Snow Blind (11 page)

“Can't say I like your mates, they're a bunch of tossers.” He is glad to get this off his chest, but it just gives me a management problem. We make our way across packed ice, through ski racks, over to the gaily-flagged restaurant entrance. I can see my stags on two separated tables outside.

“Johnny and Juliet are good people.” I strive to differentiate the wheat from the chaff.

“Aye, maybe, but none of them are my kind of folk.”

“Stick with me brother,” I plead.

Robert and Juliet are sat alone and stop dead in their conversational tracks. Their mouths drape open as their brains revisit the contents of the last minute's conversation. Both look uneasy, their previous discussion obviously isn't something they wanted me to hear. What were they saying? It could have been an incident from years ago or yesterday. They have both stopped for too long; I know it was about me.

“Thanks for undoing my boots mate!” Robert just grins at me, happy with his latest subterfuge.

“You are a twat Robert. I am off to get food.” Chris has patently had enough of his quiet man status.

I take one of the two remaining seats on their bench next to Robert. The frenetic multi-lingual ski hubbub increases as we move into the afternoon. Robert and Juliet are suddenly united in their determination to finish their meals and go.

“It's good to see my two old college mates together again,” I try to bring them union but both pairs of eyes avert to their left.

“What did you think of Aldo's class?” Juliet breaks her silence.

“He picked on me a bit, but it's cool. I have had a good morning anyway, felt as if it was coming back to me after such a long time.” The air I now inhabit is thick with disdain. I start to eat my overloaded plate of ten-euro Spaghetti Bolognese. The top strands of spaghetti and sauce have been insulating the inner. A pool of olive oil separates from the congealed sauce at the bottom of the plate.

“Can you believe the three of us lived together in that tenement in the Isle of Dogs for a year?” I unwisely prod these unusually dumbstruck lions from their cages.

“Do you remember us swimming in that wartime bomb-crater below your window Robert?” No reply except increasingly frequent bites of a baguette.

“Your room looked like a bomb-site as well,” I aim to keep the conversation light.

“My room looked like that for good reason, I was having the time of my life, unlike you two mice playing happy families. Middle-class and middle-aged all before you turned twenty-five!” Robert unconsciously exposes the contents of his mouth as he talks.

“Class is something you never showed you prig,” Juliet smiles serenely while she delivers her invective.

“Oh I'm a prick am I? Have you ever managed to get one to fuck you that isn't a lap-dog like him or someone who works for you?” Robert mishears the insult and goes on the attack.

“Grow up you pathetic boy. I have met enough of your sad types in boardrooms, incompetently hanging on to positions given by their ex-public-school mates. From what I have seen already BA should sack you for sexual harassment of your own staff,” Juliet spits back at him.

Robert rises slowly from his bench, belying his intent. He winds his right arm backward to deliver a punch or a slap to Juliet, but as he pulls back he unintentionally cuffs me on the ear.

“Whoa guys. Stop it now. For me, stop it now.” Robert only sinks slowly back onto the bench when I sit down and tug his arm.

Chris returns unwittingly to the fold with a tray creaking under the weight of a dinner, a sandwich and a dessert. His physical presence is another antidote to Robert's ire.

Max, Steve and Johnny walk over from their table and hover over us all. They don't seem to have picked up on the dispute. “So where are we all going now that you babes are out of nursery for the day?” Max questions the group.

“I don't think we can ski together, we are all different levels?” I point out in the hope that I can separate the feud.

“There is an easy red off to the left of the Ceil Express four-man lift. We should all go there.” Max suggests to everyone. Eyes dance over eyes again testing our collective strength.

“I'm going to my bed!” Chris says with no prospect of re-negotiation, chomping heartily on his ham roll.

“I will walk back with you Chris. I've done enough for my first day. Is that okay with you Dan?” Johnny opts out apologetically

“Okay then everyone else, let's show the stag some real skiing.” Max decides for everyone. “That includes you too my precious,” he sneers at Juliet

“Thanks lover.” Juliet inappropriately feigns familiarity with him.

“That's great chaps.” What am I saying? They are reluctantly staying together for me and I hate it. The animosity between Robert and Juliet overloads my woes. So much for my European union, not even the Brits can get on. I am artificially welding them together but the whole thing stinks.

C
HAPTER
16

Dan 14.05

The taut steel cord reaches skyward. The padded metal chairs dangle in fixed fashion, and are eaten by the deep grey clouds that are fluffing up ready for snowfall.

I shuffle my skis forward two more inches, my right ski-tip locks under a snowboard; both metal edges momentarily nip each other. Anxiety to re-climb the mountain is etched on most faces. A plastic mock-clock indicates that the last lift is four thirty, over two hours away. I was once told by a Frenchman never to be polite in a European ski-lift queue, but find it hard not to use British queue codes. Two snowboarders push across my line to the gate, stopping my progression onto the next lift with Juliet. Robert is on the same chair but the boarders keep the antagonists apart. I twist backwards and see Max and Steve close behind. The frozen lift attendant scrapes ice from the footboard with an inverted shovel, producing a metallic scream. His collapsed demeanour shows the weight on his mind; he is in the playground but not allowed on the swings. He must fight not to just get on every chair that passes him and escape his drudgery. My thighs push against the wooden gate that eventually gives way to let me through. No one is that desperate to get up the hill that they want to join the three of us, so the next chair slowly scoops three workmates into the air.

Snow pit-pats on the polyester shell of my coat. Some flakes roll off; some dissolve by touching the imperceptibly higher temperature of the jacket; some stick resolutely looking for others to join them. I zip up to the fullest, to defend my chin against the harshening conditions. As we clank over a pylon, a manufacturer's sign for Wankel Lifts comes into view, which must bring a childish grin to English-speaking passengers. I just perceive it to be poor global branding for a manufacturer who wants to convey absolute trust and security.

“Listen guys, we need to focus.” Max interrupts my drifting. “ByeFly are thinking of ditching us. They have set up a three-way pitch for next Wednesday. Essentially they want a fresh above-the-line campaign to run through summer peak. It should ideally have been ready to air this month so we are behind on production already.”

“Did they say why they are re-pitching? What do they dislike about what we are doing?” Steve enquires.

“Nothing much, apart from they think our ideas are stale. They can't stand our fucking obsession with waving goodbye in the current campaign. It's trite and it doesn't say anything about their brand. They want to push cheaper prices as well. Oh and they definitely want to reduce the retainer payment.”

“Our obsession? We only worked it in because of them. It ruined that campaign we had designed for them.” I make a true but futile protest.

“Well the blame is laid at our door now and so are a pack of wolves if we are not careful, so let's fucking drop it. Ideally we would go home tomorrow and work on it this weekend.”

“It's going to be awkward to leave my own stag-do guys.” No way José am I leaving for this ungrateful git.

“I can look at flights on Saturday I suppose.” I weakly hope that logistics will bail me out.

“You don't seem to realise how crucial this is.” Max keeps shifting the responsibility back over my head.

“Well, we will have to start work right away no matter where we are.” Max raises the bar on both the chair lift and on my stag weekend. As it hits the stanchion the chair swings back a little, momentarily presenting a threat to unload us twenty feet short of any solid ground.

“It will be tight but we are just going to have to.” Steve handles his response well, positioning me as the shirker.

“If we don't then the whole agency is fucked. The consequences of not getting the re-pitch are dire. Three months without a retainer fee of their size would close us down. You two got us into this, get me out of it with some magic words and pictures.” Like a Catholic about to exit the confessional, Max absolves his guilt simply by uttering the words; he doesn't even have to recite three Hail Marys as penance.

As we level out at the top station, the snow swirls under our feet. The glum male station attendant pretends to be cool from his windowed box, unable to hide the mind-numbing anguish of his job. I feel a sharp jab in my right eye from a hail-like piece of snow. I struggle to pull up my hood with ski gloves on. The weather has taken a nasty turn.

My skis are silenced by the wind as I slide over the few yards towards Juliet and Robert who are at least conversing again. Dead ahead is a massive metallic panelled ski map, its face covered by a frosting of hard blown snow. People are starting to choose their descent carefully now, feeling hesitant at re-taking previous ski route challenges.

“It's too wild. Let's make this the last run of the day,” says Juliet. Robert ignores her and pushes onward with Max; they beckon us with their poles. Max skis backwards, shouting something inaudible through my tightened hood. His absolution has perked him up. I know he wants to compete, show me a lesson, but my inexperience means that it's a complete mismatch.

Aldo enters my head, prompting me to stand up on my skis. I slow and turn more smoothly to the left. I stay forward for my next turn and I feel yet more control. I deliver a Spaghetti Bolognese burp and inadvertently breathe in its warmth and smell of decayed flesh. Juliet is thirty yards ahead of me and pulls up to a standstill. I tense up and edge towards her, while Steve overtakes me. Behind the line of her skis the mountain hides; falling away so steeply that she is silhouetted against the Chamonix valley floor. Where did the piste go? As I reach her I see Robert and Max positioned twenty feet below, off to the right.

“Let's do this one turn at a time,” she says to Steve and me. Steve decides that further delay will only eat his negligible confidence away and lose him credibility. He pops over the lip of the hill, running straight at Max. With skis distended in front of his body, he makes no turn and hits them side on. Robert pulls away leaving Max to absorb his impact.

Juliet has shuffled further up the ledge. She is turned towards me having picked the flattest entry route. She pushes off crossing the slope away from the others, jumping around one turn to wait for me. I can barely see her tracks as I stand atop the ledge. I forget the awaiting ridicule to my right and focus on Juliet. Hip to the hill, shoulder to the valley, my skis pop over the ledge, pushing my weight backwards, way too fast for comfort. Only when I manage to push my hands forward do I recover some control. I shoot past Juliet; turn now Dan; turn now Dan; turn now Dan. It happens on my third count; for a lifetime I am facing downhill on the biggest mountain I have ever seen.

“Brilliant Dan!” Juliet shouts at me, she effortlessly passes me again to come alongside. Max, Robert and Steve have started to get hazy as snow blows from mounds made by this morning's skiers.

Robert skis towards me, cutting across my line. I vaguely catch some derisory comment about pace. They start to dance on down the mountain, pushing through its core. I turn after my second prompt this time. The slope has reached a comparative level of comfort; I can turn provided I go from piste edge to piste edge.

Juliet stays two turns ahead, escorting me. Max is nowhere to be seen. I have limited mental capacity to deal with his poorly timed brief. Something is rotten. They sounded quite sure about what we were doing on the campaign at our last monthly meeting. Max has a history of blowing these client things out of proportion to work Steve and I like Trojans. Anyway they know they are not the cheapest-priced airline. We can do a better job, but I bet it is him who is the clients' problem. Why do I have to deal with it here though?

Skiing over sheet ice is not something I have done before. The rigid clacking of my skis is an uncomfortable reminder of how hard it would be if I fell. My shoulders hunch up, my bottom goes backward, and my anal sphincter is pursed. The clacking doesn't stop; I feel it in my ankles, the feel of the inflexible ski dropping between hardened ruts. I am running out of piste. Turn now Dan, turn…

I didn't really feel the fall, just ice crystals shooting into my face. It is perversely fun to be moving so fast. Shapes from the slope and sky mix in kaleidoscope fashion as I hurtle headfirst. I can see my skis are still on, I try to brake but gain speed. When will this fall end? My head is exposed now, as my hood is ripped back. I have to turn round. As soon as the slope decreases a little I dig in with my shoulders and my legs carry on under me. I recover a modicum of control and skiing decorum. I flash past Robert who is standing out of my way. I slow to a halt. I have my first skiing adventure, my first battle scar.

“Hey skinny, you look a bit Martini. Shaken and stirred that is.” Robert reaches me with poor jest, offering me a hand to help me stand up. “Listen, don't bother trying to turn on ice until you can ski properly you silly twat.”

“Are you alright? Did you bang your head?” Juliet arrives in a state of panic as the others gather around as well.