Snow Blind by Richard Blanchard Page B

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.
    â€œListen 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.”
    â€œDid they say why they are re-pitching? What do they dislike about what we are doing?” Steve enquires.
    â€œNothing 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.”
    â€œOur 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.
    â€œWell 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.”
    â€œIt’s going to be awkward to leave my own stag-do guys.” No way José am I leaving for this ungrateful git.
    â€œI can look at flights on Saturday I suppose.” I weakly hope that logistics will bail me out.
    â€œYou don’t seem to realise how crucial this is.” Max keeps shifting the responsibility back over my head.
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œIt will be tight but we are just going to have to.” Steve handles his response well, positioning me as the shirker.
    â€œIf 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