‘Well, I was fine.’ I’m tempted to add ‘no thanks to you’, but I bite my tongue. I don’t want a row. I start clanking towards the exit, feeling like a medieval knight in armour. ‘But I’m exhausted. I need to go home and have a cup of tea and a bath, or a jacuzzi even.’
‘But the others are still here – they’re having hot chocolate. Don’t you want to join them?’
‘Leo, I’m knackered. Can’t we just go home? We can text them.’
‘I think that would be rude,’ Leo says reproachfully.
I stop short and look at him indignantly. He abandoned me halfway up a mountain, and now he’s worried about being rude?
‘I’m sorry if I’m being rude, Leo, but I’ve had a horrible afternoon and I want to go home. I’ll see you back at the chalet.’ I moonwalk off towards the ski hire place, half expecting him to follow me, but he doesn’t. God damn. If this is what happens on skiing holidays, then I wish we’d stayed at home.
‘So what’s happening now?’ says Jenny.
We’ve just finished dinner and everyone’s lying around in front of the fire. David and Leo are playing chess. Nina and I are both reading. Only Jenny is staring straight ahead, arms folded. I’m beginning to realise there’s something properly wrong with her; it’s as if her brain chemistry’s amiss or something. I would feel sorry for her if she wasn’t so mean. Her first words to me when she saw me this evening were, ‘I hear you had an epic fail on the blue slope today.’ I ignored her.
‘This is called r’n’r, Jen,’ says Oliver peacefully, from where he’s sitting with his feet in Rachel’s lap. ‘Rest and recovery. Or is it rest and relaxation? Either way, I highly recommend it.’
‘I know you do,’ says Rachel, pressing his nose with her finger. He pretends to bite the finger and she pretends to shriek. I look away, sighing inwardly.
Leo and I have made up – sort of. At least, he said he was sorry and bought me some chocolates from one of the little souvenir shops, so I’ve officially forgiven him. I can tell he was surprised: I rarely get angry, and the way I snapped at him earlier was a major hissy fit by my standards.
Unofficially, though, I’m still annoyed, and now I’m thinking I shouldn’t have forgiven him so readily. I could understand him leaving me alone on the slopes if he thought I was with Rachel, but it’s not just that. I’ve always considered Leo to be so thoughtful, but how thoughtful is he being these days? He didn’t listen to me when I said I wasn’t ready; he would have gone off-piste without me if that was what the group decided … it’s adding to the growing feeling that he’s putting other people first and me last. I’ve had it for weeks – months, even. I thought it would be different on holiday, but it’s even worse.
‘Ouch,’ says David, arching his back.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jenny asks.
‘Nothing – a twinge in my shoulders.’
Jenny immediately comes over and stands behind him, massaging his shoulders. Nina looks up from her book, expressionless. I am dying to meet Leo’s eye but he’s staring studiously at the chessboard.
‘Ah – thanks, Jen, but I’m OK. I might go in the jacuzzi later,’ David murmurs, and leans away from her, ostensibly to make a chess move. Jenny shrugs and sits down; Nina goes back to her book. We’re all pretending not to have noticed, but I can tell everyone’s clocked what just happened and can’t wait to discuss it once they’ve left the room.
I’ve come to the end of my book, a thriller I grabbed in the airport and raced through on the flight despite it not being great. I go upstairs to get my other book, One Hundred Years of Solitude. I’ve been reading it for months and haven’t got past page twenty, but I’m determined to get into it on this holiday.
I’m rounding the corner at the top of the stairs when I look out of the window and catch my breath. There’s a full moon hanging low in the gap between the mountains, with a massive golden haze around it. It’s so bright that you can actually see its light reflected on the forest and on the snow. It’s spectacular.
I pad back downstairs. ‘Leo,’ I call out softly.
Leo turns around abruptly from his game. ‘What?’ he snaps impatiently.
I stare at him. ‘Nothing.’ I go back up the stairs and into our room, where I take off my sweatshirt and change into my most clinging pink angora jumper. After quickly piling on some eyeliner, I pull on my snow boots and coat and stuff One Hundred Years of Solitude in my pocket. There’s a back way out, via the jacuzzi and the gear room, and I slip out, closing the door quietly behind me. I don’t even know where I’m going; I just want to get out of here.
Méribel is even more adorable by night. The little wooden and stone-clad buildings are all lit up, their windows twinkling with red lights and white paper snowflakes. I pass by restaurants full of happy gatherings, and dark-panelled bars where smartly dressed couples are sipping vin chauds. I keep walking until I find a bar that looks more casual than the others, dark and full of barrel seats, booths and cheerful noise. I go to the bar and order a gin and tonic. It’s twelve euros but I don’t care. The barman doesn’t even measure the spirit; he just sloshes it in, and tops it up with a generous handful of lime slices.
There’s a big, rowdy group at one end of the bar, so I choose a seat at the other end, sliding into a candlelit booth and opening my book. But I can’t take in the words on the page; I keep thinking about the way Leo snapped at me. I know I’m probably premenstrual, and overreacting, but I can’t get over how mean he sounded.
It was all so different at the beginning. I remember how he kept on seeking me out at triathlon training until finally we got together at a New Year’s Eve party thrown by someone in the club. And when I had a fluey cold right after and couldn’t come to practice or see him for two weeks, he texted me every day or sent me funny videos from YouTube until I was better. I can’t remember the last time he sent me a funny video.
Also, now that I think of it, he definitely wasn’t as busy with all his activities in the beginning. I remember him cancelling a big cycling trip to spend time with me. And then there was the time when we were sitting together having coffee off Oxford Street and he noticed my watch strap was broken. He took it from me and went out, and came back fifteen minutes later having had it fixed at a jeweller’s. Maybe that kind of honeymoon period doesn’t last, but still. Am I being oversensitive, or is he being a dickhead? I take another slug of my G&T, which is incredibly strong.
‘Bonsoir.’
Oh my God. It’s Sylvain, looking even more gorgeous out of his ski suit. I burble out an incoherent greeting, caught completely off guard.
‘You’re here alone?’ he asks, cutting right to the chase. ‘No boyfriend?’
‘No … I just felt like some peace and quiet.’
He nods. ‘Ah, Gabriel García Márquez! He’s a great writer. I also like Isabel Allende – have you read her books?’
I’m impressed, though it’s a bit patronising of me to think a ski instructor wouldn’t read. I shake my head, hoping I won’t have to admit that I still haven’t got past page twenty.
‘Would you like a drink?’
I look down and see my glass is empty. I’m about to offer to buy him a drink to thank him for rescuing me on the slopes, but then I change my mind. I can tell he’s younger than me, and I already feel like Mrs Robinson with my crush on him. If I buy him a drink, it will just make it worse.
‘Sure,’ I say, trying to sound casual, as if gorgeous French ski lions buy me drinks all the time. ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having.’
As he goes to the bar, I can’t help admiring his rear view. He’s wearing a soft, worn-in white cotton shirt tucked into perfectly cut navy cords. And he’s leaning on the bar in a way that shows off his lean torso and his snake hips. A very drunk and pretty blond girl in a tight blue T-shirt and jeans, with two long pigtails, comes up and starts attempting to dance with him. He laughs and gives her a twirl. I’m half expecting him to go and join her, but instead he extracts himself from her and
comes over to me with two glasses of spicy vin chaud.
‘I hope your friends don’t mind you abandoning them,’ I say, awkwardly.
He turns to watch the blond girl swaying back towards the big group. I’m not a hundred per cent sure, but I’m willing to bet she’s not French: everyone knows French women don’t get drunk.
‘It’s OK. I go out most nights with the other ski instructors. We’re celebrating because one of them, an English guy, got his licence to teach here.’ He raises his vin chaud and clinks it against mine. ‘Salut. Some of the French instructors are angry that there are too many English instructors in the Alps, but me, I don’t mind.’
‘Are you from this part of France?’
‘Yes, I’m from a little village called Mégève, a few kilometres away. I learned to ski when I was three years old. We used to ski to school.’ He smiles. ‘And you?’
He leans forward, and I catch a light waft of expensive-smelling aftershave or cologne. Leo never wears aftershave.
‘And me what?’ I ask. He’s so handsome it’s hard to think straight.
‘Where are you from … what do you do?’
Something is buzzing in my pocket. I take out my phone and see that I have two missed calls and a text from Leo: Maggie, where are you? Everyone is really worried.
Everyone is really worried? Is that what he cares about – that I’ve upset the group? I could honestly kill him right now.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, and start texting back: I’m fine. Having a drink with a friend. Back later.
I press ‘send’, feeling annoyed with myself again. Why didn’t I just tell him to eff off? It’s always the same with me: I bottle everything up inside or imagine it in my thought bubble.
I glance up to find Sylvain looking at me. Properly looking at me. In a way I haven’t been looked at for months. Our little booth is dark and secluded, aside from the flickering candle on the table that throws Sylvain’s beautiful features into even better focus.
‘Sorry. What were you saying?’
‘I was asking you about your life … where do you live?’
‘In London, in Fulham. I’m a microbiologist,’ I add, and brace myself for him to recoil or ask me if that means I study bugs; or my favourite: ‘You don’t look like one.’ Which is ridiculous: what is a scientist supposed to look like? Judging from the cinema, the answer is Jennifer Garner.
Instead, his face lights up. ‘Ah, that’s great! Are you in a hospital? Do you study virus or bacteria?’
‘Oh. Bacteria. I’m a research scientist – I’m studying resistance markers in a particular strain of TB.’
He nods. ‘I am studying, ah, biochimie.’
‘Biochemistry. That’s cool.’ Oh God, he’s a student.
‘I’m nearly completing my PhD, in Grenoble.’ Good, he can’t be that young. We talk about our work for a while, and it’s really interesting: he’s obviously very bright. And talented. And gorgeous. I should get up and go home soon, before my crush on him rages out of control. Ten more minutes, and I’m gone.
‘So,’ Sylvain says. ‘What are you doing tomorrow, for the nouvel an?’
‘Oh, for New Year’s Eve? I’m not sure actually.’ I frown as I think of having to go home to the chalet and discuss New Year’s plans with Leo. ‘We’ll probably have dinner in the chalet or something. What about you?’
‘We are going to a bar, and then out to the main square. There are fireworks … it’s nice. You should come.’
‘That does sound nice,’ I say, imagining a parallel life where I’m kissing Sylvain at midnight as fireworks explode above us. But back in my real life, I have a real relationship to sort out. I finish my drink and stand up, bracing myself for the confrontation with Leo that’s waiting for me at home.
‘I’d better go … thanks for the drink.’
‘Goodbye, Maggie.’ He leans forward and kisses me on both cheeks. As soon as I feel his lips on my skin, something happens. Maybe it’s my misery over Leo, or downing that very strong G&T on top of the wine at dinner, or maybe it’s just sheer animal attraction, but I find myself moving towards him again, and then he kisses me properly. I’m feeling horribly guilty and I know I should pull myself away, but I can’t. His fingers are curling in my hair, and I can feel the strength and warmth of his shoulders and arms under the thin fabric of his shirt. He smells divine: spicy and warm, like the vin chaud …
‘Maggie?’
I jump away from Sylvain, scared out of my wits. It’s Leo, standing three feet away from us, looking devastated.
‘I came to see if you …’ He looks from me to Sylvain and back again. ‘Never mind.’
He walks out of the bar. Oh God, what have I done?
‘I have to go,’ I blurt to Sylvain.
Sylvain looks pretty shaken up too, but I can’t let myself worry about that now. I run outside, pulling my coat on. The freezing cold is like a slap in the face, making me realise how tipsy I am. Leo is walking slowly up ahead. ‘Leo!’ I call after him. ‘Leo, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.’
He turns around. ‘You mean you didn’t arrange to meet him, after he rescued you on the slopes?’ he says coldly.
‘No! I went into that bar to get out of the house, because you were so horrible to me.’
‘Me? When was I horrible to you?’ Leo sounds astonished.
‘Earlier. When you were playing chess, and I called you and you snapped at me.’ I wish there was a better way of putting it; I know it sounds lame.
‘Right. So I “snap” at you,’ Leo makes air quotes, ‘which I don’t even remember doing, and you turn around and cheat on me?’
‘Leo …’ This is a nightmare. He was being horrible, but I’m also totally in the wrong.
We’re at the chalet. Leo unlocks the front door and we go inside. Everyone else seems to have gone to bed, thank God; this is hard enough without an audience.
‘Leo, please – we need to talk,’ I say in a low voice, following him into our room.
‘I don’t feel like talking. You can have the room tonight. I’m sleeping downstairs.’
I’ve never seen him so angry. He gets a few things from our bedroom and goes out, closing the door behind him.
The next morning, I wake up with a vague sense of doom. Then everything comes crashing back in slow motion: my near-death experience on the mountain, too much wine at dinner, kissing Sylvain – and the awful, awful fight with Leo. I slip downstairs and wash down two paracetamol with a cup of tea.
‘Oh, there you are. Leo was really worried about you last night. Have you had a domestic?’ It’s Jenny, pouring herself a Diet Coke. I wait until she’s left the room, and then grab a can for myself. I notice it’s her last one, but I’m beyond caring about that: it’s a small crime after what I did last night. I drain my glass, then go upstairs to our room, where I find Leo getting his ski stuff together.
‘You can get changed in here,’ I say tentatively. ‘Leo …’
‘I’d rather not,’ he says shortly. He closes the door behind him as he goes out. I curl up on the bed and listen until the door slams downstairs and I’m positive everyone’s gone out.
It takes me for ever to have a shower and get dressed. I didn’t think I’d had that much to drink last night, but I have a stinking hangover today. Not only that, I’m aching all over as if I’ve been beaten up. I can’t face skiing or any other snowy activity. I put on my coat and then go outside to get some air, with One Hundred Years of Solitude in my bag again – how appropriate. Trailing up the little street, squinting in the sunshine, I wonder how on earth I got myself into this mess. Leo and I have got some serious problems that we need to address, but I’ve made it a thousand times worse by kissing Sylvain.
‘Maggie! Over here!’
I give a guilty start, but it’s just Rachel, dressed in jeans and her coat.
‘Oh, hi. You not skiing either?’ I ask.
‘No, I think I overdid it yesterday – I decided to take the morning of
f. I’ve had a sauna and I’m starving. Do you want to come and get some hot chocolate?’
I nod, grateful for the company. We wander down the street until we find a very cute bakery-café place with antique chairs and a chandelier, and order hot chocolate and some little doughnuts. The hot chocolate arrives as two little jugs of piping hot milk and some solid chocolate, which we blend together with a whisk to the consistency we want. It’s a lot of work when you feel as bad as I do. Rachel has hers quite thin and liquid, but I let mine stay gloopy, like a rich chocolate sauce.
‘It’s hard to imagine that this used to be a tiny farming village, isn’t it?’ says Rachel, looking at two women in full-length fur coats standing at the counter comparing their diamond bracelets. ‘It must have changed massively over the last fifty years.’
I nod gloomily, dipping my doughnut into my hot chocolate. Now I’m thinking of Sylvain telling me about his childhood in a little skiing village … and that kiss. It was quite a kiss. Electric. Explosive. But I also suspect hormones and alcohol had a lot to do with it. Sylvain is not my future boyfriend. Whereas Leo is my future – or I hoped he was.
‘I don’t want to pry, but are you OK?’ Rachel asks gently.
She seems nice and I’ve got to tell someone.
‘Promise you won’t say anything?’ I say nervously.
Her eyes widen, but she nods, and I tell her how Leo upset me yesterday and how I ended up kissing Sylvain in the bar.
‘Do you think I’m a terrible person?’
She shakes her head immediately. ‘Of course I don’t.’ I feel reassured, especially when she continues, ‘I mean, it’s not like you did it for fun or because you were bored. It sounds as if there might be other problems, with you and Leo …’
Though I feel guilty about complaining, after what I’ve done, I find myself telling her how frustrated I am in general about Leo’s schedule – about how he devotes so much time to his friends and activities that there isn’t much left for me.
‘But maybe that’s the kind of thing that happens after a certain amount of time. It’s all lovey-dovey at the beginning, but then inevitably … Oh God, I’m sorry! I don’t mean you and Oliver.’ What is wrong with me?
Girls on Tour Page 20
