She couldn’t help a wry inward smile.
‘Oh yes,’ the receptionist continued. ‘Here you are.’ She made a mark against Isla’s name on the list and trotted over to a large board covered in hanging keys. She took one of them down and handed it to Isla. ‘Room twenty-two. That’s on the first floor – you can take the lift over there. Would you like me to get someone to take your bags up for you?’
Isla shook her head as she unzipped her massive coat. ‘I can manage, thanks.’
‘If you’re sure…’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Breakfast is between seven and ten. If you’d like to make dinner reservations come and see me any time. And welcome to St Martin-de-Belleville.’
Isla forced a smile and made her way to the lifts. The doors were just closing as she heard the hotel receptionist greet another guest who sounded English too. She wondered whether there’d be many of them staying at Residence Alpenrose. She was staying there alone and that was just fine, but it might be nice to have the occasional friendly exchange with a fellow guest in a language she could understand.
On the first floor, she located the room easily. No plastic key cards here, just an old-fashioned lock, and Isla turned the key to open the room. It smelt clean and freshly aired, a hefty wooden-framed bed dominating the centre draped in fleecy blankets and furs, ethnic patterned rugs over neutral walls and a huge patio window looking out over the mountains beyond. The room was enormous, with a leather sofa and coffee table, a desk in the corner and bathroom adjoining. Isla wheeled in her suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed. She’d thought Residence Alpenrose a budget option, and it probably was compared to other hotels, but this looked far more expensive than the room she’d booked from the website. Had they upgraded her and forgot to mention? She hoped she wasn’t going to get landed with a bigger bill than she’d anticipated because she wouldn’t dare present it to her dad. But this was the room the receptionist had told her and it tallied with the number on the keys, so it had to be right.
She shrugged off her coat, her boots quickly following as she kicked them across the room and flopped onto the bed. The temperature outside was bitter, but in here it was cosy – too hot for all the layers she’d arrived in, and now she felt sticky and sweaty. She was sleepy too, but not ready to give in until she’d seen a bit of the place. Perhaps a shower was a way to stave off the tiredness for a little longer.
Without a second thought, Isla pulled the curtains shut, opened her suitcase and took out a change of clothes which she laid out on the bed. Then she stripped down to her underwear. A gorgeous, hot shower was calling and she couldn’t wait to get in.
As she reached for the clasp to undo her bra, there was a click in the lock of the door to her room. Isla’s head shot up and she let out a squeal as a man walked in. The shock registered on his face at the same moment as hers, and he blushed violently as he began mumbling confused apologies.
‘I’m so sorry but…’ He began to back out and peered at the door number to check while Isla hurried to pull her clothes back on. He turned to say something else, covering his face with his hands as she yanked her jeans up and fastened them. ‘I think you might be in my room,’ he continued from behind his hands.
‘But I just got the key!’ Isla said as she pulled her sweater over her head.
‘Well I have a key too,’ he said, though this much was obvious given he’d just let himself in.
Isla stubbed her toe on a chair leg as she crossed the room and cursed under her breath. She’d thought the room was a bit more luxurious than the one she’d booked – had there been a mistake? In anticipation of as much, she began to shove her belongings back in her suitcase. All the while, the man was mumbling from behind his hands, clearly unaware that she was now fully clothed. Or perhaps still too embarrassed to show his face. She was about to tell him he could look again when there was movement from the doorway behind him and the receptionist from downstairs raced in.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, looking shame-faced as Isla turned to face her. ‘I’m afraid I gave you the wrong key! Your room is in fact number twenty-five…’ She held up another key with the number on its fob. ‘The key was missing from the hook for this room and I couldn’t understand what I’d done with it when Sebastian checked in so I gave him the skeleton key… I thought I’d just misplaced it – I didn’t realise what I’d done until it was too late… I hope it hasn’t been too much of an inconvenience for you. I hate to ask, but I’m afraid you’ll have to move…’
‘Inconvenience?’ Isla squeaked. ‘I was nearly bloody naked when he came in!’
‘Oh… my…’
The woman looked so genuinely mortified Isla thought she might have to hand her some tissues for when she burst into tears.
‘It’s an easy mistake I suppose,’ Isla added, her tone softer now.
‘I feel just terrible about walking in on you,’ the man said, hands still over his face.
‘You weren’t to know. And you can take your hands away now, because I’m dressed.’
He did as he was asked, but his gaze went straight to the floor. In the semi-darkness of the room it was hard to make out his features. Which was probably a good thing because it meant he hadn’t really seen much of her nakedness either.
‘Give me a minute and I’ll be out of your way.’ Isla began to gather up the last of the belongings scattered across the room and fastened her suitcase.
‘Let me take that for you—’ the man began but Isla pulled the handle out of his way.
‘I can manage,’ she said, refusing to look him in the eye. The little contact they’d already had was awkward enough without prolonging the agony.
‘Right…’ he said, turning to go
back out onto the landing. ‘I suppose I’ll go and get the rest of my bags then.’
In leggy strides he was already halfway down the corridor when Isla emerged from the room she now had to vacate for him.
Dragging her suitcase, she handed back the incorrect key and then followed as the woman led her to room twenty-five, opening the door to admit her. Isla couldn’t do anything but be disappointed as she walked in; while this room was clean and warmly furnished, just like the first one, it was half the size, the window a tiny square of glass overlooking the street below and barely a mountain or a pine needle in sight. But this did, sadly, look exactly like the room she’d booked. Upgrade wafted under her nose and then snatched away again – story of her life. She tried not to let the feeling of disappointment get the better of her as she took the key from the receptionist.
‘I’m so sorry – again; really, I feel just terrible. Please enjoy a complimentary drink at the bar when you’re ready as an apology.’
‘Honestly, there’s no need,’ Isla said, waving the offer away. ‘No harm done in the end.’
‘Well, if there’s anything you need then be sure to shout. I’m Dahlia and I’m at the desk downstairs most hours, so call whenever you want me.’
‘Thank you.’
The woman left and Isla closed the door behind her with a heavy sigh as she took a moment to appraise the room again. It wasn’t high-end luxury, but it was cosy and it had bags of character. She supposed there were far worse places to stay, though it was hard to resign herself to the change when she’d been so utterly spoilt by the first room. Still, perhaps now she could get that shower…
A Cosy Candlelit Christmas: A wonderfully festive feel good romance (An Unforgettable Christmas Book 2) Page 4
