Don’t You Forget About Me (36 page)

As the woman behind the check-in counter politely directs us to the executive club lounge, I think how different this is to my usual travelling experience: a cheap budget airline, ungodly flight times, trooping around Stansted with a Pret sandwich looking for a spare plastic seat, being herded onto the plane like cattle because I didn’t pay the extra for early boarding . . .

This time we relax in the club lounge, watching TV and drinking champagne. At seven in the morning! It feels like Christmas, only without the repeats. Then, just before the flight’s about to depart, we’re whisked on board, shown into comfy, wide leather seats and offered even more champagne. Normally I’m a nervous flyer, but as the plane lifts into the sky, I feel a surge of excitement. If this is a snowboarding trip, then
bring it on
!

Just a couple of hours later and we’re there.

‘Welcome to Chamonix,’ says the driver of the shuttle bus, as the automatic doors swoosh open and we disembark.

The first thing that hits me is the dazzling brightness. After the grey dullness of London, it’s almost blinding, and I scramble for the cheap pair of sunnies I bought at Heathrow. As I push them onto my nose I take a deep lungful of clear Alpine air and just stand for a moment, taking in this winter wonderland. The scenery is, quite literally, breathtaking. Pristine white snow like icing on a cake, a freshly laundered sky the colour of forget-me-nots, brilliant sunshine and . . .

‘Look, there it is!’ I gasp.

‘What?’ asks Seb, without glancing up from his iPhone.

He hasn’t looked up from it once during the whole journey from the airport – ‘sorry, work crap’ – but for once I haven’t minded at all. I’ve been far too distracted between gazing out of the window at the stunning scenery and reading the tourist guide that I enthusiastically bought at the airport.

‘Mont Blanc,’ I exclaim, looking up from its pages and gazing at it stretching up above, towering majestically into the sky, the white-capped peak. ‘Do you know it rises fifteen thousand seven hundred and eighty-two feet above sea level?’

‘Yeh, I know,’ he nods, looking up, his face splitting into a smile. ‘Awesome, huh?’

‘And did you know Chamonix’s full name is actually Chamonix-Mont-Blanc and it was the site of the first Winter Olympics in 1924?’

Well, no point doing anything by halves is my motto. If I’m going to do something, I like to throw myself into it. Though perhaps sometimes rather too much, I reflect, as my hamstring gives a little twinge and I’m reminded of the military fitness fiasco.

I catch Seb looking at me, with a big smile on his face. ‘What did I tell you? I knew you were gonna love it here.’

I laugh, because despite my initial reluctance, I have to agree. I can’t believe how mistaken I was about snowboarding! I admit, I totally got it wrong! I shoot him a big smile. It’s like finally we’re a proper couple, doing what proper couples do, having fun together on a weekend away. He shoots me an even bigger grin back and I feel a burst of gratitude. Wow, I’m so lucky this happened to me, that I got this amazing chance to correct all my mistakes and get it right this time. Seriously, I must be the luckiest girl in the world.

All happy and enthusiastic, I link my arm through his and together we set off walking. Seb looks the part in his ski jacket and snow boots with thick rubber grips that remind me of tractor tyres, but my own boots are designed for British winters – i.e. slushy London pavements, not powdery snow and ice – and I immediately start slipping all over the place.

‘Whoops!’ I slide sideways, and Seb catches me, laughing.

‘Hang on to me,’ he grins. ‘It’s not far.’

With Seb leading the way, his feet crunching steadily through the snow, we make our way past numerous ski chalets, each looking more luxurious than the last. Until finally we reach an amazing wooden A-frame set high on a slope, with panoramic windows, a huge deck and . . . my heart leaps with excitement . . .
is that an outdoor hot tub?

‘Well this is it,’ announces Seb, coming to a halt. ‘Our home for the weekend.’

‘Wow,’ I gasp, staring at it in delight. It really is like something from a glossy magazine. Wait till I tell Fiona!

Standing at the entrance, he bends down to kiss me. His mouth is soft and warm in the icy air and I feel as though I’ve been dipped in melted happiness. Could it be any more perfect?

Suddenly there’s a commotion inside the chalet and I jump back, startled, as I hear a man’s voice.

‘Dude! You’re here!’

A very loud American voice. A voice that sounds exactly like . . .

‘Chris,’ grins Seb, as the door is flung open to reveal Seb’s friend from the restaurant. Leaping upon him with a high-five, there’s lots of punching of shoulders and back-slapping.

I watch, as frozen as the landscape around me. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Chris is here? In our ski chalet?
What the . . . ?

Oh no. This is the friend.

My heart plummets. I can barely dare to think it. But as the words peg out in front of each other, I force myself to string the words together.

It’s. His. Chalet.

Abruptly I feel my earlier enthusiasm melting faster than the polar ice caps.

‘And Tina!’ booms Chris, turning to me. ‘Great to see you!’

‘It’s Tess,’ I try to correct, but he’s already lassoed his huge arms around our shoulders and is corralling us inside like an overexcitable cowboy.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse . . .

‘Hey Anna, look who’s here!’ he yells.

As we enter the open-plan living room-cum-kitchen, the Ice Queen herself emerges from behind the fridge door. Dressed in white jeans and a white polo neck, she reminds me of a skinny white icicle, and has about as much warmth.

‘Guys, hi,’ she says in clipped Chelsea tones, the ones that Fiona is forever trying to master. ‘How was your trip?’ She holds out two beers.

‘Cool,’ grins Seb, dumping the bags and grabbing one. Chris grabs the other. I watch them taking thirsty glugs. I’m actually quite parched myself, I realise, glancing back at Anna, but it’s as if I’m invisible.

Something tells me that Anna and I aren’t going to get along.

‘So, you ready, powder monkey?’ whoops Chris.

‘Totally!’ enthuses Seb.

I glance between them. I have no idea what they’re talking about.

‘What’s a powder monkey?’ I ask, tentatively.

Anna lets out a derisive little snort of laughter.

‘It’s what we call crazy snowboarders like us, babe,’ explains Seb, sliding his arm around my waist. ‘But don’t worry, I’ve sorted you out some lessons.’

‘You don’t ski?’ exclaims Anna.

‘No,’ I reply tightly, shaking my head.

‘Golly,’ she gasps, wide-eyed.

She looks so incredulous you’d think I’d just informed her I can’t spell my own name.

‘Skiing’s for old ladies,’ quips Seb, flashing me a smile. ‘Tess is gonna learn how to snowboard.’

Anna looks as though she’s just sucked on a lemon, and I smile gratefully back at Seb.

‘OK, well, what are we waiting for? Let’s hit the slopes!’ whoops Chris, slamming his empty beer bottle down on the countertop. ‘You ready?’ he looks at Seb.

‘You bet,’ Seb grins. Turning to me, he raises his brow questioningly. ‘Tess?’

Nerves flutter, but I briskly push them away. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ I smile. I’m going to be fine. There’s nothing to be worried about. This is going to be so much fun.

Right?

Er no, well no, not exactly.

Standing on the slopes for my very first time, listening to my instructor, I glance at my reflection in the window of the ski school. There are many words I could choose right now, but fun is not one of them.

For starters, I look like the Michelin Man. Whereas everyone else is wafting around looking sexy in their cargo pants and skinny thermal tops, goggles perched casually on their foreheads like sunglasses in St Tropez, I’m padded up to the nines like a comedian in one of those fat suits. Believe me, this brings a whole new meaning to ‘layering’. In fact I have so many layers I can barely walk, let alone snowboard.

First off there’re thermals and base layers. Followed by fleeces and mid-layers. Followed by a bright puffy jacket and waterproof trousers. Then kneepads, wrist pads and elbow pads. A pair of what are like waterproof oven gloves. A helmet. And just to make sure I don’t harbour any hope of trying to look
in any way at all
attractive, a pair of reflective goggles that not only squash my nose down so it looks as if I’ve done too many rounds in a boxing ring, but also leave a big red mark around my face.

It was Seb who took me to the shop and got me kitted out. He was super-generous and paid for everything, then safely deposited me at the ski school for my first lesson. Which was really sweet and thoughtful of him, but if I’m truthful it’s not really the romantic weekend away with my boyfriend that I was hoping for. In fact, as he waved me off on his way to the cable car to meet the others, wishing me luck and arranging to meet me back at the chalet later, I felt as though I was a four-year-old being dropped off at school on her first day, rather than his girlfriend.

But hey, I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I’m sure it’s just because it’s all new to me, that’s all. A couple of lessons and I’ll soon be snuggled up to Seb on the cable car and whizzing down the slopes with him. Just think, we can be powder monkeys together!

‘So, theez is ’ow you ’old your feet.’

I turn back to focus on the instructor. His name is François and he’s handsome in that cool, eighteen-year-old French ski instructor way. All suntan, mirrored Ray-Bans and long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, he’s swishing around on his snowboard as if he came out of the birth canal on it.

In comparison I feel like his mother. This is not helped by the fact that I am indeed the oldest here.
By quite a few years
, I realise, looking around me and noticing that most of the other pupils in the class barely come up to my kneepads. Now I know why they call these the nursery slopes, because most of them are literally
still in nursery
. Even more embarrassing, whereas I’m struggling to stay upright, they seemingly have no fear and have picked it up in no time.

And are already whizzing past me like cannonballs. I shriek, hastily jumping out of the pathway of one before I get mown down.

‘
Superb
, Freddy!
Bien
, Henri,’ applauds the instructor, whizzing around on his snowboard to join them.

Actually, on second thoughts, I might need more than just a couple of lessons, I muse, wobbling over and landing flat in the snow.

It’s not until a few moments later, after I’ve managed to hoist myself back up on my board, that François appears to notice me again and whizzes over. ‘No, not like that, like theez,’ he instructs impatiently.

I try to balance. I really do. But it’s impossible. Yet again the board shoots from underneath me and I fall over for what must be the umpteenth time. ‘Ouch,’ I yell, landing hard on my bum. Wincing, I rub it with my gloved hand and pick myself up again. It’s only a few bruises, I tell myself cheerfully. Practice makes perfect and all that.

Trying to ignore the fact I’m growing increasingly cold and wet, I go to grab my snowboard, then falter. Unexpectedly my eyes start to water. Oh god, how embarrassing, why am I crying? I’m being silly. It’s only a few bruises. Except that’s not true – as much as I’m ashamed to admit it, it’s more than a few bruises. I’ve tried so hard to throw myself into this, to enjoy myself and be enthusiastic, to love snowboarding as much as everyone else seems to but—

But . . . I just don’t. I’m not enjoying myself and I don’t love it and I don’t know what’s wrong with me. A tear escapes and I brush it away quickly before anyone notices. The worst bit is I know I’m lucky. Most girlfriends would chew their right arm off to be taken away on an all-expenses-paid trip to the French Alps for the weekend. It’s my fault I’m not enjoying it. It’s not anyone else’s. And it’s certainly not Seb’s.

I think about him now at the top of the mountain. He’ll be with his friends, having glorious alpine adventures full of sun and scenery, and breaking to enjoy the best bars and restaurants on the upper slopes.

At the very thought I suddenly feel completely alone. More alone than I can ever remember feeling, wearing this silly outfit, miles away from home, with no one to talk to but lots of French-speaking children.

It’s all I can do to fight back the tears as I glance back at François. But he’s given up on me and is busily flirting with a suntanned blonde in hot pink salopettes. Probably one of the mothers of the cannonballs, I reflect, watching them laughing together. I might as well not be here.

In which case . . .

Throwing my snowboard over my shoulder, I turn and set off slipping and sliding down the slope in the boots that have given me blisters. I’m beginning to think I was right the first time. I’m beginning to think I should never have come.

Chapter 29

I find an internet café and order myself a hot chocolate. And a slice of that delicious-looking cake. Well, I have been exercising. If you can call falling over ‘exercising’, I wince, easing my aching body into a chair.