Don’t You Forget About Me (38 page)

No sooner has the thought struck than I realise with horror that it’s not Seb I can hear.

It’s Chris and Anna.

‘Hey!’ yells Chris, spotting me first. ‘Look who’s here!’

It’s like one of those bad dreams where you find yourself naked in a public place. Except this is much,
much
worse. It’s not a dream and
I AM NAKED
. Plunging myself as deep into the hot tub as I can go without drowning, I lunge desperately over to one of the jets and pray for bubble coverage.

With the water up to my neck, I poke out a few fingers. ‘Hi,’ I say weakly, giving a little wave and trying to act, sort of, normal. With any luck they won’t notice I don’t have any clothes on. They’ll just say hi, turn around, and go back to the chalet.

Yeh right. Who am I kidding? Luck officially deserted me on the nursery slopes.

‘Oh . . . hi,’ says Anna, noticing me with obvious displeasure. She’s wearing a bathrobe, which she opens to reveal a white string bikini, a deep suntan and the kind of body that has never seen a Malteser, let alone a whole family-sized bag.

Did I just mention that this is a nightmare? One that I am not waking up from? As they both step into the hot tub –
correction
: Anna steps, Chris strips off to his boxers and sort of dive bombs – my mind scrambles frantically around, looking for an escape route. But there isn’t one.

I am trapped. In a hot tub in the Alps. With no clothes on.

And a really bloody bright light shining up my
you know what
, I realise with horror, trying to block it out with my feet.

‘So, did you have a nice day?’ I enquire politely, as if I’m standing at a drinks party and not squatting in an oversized plastic bathtub with both hands clamped over my breasts.

‘Fucking A!’ whoops Chris, who’s obviously been enjoying a bit too much of the après-ski. ‘Totally wiped out on one of the blacks!’

I’m not quite sure what he’s saying as he’s talking in ‘Snowboard’, a language which I’ve discovered is spoken here in Chamonix and which I don’t speak, but I’m saved from replying as he turns his attentions to Anna, who’s been steadfastly ignoring me. Actually, perhaps
saved
isn’t exactly the word I’m looking for, I soon realise, as his attentions are focused mainly on her breasts and they suddenly start . . .

Well, without giving too much detail, I think the phrase they use in America is ‘fooling around’.

Personally I have another phrase: it’s ‘
Get Me Out Of Here!!!
’

Cringing with embarrassment, I steadfastly try to ignore them and stare instead at my towel, which is hung over the chair by the door. I’m trying to gauge if I can jump out and grab it before being seen. After all, I can’t stay here all night, can I? I can feel myself starting to go wrinkly. Plus, I can hear sucking noises and I have a horrible feeling it’s got nothing to do with the hot tub’s jets.

Not for the first time do I think about Seb, and not in a good way.

Where the fuck is he? I could kill him.

Mortified, I sit there for a few minutes longer, until I can bear no more and clear my throat loudly. They stop whatever it is they’re doing and turn to me.

‘Oops, sorry, forgot you were there,’ giggles Chris drunkenly.

‘Maybe we should go inside, darling,’ says Anna with a little tut.

I feel myself go beetroot. How can it be that I’m the one completely starkers, and yet I’m the one made to feel like a prude?

But who cares? They’re getting out, I realise, with a rush of relief, as I watch them disentangle themselves and climb out of the hot tub, before disappearing up the path which leads back to the chalet. I wait for a few moments to make sure the coast is clear, then, jumping out, I make a dash for my towel and follow them inside.

I find Seb on the sofa strumming a guitar.

‘Hey babe.’ As I walk in he looks up, seemingly unaware that anything is wrong. ‘How was the hot tub?’

‘I thought you were going to join me?’ I reply, through clenched teeth.

‘Sorry, I got distracted by Chris’s twelve-string . . .’ He gestures at the guitar as if that perfectly justifies forgetting all about your girlfriend who’s outside in the hot tub
naked and waiting for you
.

And don’t even get me started on the fact that he should have rescued me from Chris and Anna and their floorshow.

Irritation yaps at my ankles but I try to ignore it. I’m just in a bad mood.

‘Let me play you something,’ he continues, and without waiting for an answer, he starts playing a series of chords.

Except I can’t ignore it. Standing there with an aching body, blistered feet, and water from my hair dripping on the floor and forming a little puddle around me, I realise I’ve had enough. More than enough. Because it’s not all my fault. All day I’ve tried my hardest to be grateful and enjoy myself, but being dumped on the nursery slopes while he went off to enjoy himself with the others really wasn’t much fun. And leaving me waiting in a hot tub for forty-five minutes was even less fun. But expecting me to listen to a bad rendition of ‘Wonderwall’?

‘Actually I think I’m going to go to bed,’ I reply, interrupting his chord progression.

Abruptly he stops playing, and looks up sharply. ‘Oh OK,’ he nods, with a flash of disappointment, or is it surprise that I’m not going to stay and listen? ‘I guess you must be tired, first day snowboarding and all that.’

‘I guess so,’ I agree. Except it’s more than that. It’s about how for the first time since we started dating for the second time, I’ve put me first.

As I walk into the bedroom, he starts up again. I close the door behind me and climb into bed. Except I’m too wound up to fall straight to sleep, so I pick up my Obama book and open it to my page, which is . . .

Page three?
Is that all?

I try to focus, but I’m distracted by a noise coming from next door. Chris and Anna must be watching a movie. And by the sound of all that screaming, it’s a horror film. Honestly, you’d think they’d turn the volume down. They’re just so selfish. I try to ignore it, but it’s impossible. In fact, it’s getting louder and louder and—

Suddenly it dawns on me.
They’re not watching a movie.

Oh, yuk.

Obama makes a loud thud as I chuck the book at the wall in frustration. Not for the first time today does it strike me that my romantic weekend away isn’t turning out quite how I expected. And, turning out the light, I put my fingers in my ears and stuff my head under the pillow.

Chapter 30

Long before the days of Expedia.com I went to a local travel agent’s to book a holiday. I was only seventeen and going on a package to Corfu with my friend Suzie, but as we waited our turn, I remember flicking through one of those Winter Sun holiday brochures. The ones with a laughing couple on the front cover, with the toothpaste smiles and colour-coordinated jackets, skiing down a mountain.

For a girl who’d grown up sledging on a plastic bag down the farmer’s fields, it all seemed very glamorous. I’ll never forget reading about all the fun on the slopes, the benefits of fresh air and exercise, waking up feeling rested and invigorated.

OK, so here I am in Chamonix . . . let’s see exactly how much of that brochure was true:

1. Fun on the slopes?

Fall over a lot. Feel like crying. Run away to a coffee shop and eat cake.

2. Benefits of fresh air and exercise?

A bruise that looks like the map of Africa on my left buttock. More blisters on my feet than the last time I walked home from a nightclub in stilettos because I’d missed the last bus. Never again underestimating how much I like sitting on the sofa watching
The
X Factor
.

3. Waking up feeling rested and invigorated.

Waking up feeling as if I’ve been run over by a double-decker bus.

The next morning I can barely move. The word ‘sore’ doesn’t do it justice. It’s as if I’ve aged about a hundred years overnight and it takes forever just to climb out of bed. And to
think
I’m supposed to do it all over again today, I wince, as I shuffle into the shower. At this rate, I’m not going to be able to walk, let alone snowboard.

But after forty-five minutes of standing under steaming-hot jets of water, I’ve mustered some enthusiasm and am determined to have another go. I can’t give up after one day! OK, so yesterday was a bit of a disaster all round, but I’m not going to let it ruin the whole trip. I
can’t
let it ruin the whole trip, I remind myself firmly. This is my big chance to prove to Seb that I’m the one for him. I can’t blow it now.

Having loosened up enough to be able to put on my socks without shrieking, I make it into the kitchen for breakfast. Only to discover everyone else has finished eating and are pulling on their boots.

‘Hey, there you are,’ says Seb as I appear. ‘We’re getting ready to leave.’

‘Already?’ I check the coffee pot. There’s only a dribble left. ‘Oh OK, well I’ll just have to grab a coffee on the way—’

‘No need,’ replies Anna sniffily. ‘We’re going to Les Houches to board the Kandahar.’

‘You’re doing what?’ I ask, ignoring her and turning to Seb for an explanation. Like I said, I don’t speak Snowboard.

‘Kandahar’s the famous World Cup downhill run. We’re going to snowboard down it,’ he explains.

‘Somehow I don’t think you’ll be able to manage it after just one lesson,’ patronises Anna. ‘Never mind.’

I’ve tried my best to like her, I really have, but it’s hopeless. She really is a total cow.

‘But ride up with us on the cable car,’ suggests Seb, who for some reason is completely oblivious to her bitchiness. ‘The view is awesome.’

‘And you can watch your man fly off the top,’ grins Chris, grabbing the last piece of toast before I can reach it and shoving a corner in his mouth.

My stomach protests loudly. Make that coffee
and
toast.

‘Then you can ride back down again to the nursery slopes,’ finishes Anna pointedly.

I choose to ignore her. ‘OK,’ I manage limply, ‘Well, in that case I’ll just go and throw my clothes on and I’ll be right with you.’

Despite Anna’s comments, I’m really glad I do go, as the view from the cable car more than makes up for having to sit next to her on the ride up there. It’s incredible. As is watching Seb launch himself off the top of the mountain. It’s a sheer drop, but he casually dives over the edge and disappears with the others, the sounds of their whooping echoing from down below.

If I needed more evidence to prove I’m never going to be a snowboarder, then this is it. It takes me all my courage to even just
look
over the edge.

I take the cable car back down the mountain and grab some breakfast, then make my way to the nursery slopes for my next lesson. Though, to be honest, I’m beginning to have second thoughts. Einstein once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Which a) perfectly describes my attempts at learning how to snowboard and b) means I must be completely insane.

I’m just struggling to get up from the snow after yet another fall, when I’m vaguely aware of a sort of muffled vibration. Funny, but that almost sounds like my mobile. Hang on, that
is
my mobile, I realise, scrabbling around to find it underneath all my layers. I finally locate it, just before it rings off.

‘Hey, I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

It’s Fergus. It sounds urgent.

‘Sorry, I’ve been on top of a mountain – there probably wasn’t any reception.’

‘I wanted to talk to you, Tess.’

‘You did?’ I feel unexpectedly pleased.

‘Sara emailed me back.’

Followed by a curious beat of disappointment.

‘And I just needed some female advice.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I reply, quickly gathering myself together.

He clears his throat and starts reading:

‘Dear Fergus,

Great to hear you’d be interested in volunteering, but unfortunately the sanctuary is run by Buddhist monks and strictly for practising Buddhists only. Sorry about that. Best, Sara (Karma Dechen Palmo – Radiant Woman of Great Bliss)’

There’s a pause, then, ‘So, what do you think?’ he asks.

I think that coming up with this new excuse wasn’t easy and it took
forever
to find that Buddhist name. I was Googling for nearly an hour yesterday in that café!

But of course what I think and say are two different things. I swallow hard. I need to be very careful here. I don’t want to make things worse than they already are.

‘Well, at least you gave it your best shot,’ I say cautiously, accidentally catching the eye of François, my instructor, who throws me a dirty look and motions at my mobile phone. Which is rather cheeky considering his own is permanently glued to his ear. I signal ‘won’t be a minute’ with my gloved hand, and wait for Fergus to answer.