I asked.
‘Did you get her name!’ he echoed, delightedly. In a sentence I had gone from being the son he was unsure about to Casanova.
‘It wasn’t a good line. She said she’d call again later. I hope not while we’re eating.’
The phone rang as my mother was offering me custard, cream or both with my Christmas pudding.
‘It’s for you!’ said my father, giving me a wink as he passed the handset over.
I took it in the hall, my heart racing a little as I cleared my throat before speaking. But it wasn’t Lucy, it was Nash.
‘So, how’s things? Are you having a good one?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Pretty quiet. How about you?’
‘Bloody disaster! I’ve only been here two days. Dad’s new girlfriend is a bitch. I don’t know a soul! Look, Dad says he’ll pay for a friend to fly over for New Year
. . . ?’
‘Where are you, exactly?’ I asked, thinking New York, Brussels or one of the many other cities where Nash’s father owned property.
‘The chalet in Val d’Isère,’ she said. ‘You ski, don’t you?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘So I wouldn’t be the best—’
‘Oh, come on, Gus. Think croissants, good coffee and oodles of red wine. Please, pretty please?’
‘Sorry . . . I just can’t, Nash. Thanks for the offer . . .’
I put down the phone, and stared at the bunting of Christmas cards festooning the hall. Snow on churches, snow on trees, snowy Bruegel scenes of skaters, a snow-encrusted branch with a robin
perched on it, glittering snow on the roof of the nativity stable – did it actually snow in the Middle East? – a cute Labrador puppy with a red bobble hat, skidding in snow. Row after
row of soft, white images twinkling their snowy greetings. Had no one thought?
I saw Ross’s face glancing back at me through the thickly falling snow, his teeth white, his eyes hidden behind mirror ski goggles. There were flakes settling on his dark, swept-back
hair.
‘What offer’s this then?’ my father asked when I returned to the table.
My mind replayed the conversation with Nash, in case there was anything else they’d overheard that I was going to have to explain.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Nothing, eh?’
I hated the idea of the two of us being men with secrets.
‘Look, do you mind if I save this for later? I’m stuffed . . .’
He shot me a wounded glance. Our bubble of matey bonhomie had been fragile, and now I’d popped it.
In my bedroom, I stared at the snowflakes falling past the window, thinking of this time one year ago.
The snow had started to fall as the light faded. It wasn’t safe to ski off-piste, but it was sheer madness if you couldn’t even see where you were going.
‘Why did you come up, if you didn’t want to ski down?’ Ross demanded.
My brother’s strategy was always to make me feel stupid first.
‘I thought you wanted to go down the usual way . . .’
‘We’ve done
“the usual way”
,’ he whined, mocking me.
‘Not in these conditions. It’ll still be fairly dangerous . . .’
‘“
Still be fairly dangerous”!’
Another mocking echo, then the inevitable taunt that never failed to spur me into doing things I didn’t want to do.
‘God, you’re such a fucking wuss!’
Ross looked down the slope. I looked down the slope. Then he looked at me, his eyes gleaming with the challenge.
‘Last one to the bottom gets the drinks in!’ He pulled his goggles down and was off, straight to ‘Go!’ when I was still at ‘Ready!’ just like every race
we’d ever run.
I almost followed. I almost followed. But I did not follow.
I’d heard the taunts so often, they’d lost their power. I didn’t even ski down the marked run. The little wave of triumph ebbed away as I stood alone in the bubble, drifting
slowly down through the dense fog, as if I’d finally accepted defeat.
Back at the hotel, I sat in the window of the bar, staring out into zero visibility.
After a few minutes, Mum and Dad found me. She’d been in the spa all
‘Did you get her name!’ he echoed, delightedly. In a sentence I had gone from being the son he was unsure about to Casanova.
‘It wasn’t a good line. She said she’d call again later. I hope not while we’re eating.’
The phone rang as my mother was offering me custard, cream or both with my Christmas pudding.
‘It’s for you!’ said my father, giving me a wink as he passed the handset over.
I took it in the hall, my heart racing a little as I cleared my throat before speaking. But it wasn’t Lucy, it was Nash.
‘So, how’s things? Are you having a good one?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Pretty quiet. How about you?’
‘Bloody disaster! I’ve only been here two days. Dad’s new girlfriend is a bitch. I don’t know a soul! Look, Dad says he’ll pay for a friend to fly over for New Year
. . . ?’
‘Where are you, exactly?’ I asked, thinking New York, Brussels or one of the many other cities where Nash’s father owned property.
‘The chalet in Val d’Isère,’ she said. ‘You ski, don’t you?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘So I wouldn’t be the best—’
‘Oh, come on, Gus. Think croissants, good coffee and oodles of red wine. Please, pretty please?’
‘Sorry . . . I just can’t, Nash. Thanks for the offer . . .’
I put down the phone, and stared at the bunting of Christmas cards festooning the hall. Snow on churches, snow on trees, snowy Bruegel scenes of skaters, a snow-encrusted branch with a robin
perched on it, glittering snow on the roof of the nativity stable – did it actually snow in the Middle East? – a cute Labrador puppy with a red bobble hat, skidding in snow. Row after
row of soft, white images twinkling their snowy greetings. Had no one thought?
I saw Ross’s face glancing back at me through the thickly falling snow, his teeth white, his eyes hidden behind mirror ski goggles. There were flakes settling on his dark, swept-back
hair.
‘What offer’s this then?’ my father asked when I returned to the table.
My mind replayed the conversation with Nash, in case there was anything else they’d overheard that I was going to have to explain.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Nothing, eh?’
I hated the idea of the two of us being men with secrets.
‘Look, do you mind if I save this for later? I’m stuffed . . .’
He shot me a wounded glance. Our bubble of matey bonhomie had been fragile, and now I’d popped it.
In my bedroom, I stared at the snowflakes falling past the window, thinking of this time one year ago.
The snow had started to fall as the light faded. It wasn’t safe to ski off-piste, but it was sheer madness if you couldn’t even see where you were going.
‘Why did you come up, if you didn’t want to ski down?’ Ross demanded.
My brother’s strategy was always to make me feel stupid first.
‘I thought you wanted to go down the usual way . . .’
‘We’ve done
“the usual way”
,’ he whined, mocking me.
‘Not in these conditions. It’ll still be fairly dangerous . . .’
‘“
Still be fairly dangerous”!’
Another mocking echo, then the inevitable taunt that never failed to spur me into doing things I didn’t want to do.
‘God, you’re such a fucking wuss!’
Ross looked down the slope. I looked down the slope. Then he looked at me, his eyes gleaming with the challenge.
‘Last one to the bottom gets the drinks in!’ He pulled his goggles down and was off, straight to ‘Go!’ when I was still at ‘Ready!’ just like every race
we’d ever run.
I almost followed. I almost followed. But I did not follow.
I’d heard the taunts so often, they’d lost their power. I didn’t even ski down the marked run. The little wave of triumph ebbed away as I stood alone in the bubble, drifting
slowly down through the dense fog, as if I’d finally accepted defeat.
Back at the hotel, I sat in the window of the bar, staring out into zero visibility.
After a few minutes, Mum and Dad found me. She’d been in the spa all
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