And then the two of them slip into French, making me feel even more the odd-woman-out. Instead of saying something, I pretend to be oblivious, captivated by the view, which actually isn’t too much of a stretch – why, I would like to know, is snow tumbling from just that one roof down there? Wouldn’t the wind be catching the whole row? It’s then I realise there are two men with shovels – or rakes or brooms or some custom-made combo of the three – systematically brushing and scraping the snow off the edge and sending it cascading down onto the street below. And I thought chimney sweeps had tough working conditions.
Annique notices my stare and tells me that it is a safety precaution, but I have to say the houses look far prettier heaped with snow – while its neighbours have the equivalent of a full head of hair, the cleared one looks as if it got its head shaved with semiblunt clippers, leaving scrappy little patches—
‘Okay,’ Annique interrupts my inner pontifications. ‘Time to go.’
Oh thank goodness.
‘So I’ll just go back to the room and get into my warm gear and then meet you in the lobby?’
‘Perfect.’
I can’t get out of there quick enough. But of course they are right behind me and there is an interminable wait for the lift. At one point I hear her give a girlish giggle behind me and I feel sick.
‘This is a nightmare!’ I wail to Laurie via Skype. ‘And look at what I have to wear today!’
‘Oh jeez,’ she grimaces at my ski pants, and I don’t mean the sleek black kind, rather the bulky, extra-padded, ‘see you on the piste’ version.
‘Okay. Take a breath,’ she soothes. ‘There is clearly no competing with her on a physical level. Besides, when he saw you the first time you were in thermals and a sleeping bag, so really you look positively svelte in comparison.’
‘True.’
‘Besides … ’
‘Yes?’
‘If they really have got something going, then you wouldn’t want his philandering pants anyway.’
I sigh. ‘You’re right.’
‘I mean, if he gets itchy feet in a matter of days … ’
‘I know, I’m just so … ’ I try to identify exactly what I am feeling. ‘Mad. And embarrassed. And indignant!’ I sigh. ‘And baffled.’
‘Baffled?’
‘Of course it makes perfect sense that two such genetically stunning individuals join forces. There is a certain inevitability to their attraction. It’s not that … ’
‘What then?’
I slump on the corner of the bed. ‘If Gilles is making “voilà” with a goddess like Annique, then why oh why was he kissing me last night?’
CHAPTER FOUR
As I collect up my bag and head for the lift, it strikes me that this is the first non-Andrew man Laurie has coached me on.
I must have been midway through my marriage when I first met her. It wasn’t exactly our finest hour. We were attending a fancy manor house wedding in Oxfordshire and I remember Andrew being testy from the first toast. It didn’t help that every other couple at our table were Fast-Trackers – one man had just got a great new job paying double his former salary, the woman to his left was pregnant with twins, another couple had just bought their dream home complete with walk-in closets and a trickly stream at the bottom of the garden … We might have been able to out-holiday every one of them, but as far as Andrew was concerned we were just shuffling along in the economy passenger lane of life. He didn’t like that. He was always very competitive.
Anyway, towards the end of the evening we were on the dance floor – which actually used to be our happy place; it’s how we met – when my big toe was skewered by a fake Louboutin.
The perpetrator might as well have taken a corkscrew from the bar and twisted it in, it hurt that much. Andrew was mortified, not at my injury but a) that I was causing a scene with my hopping and yelping and b) I was getting blood on Lord Fetherington-Ashby’s carpet on the way back to our table.
‘Christ! Who in their right mind dances in bare feet when everyone else is in dagger heels?’
‘I think the question is more who in their right mind dances in dagger heels?’ I countered. ‘Do you have any idea how little support they offer?’
‘Normal women, Krista. Normal women wear high heels, not these old lady concoctions,’ he taunted, dangling my shoe in front of my face.
‘I’ll have you know these are professional dance shoes!’ I snatched it back from his hand. ‘Look, you can bend the sole in half, they are so supple.’
‘Is that supposed to be a selling point?’
‘It is to me.’
‘And what kind of poor excuse is that for a heel? It looks like they stuck a matchbox on the end and sprayed it silver.’
‘Forgive me for wanting to be comfortable.’
‘It’s not about comfort, it’s about looking good. Everyone else is suffering, why can’t you?’
I blinked back at him. ‘You want me to suffer?’
‘I just don’t understand why you have to be the odd one out!’
‘Why can’t I be like everyone else?’ I stated back to him.
I knew what he was really getting at here. It wasn’t about the shoes at all.
But he didn’t want to get into that so instead he huffed, ‘You brought this on yourself – find your own damn plaster.’
At which point he turned and stomped off.
I thought about crying, and potentially embarrassing him all the more, but then a face appeared from under the drapes of the tablecloth.
‘Don’t mind me!’ chirped a wavy-haired brunette with a Sandra-Bullock smile.
Initially I was too taken aback to speak.
‘I didn’t mean to be eavesdropping but I sneaked under here for a covert piece of wedding cake and then you two came over and I didn’t like to crawl out mid-argument so… ’
‘I’m sorry you had to hear all that nonsense.’ I cringed.
‘I’m sorry your toe got assaulted. That’s a pretty messy situation.’
And she would know – being right at eye level with it.
‘Could you pass me a glass of water?’
I reached over to the tabletop and passed one to her.
‘And a napkin.’
‘There’s another slice of cake here, hasn’t been touched—’
‘No, no, I’m fine.’
She then dipped the napkin in the water and started to dab away the excess blood. I flinched a couple of times so she held an ice cube in place to numb it. Then she tore at the napkin with her teeth.
‘Careful!’ I exclaimed.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got fangs like a Rottweiler.’
She took the narrower strip and bound my toe and then asked me to hand her one of the cocktail sticks to secure it.
‘Looks like one of those pigs-in-a-blanket hors d’oeuvres!’ I giggled.
At which point she emerged fully from the table and rather surprised me with a perfectly normal figure. I suppose I thought from the secret cake-eating she might be rather voluptuous, but not at all.
‘If you don’t mind me asking – do you have some kind of eating disorder?’
‘Yes I do,’ she nodded gravely. ‘His name is Eric.’
‘Eric?’
‘My boyfriend. Soon to be ex. But it’s not always as easy to get out of a relationship as it is to get into them, is it? I keep hoping he’ll give me an ultimatum – “It’s me or the cake!” and then I’d choose the cake, obviously, and lead a very happy cream-frosted life.’
I gave a little chuckle.
And then she sighed and reached for what was formerly my wine glass. ‘They’re always so nice in the beginning, aren’t they? Back when they loved you just the way you are.’
‘Or the way they think you are.’
She gave me a sideways glance. ‘Do you know what helps me get through Eric’s rants?’
‘What?’ I was keen to know.
‘Buddha.’
I felt a smidgeon of c
oncern as she twisted her mint chiffon frock around to face me., praying - somewhat ironically I realise now - please don’t let her be a religious nut!
‘So this guy comes up to Buddha and he’s full of vitriol,’ she began, ‘nothing nice to say, going on and on at Buddha, complaining about everything he does wrong, everything that irritates him, really letting him have it. And so Buddha, who is completely unfazed, by the way, says, “Let me ask you a question – if you bought a gift and gave it to someone and they didn’t accept it, who would the gift belong to?”
‘“Well, to me I suppose,” he replied. “Since I paid for it.”
‘And so Buddha said, “I don’t accept the insults you bring to me. I am returning them to you. The gift now belongs to you. Every bit of it.”’
My jaw dropped. ‘I love it! That’s brilliant!’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Brilliant!’ I raved.
‘What’s brilliant?’ I looked up to find Andrew glaring impatiently.
‘Just this funny story that … ’ I stop. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.’
‘Laurie,’ she said, reaching for my hand.
‘Krista,’ I said, shaking hers. ‘This is Andrew.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, getting to her feet.
‘Yowwwww!’ Andrew squealed like a pig, jumping back from her.
‘Oh I’m sorry! Did I tread on your foot?’ She hoiked up her hem to reveal the deadliest of spikes. ‘Good thing you’re wearing proper shoes or that would’ve really hurt!’
And with a covert wink at me, she left.
I still have what was left of that napkin – first I offered it to Andrew to dab away his tears and then, on the way home in the car, I used it to hide my immovable grin.
I didn’t see her again for nearly two months. Which is ridiculous when you think that little more than a pane of glass separated us every morning – her travel agency was on my route to work and I used to get off the bus a stop early so I could walk past and daydream about the special offers in the window – typically to a Greek island. It didn’t matter which one – anything was preferable to going into the office for me at that point. The magazine I was working for had cut the travel section altogether in favour of more weight-loss before and afters – you too can shed seven stone with just three life-threatening surgeries and a lifetime’s supply of watercress soup!
And then this one day I’d actually stopped to take a snap of an ad for a beachside studio in this little fishing village, thinking the sunshine and simplicity could be just what Andrew and I needed to fall in love again, and there was this face on the other side of the glass sticking up a bargain deal for Sharm El Sheikh.
Our eyes widened in recognition, she beckoned me inside and offered me a seat and the opportunity to be late for work.
I took both.
‘They’re still together, you know?’ She updated me on the newlyweds as she handed me a cup of real leaf tea.
‘Wow. No one thought they’d see the end of the honeymoon, let alone three whole months!’
‘I know, just goes to show … ’
‘You never know.’
‘You never do,’ she giggled.
‘Are you still with … Eric was it?’
‘Nope!’
‘You did it?’ I cheered.
‘Well, let’s just say it’s done.’
‘Oh. I’m so pleased for you, however it happened! I mean, obviously it’s upsetting, I’m sure but—’
‘It’s the right thing.’
‘Yes.’
‘What about you?’
‘Still with Andrew.’ I nodded. ‘He’s not all bad, really. We’ve got this situation that is making things a bit tense. Well, a lot tense. I think we just need to get to the acceptance stage and then we’ll be fine.’
And then my mobile buzzed a message from my boss and I had to leave so we decided to continue our chat over lunch.
But there was always so much more to say, so we ended up meeting almost every day, talking about man stuff at first and then our mutual adoration of all things travel. That’s when we got the idea for Va-Va-Vacation! It was one of those, ‘What I’d really like to do is … ’ conversations that leads to, ‘Well, why don’t you?’ And then, ‘Why don’t we?’
At first we thought it would be more of a fun sideline than a full-time job, and it was certainly extremely helpful that we both had an alternative source of income for those initial months, setting up and working through exactly what we were hoping to achieve.
Things really started coming together when we got Danielle on board. You are nothing these days without a sharp, savvy website design, and she’s just brilliant at triggering that ‘I want to be there!’ response. So many travel websites are too text-heavy on their Home page, I feel. Images transport you in an instant, which is why we decided to invest heavily in photography – our own unique take rather than the generic stock shots you see used over and over. We wanted everything to feel fresh – the look, our approach, the design of our itineraries. For us it’s all about: how do you want to feel when you get there?
Exhilarated? Serene? Amazed? Carefree? Pampered? Sophisticated? Cultured? Earthy? Sexy? All of the above?
We can make that happen!
I’m all about the sensory experience – the sound of Spanish castanets, the sight of a whale tail breaching in Alaska, the taste of real Italian spaghetti sauce, the feel of Kashmirian cashmere, the smell of the durian fruit of Thailand – so pungently foul that you are forbidden to bring it into the posher hotels.
Laurie, on the other hand, loves the logistics – putting together flights and transfers like a puzzle, all to minimise your time in transit (not just airport layovers but sitting in taxis in rush hour watching the meter tick away your cocktail money) and maximise your time in your chosen location. And she loves to haggle – not with street vendors but hotel managers.
‘Come on, Ferdinand – what would you rather have: ten empty casitas valued at three hundred pounds a night or ten full ones with guests paying a hundred? And you know they’ll end up eating at your restaurant – no one can beat your tortillas!’
She’s a really fast worker too – I only have to mention we’ve had a lot of interest in Ireland lately and I find myself in Dublin with a Guinness moustache. It’s like having a fairy godmother with Airmiles. The fact that she had amassed so very many over the years was a huge, huge help to our initial budgeting. (Even though the airlines find other ways to jack up the cost of your ‘free’ flight.)
None of us is pulling a huge salary but it really doesn’t matter. As Danielle says, she’s got to be the only person in Britain making minimum wage who got to Morecambe and the Maldives last year. (And I should add that Morecombe is where her granny lives, not a Va-Va-Vacation! destination.) We give her nearly all the beach destinations to review because that’s what she lives for. No one is more experienced at sunbathing with a hangover than Danielle. And she always finds the ultimate sheltered cove, the yummiest picnic lunches and even rates the local waiters according to their flirtiness vs attractiveness ratio.
One of our more popular features is the What I Packed/What I Wore section, where we photograph the contents of our suitcase like those little cut-out wardrobes for a paper doll and then put a big red tick by the items that got the most wear.
Already I’m wishing I’d brought a second set of thermals and noting that those fluffy Dr Zhivago hats look like a wet cat on your head when the snow melts and soggifies the faux fur. I’ll also be reminding our readers to pack their sunglasses – as cold as it is, that snow is squint-inducingly bright.
In essence we are your travel guinea pigs – going ahead to a destination to make all the mistakes you won’t have to. We’re always upfront about the downsides to a destination. And not just the poverty in India or how much you’ll have to pay for a beer in Reykjavik. I remember Laurie asking me about the worst part of my trip to Salzburg and I said, ‘Having to call Andrew every nigh
t.’
I’d have these zingy, inspiring days – totally loved The Sound of Music Tour! – and then the second I heard his voice I’d feel this weight descending on me, this crushing realisation that he wasn’t really paying attention or interested, that no part of him was wishing he was sitting beside me in the coffee house sharing my apple strudel.
It wasn’t long after this trip that he concluded we ‘wanted different things’, but the truth was we both wanted one thing above all else and only one of us could have it.
I sigh.
I mustn’t dwell on this now. No one here knows anything about my relationship history. As far as they’re concerned I could be delighted about being single again! Yes, I had to let go of a thousand hopes and dreams but now I’m back to that state where anything is possible. Anything!
Which brings me back to the mysterious Monsieur Gilles …
CHAPTER FIVE
Unfortunately it is not possible to garner any more clues from Gilles’ facial expressions, since all that is visible now is his nose.
The remainder of his face is hidden beneath his hat, sunglasses and chin-covering scarf. If it wasn’t for his camera I wouldn’t even be able to tell him apart from the rest of the Carnival-goers.
Annique informs me that Quebec was founded on fur trading, but today I think the most desirable commodity would be Puffa fabric by the yard. We’re all at it, be it waist-, knee- or ankle-length. Wet-look or matte. Tubular or belted. Of course the kids look the cutest in their bright pinks and yellows, like squishy Jelly Babies come to life. I notice that the majority of the under-twos are being pulled along by their parents on a shiny plastic sled. I can’t believe how blasé they are – arms lolling out to the side, some of them even sleeping! I want to shake them and say, ‘Do you have any idea how cold it is?’
But no one – of any age – is complaining, or even wincing: they are all taking it in their stride.
‘Woah!’ I experience an ungainly skid on a covert ice patch, prompting Annique to link arms with me, and then Gilles.
WINTER WONDERLAND Page 4
