Sometimes, when everyone is seemingly out there in the world, being happy, joyful, and full of life, a woman just wants to tell them all to sod off and die in a pit of fire. That was the first thought that entered Rebecca’s head that morning, and it was probably the most upbeat thought she’d had since she awoke. The twinge in her lower back always made her a little grumpy first thing on a morning. Sometimes she would still wake in an odd position, wracked with a sudden spasm. As though her muscle memory had stored that feeling of horrendous pain. As though it wanted to remind her what could go wrong when you reached for the stars. Falling from the heavens wasn’t without injury. Pieces breaking off. It wasn’t so much the pain anymore. It was the memory that haunted her the most. The feeling of falling, tumbling, breaking. Hearing her own bones snap. It was enough to make anyone a little bit jaded about the world. Her nan used to call her arthritic early morning pain the ‘crabby hour’. Now, reflecting on her current early morning mood, she understood just what her old nan meant. Why she’d been so snarky on so many occasions.
Turning over in bed, registering the current pain-free state of her lower half, she slowly opened her eyes, using her covers as a shield against the bright light coming from the curtained window. She was wrapped up like a mountain Sherpa, with only tiny slits for her to see through exposed to the cold of the room. Turning the heat off on a night saved the pennies, but it meant waking up in a brilliant white icebox. The glamping equivalent of an igloo. It made her even less inclined to jump out of bed with glee.
‘Jesus!’ She shrieked as her bare feet finally plucked up the courage to leave the comfort of her 13.5-tog duvet. Padding across the wooden floor, she looked at the view from her bedroom window. The same view she’d looked at for the past year, since she’d moved into the master bedroom. On the other side of the thick glass, the French Alps lay glistening before her. The snow-topped mountains were a dazzling white, the powder fresh and untouched yet by man. No tell-tale sweeping scars left from skis in the snow. It looked like a picture postcard. Something to make a person marvel at the wonder of the world they inhabited. Reaching for the curtains, which were thin and utterly useless white voiles anyway, she swished them closed and dived straight back under the covers. Shivering, she pushed out a hand and grabbed her mobile phone from its charging pod.
15 MESSAGES
2 MISSED CALLS
All from one person: Mum. Unbidden, an image of the woman who gave her life popped up in her head. Crying by Rebecca’s hospital bedside when she thought her daughter was sleeping off the powerful pain meds she was dosed up on. Medicine to keep her still, to let her body heal, recover. The whispered phone calls, her mother’s desperate voice as she tried to field the questions from the press. She could still remember her mother standing there, in the doorway of the private room. Rebecca had woken with the pain, and her mother’s anguished hushed tones from the other side of the room had filtered into her foggy head. Her mother was in the doorway, her back to the room. The stark white glow from the artificially lit corridor made her mother’s complexion look a little grey, her pale white pallor highlighted more by the trademark bright colours she wore. The woman had never met a Laura Ashley design she didn’t love.
‘Rebecca will be fine, and your headline is damn right wrong, Bruce. After all the years of professional competing, I think you know the calibre of the skier that we are talking about. The Ice Rebel is down, but she’s not bloody well out.’ Her mother pushed the last of her words out with a fiery flourish, her voice almost cracking with the effort. As the tinny voice of Bruce, editor of the latest tabloid to latch on to her very public accident on the slopes, nattered back into her mother’s delicate ear on the phone, Rebecca watched her mother. The fight had left her with those words, as she watched her mother sink into the visitor’s chair and lean her head against a wall. Right there and then, she made the decision that she’d been thrashing round in her head since …
The phone rang in her hand, and ‘MUM’ flashed on the screen. Rebecca let it ring off. It was far too early to deal with speaking to her right now. Not that her phone was blowing up these days.
The thought depressed her every time. Rebecca’s mum, and Hans, her boss and once flatmate, were the only people to ever call. And even that was mostly about work. Since Hans had moved out of his flat, leaving Rebecca as a sole tenant, he’d stayed close, checking on the café below. And his friend, of course. Alpine Bites was still his baby, and although his wife Holly grew larger with their first child every time Rebecca saw her, Hans was keen to keep an eye on his business. She flicked through the messages on her screen, each one firmer in tone than the last.
DARLING, CALL ME. MUM
HELLO?
JUST READ AN ARTICLE IN THE GUARDIAN ABOUT CHILDLESS WOMEN OVER 30. DIVORCE RATES TRIPLE!
This was her latest area of interest. A grandchild. Rebecca blamed Holly being pregnant for that one. Baby fever. Not that she resented Holly and Hans for being happy, for taking the next step to add to their family. She was happy for them and couldn’t wait to be an aunt. It just didn’t mean that her clock had started ticking yet. Besides which, she’d only just recovered from a shattered pelvis. Pushing an eight-pound baby out of her hoo-haa didn’t sound like a great idea at this time in her life. And since her split with Robbie, she hadn’t exactly been surrounded by sperm donor candidates anyway.
She shook her head in disbelief and read on.
COMPETITIONS MUST BE STARTING UP NOW. HAVE YOU ENTERED?
Rebecca rolled her eyes, her gaze falling on the stack of competition entry forms that had mysteriously arrived in the post. No postmark though. Funny that. Hans really had a soft spot for her mother, and she played him like a kazoo. Rebecca could only hope she didn’t ask him to drop off a jam jar of his finest, get the ball rolling. Grow your own grandchild from the comfort of your armchair. Wi-Fi connection required.
Not feeling up to reading the rest, she was about to delete the lot when she saw the next entry. Clicking on the screen to bring up the full text, her jaw hit the floor.
DARLING, DON’T FORGET. IF YOU WON’T COMPETE, THEN OTHER OPPORTUNITIES MIGHT ARISE TO THE RIGHT YOUNG PROFESSIONAL. YOU COULD DO TV!
An image of herself with a microphone in hand came to mind, watching everybody else have fun and fulfil their dreams, whilst she stood on the sidelines grinning like a Playboy bunny and freezing her norks off. Rebecca gritted her teeth and started to type out a reply. She could feel herself getting so irritated. Why did her mother always just seem to strive to get her back up, every time they connected?
Mother, can you at least let me have a coffee before you regret my existence?
*delete*
New phone, who dis?
*delete*
Sorry Mother dearest, was straddling the hot new contender, Javier! Text you back when I’m with child!
*delete*
Yes Mum, all fine here. Was up late practising, sorry. Competition entries going in soon. Love you. Got to get to work. x
She added a cupcake emoji for good measure. Something jaunty to placate her mother, who was probably already on the phone to Sky Sports, trying to blag her a job.
Looking at the screen, Rebecca sagged back into her quilt barrier and sighed heavily. The time was coming when she’d have to tell her mum that she hadn’t entered again, and her matriarch-induced stress headache was already playing the bongo drums on her temples at the thought. She wasn’t exactly scared of her mother, but she was weary of feeling like the disappointment in the family. She’d never understood the term ‘black sheep’ really, but she got the gist now. She put the phone back on her bedside table and dragged herself once more onto the floorboards of icy death.
Twenty minutes later, she was downstairs in her uniform of black slacks and matching black short-sleeved T-shirt, both bearing the Alpine Bites logo, where a happy cartoon mountain took a bite out of a doughnut, all embroidered in a hot pink against the pitch black material. She’d tied her hair up as usual, tight to her raven-haired head. She’d even bothered with a little make-up too. Her mother’s influence across the miles leaving her feeling just a little bit shit and in need of a bit of war paint to face the day. One red slick of lipstick daubed across her face felt like a shield of armour against the gauntlet of daily reality. Praise be to the goddesses of the concealer stick.
Unlocking the connecting door that stood at the bottom of the lodge stairs, she closed it behind her and walked out into the huge open plan space that was Alpine Bites café. Or as Hans called it, the jewel of Alpe d’Huez. The lodge upstairs, her home with the icy floors, was called Fir Tree Lodge. It suited the place too, it was cosy. Hans loved his business babies, and he named them well. Rebecca did feel at home here, and oddly territorial. For the first time that morning, she smiled to herself as she looked at the expanse of tables and chairs, sofa areas surrounding little nooks and coffee tables, and glass and light wood walls all around. The walls were mostly thick panels of highly polished glass that ran from floor to ceiling, with thin but solid beams in between, making it look like an ultra-modern lodge against the backdrop of the ski slopes around them.
This café had some of the best views of the slopes, and a birds-eye view of the main arena, the largest slope that Alpe d’Huez had to offer. Rebecca loved it, and not just for the views, or the hit of adrenalin that she passively smoked all day long. People talking about their days on the slopes, dissecting their errors and achievements. Laughing at the one who ate the most snow as they lost their balance falling in the fresh powder. She loved it because it kept her tethered to the edge of what was once her reason for living. At least here, she got a hit of the ‘old days’ now and again. She used it to confirm to herself that she hadn’t always been one of the most miserable people on the face of the universe. That once upon a time, she’d been just like them. One of the gang. Ish. She still lived like a hermit outside of work, but then she had cake.
Locking the door to her apartment, she tucked the key in an apron hanging on a nearby hook and wrapping it around her, she stepped down a couple of further steps and was immediately in the baking and serving area. It ran along one long wall, an oval shape that left the front of the café open for seating in front of those big wide windows. In this little egg, Rebecca spent her days serving, baking … and people watching. She could almost smell the holidaymakers as she got to work opening up the café for the day. She preferred to blend in these days; with her new hairstyle and the fact that she was a bit of a recluse from the media in the first place, it wasn’t hard to work behind the counter and serve customers without them so much as batting an eye about her previous life. If she’d been Kim Kardashian, and her face was known everywhere, she’d have had to move to a deserted island and would have done willingly. No doubt her mother would be parachuting in supplies and eligible bachelors every month. Well she was through with that. Robbie was the ultimate eligible bachelor, and she didn’t like the cut of his bloody jib these days. She was a lot of things, but willing arsehole magnet was not one of them. She shook off the memories that tried to settle around her and got to work.
Being an early riser had its perks, once she had shaken off her righteous indignation at waking up as she did every morning, alone but henpecked from home, in the dazzling white of the French resort. It had gone seven now, and she needed to get the display cases filled with her creations. Ready for the families, the professionals, and the thrill-seekers. It was Monday morning, the middle of the competition season, and today would be no different to the past few months. The resort would spring to life as soon as the sun was up with the babble and bustle of the thousands of people who visited every single day. She could smell the adrenalin and excitement in the alpine air already, but it wasn’t just the competition hopefuls she looked forward to seeing. It was the snarky couples, the over-the-top proposals, and the full-on family fights. The minutiae of life laid bare whilst they guzzled coffee and cake in her little hideaway. Little goldfish for her to observe, only she was on the same side of the glass. If life was all around you, it meant you were still part of it, right? A bystander maybe, but that suited Rebecca just fine. Who needed to be in the spotlight, when all that did was expose the chinks, the ugly cracks and flaws? She was much better in the shadows of life.
Scars don’t show in the shadows. It was one of the first things Hans had said to her after the accident. He didn’t mean her to take it so much to heart, but at the time, it saved her. She took the café job he offered, with no experience or inclination. It was a lifeline. A moment of anonymity in the place she still wanted to be a part of. A reason to stay. They’d had some laughs along the way too, it hadn’t all been doom and gloom.
Checking the calendar on the wall behind the large till, she smiled once more. This time a far broader grin, one that Alice in Wonderland might baulk at on sight.
‘Croissant Death Day,’ she declared to herself excitedly. ‘Oh Hans, my friend, you are in for a treat.’ Reaching for one of the files on her recipe bookshelf, she thumbed through her scribblings, looking for something special.
The very fact that she owned a book full of recipes would have been unheard of half a decade ago, but now it felt like home as she flicked through the handwritten pages. An occasional mark from a bit of dropped batter punctuated the pages of cut-outs from magazines and little photos of Rebecca’s handiwork; on some of them, Hans and Holly had rated them Bake Off style. That was back in the early days, when Hans lived here and he was showing her the waitress ropes. She had recovered enough to go home, but the ticket for the flight had been stuck in her bag since her mother had sent it. Hans and Holly gave her the means to stay, and she had fallen right into the gig without really thinking about her next move in life. Little did I know I’d end up running the place. Rebecca smiled at Holly’s moist rating on one of them. Her strawberry tart design had gained the coveted five tongues for supreme moistness, and it still made her laugh every time she saw it. Not today’s chosen recipe though. Today she knew exactly what she was looking for. One of her first creations. The one that made Hans and Holly shudder at the thought of. After the pressure of her morning, she was ready to have a little fun with her friends. Get her routine right back into its happy little rut.
*
Luke ruffled his hand through his sandy-brown hair with an un-gloved hand, the index finger of the thick material dangling from his mouth as he looked up at the gorgeous wood and glass café in front of him. His footwear was now as much use as a chocolate fireguard, and his feet felt like blocks of ice. Or more like concrete, truth be told. He couldn’t feel anything below the waist, so even seeing his boot-clad feet still attached to his legs gave him a flooding sense of relief. Squinting against the bright glare of the snow, he took off his black-rimmed glasses and peered once more at the screen on the phone in his frozen hand. This was the place, and it looked even better than the pictures he’d been poring over in the taxi. This was something that he was discovering more and more in recent days. Luke’s learning curve was not really a curve, but rather more of a vertical incline. He still had nausea from the last-minute white-knuckle plane dash across the world. He wasn’t exactly an experienced flyer, in fact, he’d never really been anywhere before this. Work had always offered him the opportunity to travel, see more of the world, but he’d never pulled the trigger. He’d been busy enough staying close to home.
His phone hadn’t stopped bonging at him since he’d landed either. His clients were in some kind of meltdown, it seemed, and standing there, he could jolly well relate to how they felt. He felt like he could throw up or pass out, or an eye-boggling combination of the two. Right now, he didn’t just wish for better boots, he wished for sparkly red shoes. Christ, he would bang those things together three times before anyone could even utter the word wimp. No wonder his dad hadn’t wanted him around. Luke had called again the second he landed but the news was still the same.
He’s comfortable. No, he’s not talking yet. No, he still doesn’t want to speak to you.
He sighed to himself, putting his glove back on and heading for the entrance. He wouldn’t have the heels anyway. If this was Oz, he’d have the paws of a cowardly lion. Following some crazy dream his parents had before he was born was uncharacteristic, sure, he was crapping his pants at the prospect of actually following it through. But the memory of watching his old man in that hospital bed spurred him on, Luke could see in his withdrawn expression that he had given up on life, and now it was his responsibility to show his dad that he still had something to live for.
Standing right outside the entrance to the café, he gathered himself, taking a breath.
‘Well, old man,’ he muttered. ‘Here goes nothing.’
He grappled to open the door with his numb, thick, sausage-like gloved fingers, before yanking it open and promptly pitching forward. He ended up hanging half in, half out, dangling there like a puppet with a string caught. Pulling his glove free of the thick metallic door handle, he straightened himself up and stepped over the threshold. Looking around, it seemed for once his rather less than elegant entrance had been missed. No one was looking, and that left him free to let his own eyes roam.
What struck him immediately was the smell of the place. His friend had told him about the food, but it wasn’t the same as inhaling it firsthand. A metaphor for his life up to that point, he supposed. The warm air enveloped him, stopping his body from shaking quite as vigorously as before, and drugging him into feeling sugary-safe. He found himself stopping dead in the doorway, closing his eyes and taking a deep, long sniff of the heavenly scent into his lungs. Coffee, warm air, and baked goods. Wafts of fruit flavours that made his mouth water. He hadn’t exactly been fine dining lately, and his stomach had started to revolt against him. He just wanted a moment to just be here, to relish in the fact that, he alone, took this trip an—
‘Are you going to order, or just stand there gawping all day?’
‘Huh?’
‘Did you ski into a tree or something? The medical centre is back down there.’ The woman speaking to him was standing behind the corner, hands on her hips. She looked familiar somehow, but he couldn’t quite place the deep brown eyes and raised eyebrows. She was dressed in black, and it made her look a little scary. Witchy even. Hot witch. More Morticia Addams than hag, but still.
A woman came into the café, walking around him after a moment of confusion and smiling at the witch. Err, woman.
‘Hot chocolate and a croissant please, and do you have any apple squares?’ The customer gave her order with a big smile, and the woman behind the counter gave Luke another long look and got to work on the order. The customer, all long blonde hair in a tight pink skiing outfit, started chatting away.
‘Been fun on the slopes today, you ever get out there?’
The woman behind the counter gave a little snort. ‘Nah, not my thing.’ Luke noticed a name tag, pink with black lettering. REBECCA.
‘Oh, well that’s a shame. You’re missing out.’
Rebecca passed over her order with a smile.
‘I’m really not, but thanks. Have a good day now, and take our card.’ She beamed at the blonde, passing over a black and pink piece of card. ‘We’d love to see you again.’
The blonde opened her mouth to say something, but then smiled back, taking the card.
‘These smell amazing, I will. Thanks!’
She twirled around, almost knocking into Luke, who jumped out of the way like a dancing monkey. He whirled the whole way around like a carousel, stopping in front of Rebecca as the woman opened the door and headed out into the great outdoors. The blast of icy air she brought with her was enough to make his leg muscles contract, till he was bent like a pretzel in front of the counter. He was still trying to slap some heat back into his body when Rebecca spoke again.
‘Look, can I help you?’ She leaned closer, till they were at eye level. ‘I feel like you just fell out of a plane.’ Looking at his suitcase behind him, abandoned at one side, and his jerky body, she narrowed her eyes. ‘Or a spaceship. Where are you booked in?’
He knew he was gawping at her again, but he couldn’t find his words.
‘Hello? Do you need assistance?’ She was openly staring at him now. Luke, speak mate. She was tapping her foot and looking around the café nervously.
‘Are you always so … edgy?’
Her head snapped back a little, and he shrank his own head back into the comfort of his body. Worked for tortoises.
‘Edgy?’ She echoed. He opened half an eye out of his shell, and she was still glaring at him. ‘Are you always so articulate with your words, or is it just the mountain air inspiring you?’
Luke cleared his throat, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. That’s it. Insult her and rock the nerd look. Great start, Lukey boy. ‘Sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well, am I? I’m here about a room.’
*
Dammit. Such a shame that people don’t research their trips properly before swiping the plastic at the airport. He had left it far too late, everything would be booked up well in advance. Even the townsfolk who rented rooms out would be taken by now.
‘Sorry, I don’t know of any spare rooms. You’ll be hard pressed to find accommodation anywhere now. Packages are usually the way to go.’ He shivered, just at that moment, and her eyes jumped to his chest area. He didn’t look scruffy as such. A little harassed and scatty maybe. His clothes were nice. He had a designer jumper on, but it was far too thin for the resort’s weather. He looked as though he’d walked onto the wrong plane and just never realised. He looked a little lost. The guy must be freezing, she thought to herself. She felt a little bad that she’d been short with him, but she didn’t take kindly to people hanging around her like that. It was then she realised he was speaking again, and she didn’t like what she heard.
‘I’m sorry?’ she said, dumbly. ‘Did you say you were staying round here? Where?’
A couple walked in at that moment, heading straight for one of the empty tables. Rebecca nodded distractedly at him, before passing another table a menu and grabbing her pad. Taking the couple’s orders quickly, she headed back to the counter to get it ready. Luke gave her an ‘I’ll let you get on’ look and took a seat near the counter. The man of the party complimented her on the café, and she beamed with pride. She did love the place. She would never deny that.
She got to work, chatting to the customers, making sure the tables were happy, checking on her baking, but all the while she found herself peeking at one particular new face. He looked at odds with the landscape she was used to. He looked like he was having some sort of crisis for one. His hair was dishevelled and he was tapping away at his phone, swiping screens on his iPad, and stuffing bits of paper back into his bag, which was filled with little notes. She smiled to herself, thinking that he looked a bit like a student about to take his final exams on five hours’ sleep and a ton of energy drinks. Still studying the menu, taking his time, he placed his fingers near his chin, and she noticed the light stubble running across it. As he was reading the list of dishes for the twentieth time, the glasses on his nose steamed up. He needed little wipers for his Clark Kents. Rebecca found herself wondering what the guy’s deal was, but that wasn’t part of her day. She had a plan, and helping weirdos wasn’t one of them. Distracting herself, she gave a couple their orders, and started to clean the empty tables on her way back, stacking the dishes in the dishwasher ready to go. After the weird morning with her mother, she needed the guy to leave so she could switch her brain off once more. Thinking too much about things was never good.
‘Nice place, it smells amazing walking in here.’
He was looking right at her now.
‘Thanks. It’s not mine actually. My friend Hans owns it, I’m just the live-in manager.’ She turned her back to him to clean a tabletop, hoping he would get the message and return to the note-strewn workspace he was currently creating in her sacred, neat café.
‘Well, it’s nice,’ he added, looking at her intently now. ‘Hans, eh?’
Rebecca nodded at him. ‘Yep, he’s the boss. You want anything?’ She raised the order pad, tapping on it with her pen in a determined manner. She didn’t look at him, keeping her eyes on her pad.
‘I’ll just have an Americano for now. I think I need to thaw out a little before I get some food. I didn’t mean the edgy comment, by the way. I just meant that you had a bit of an edge to you.’ He continued the conversation like they’d never missed a beat, and it was then that she realised what had been irking her so much. He was really annoying, sure but the thing that irked her was that she wanted to know more about him.
She passed him his coffee, taking the money and trying not to react as his hand brushed hers. She felt a push and pull towards him that was getting a little bit weird now. She wished he had a label, like a trinket on a shelf. She wanted to find out more about him, what his deal was, but she also wanted him to go away and never return so she could get on with her day. Hans would be here later, and she had stuff to do. He’d taken a high seat at the counter, taking his satchel type bag off the seat next to him and taking out a newspaper. Great, he’s really staying. Close too. Shurrup, Rebecca. He’s a person, remember? A customer. Feeling like she needed a distraction, Rebecca returned to her baking. She was soon back to her old self, though her eyes were a little busier than usual. Mr Scruffy, as she had now nicknamed him in her head, was reading the paper, she was doing her thing, and the other café-goers were all happy in their own little caffeinated bubbles. After looking at the perfect creations on her tray, she loaded them into the oven and started to clean up again to set up for the next rush.
‘Can I ask,’ Mr Scruffy began in a broad accent. It was gruff, deep and Northern, she noticed now. A thick accent from back home. She could barely make it out at first. Her Yorkshire radar was a little rusty, given the setting she lived in and the multicultural clientèle she crossed paths with daily. ‘What did you just make?’
‘Croissants, with my own twist.’ He looked at her, an eyebrow raised in question, and she gave him a knowing look. ‘You’ll see, if you’re still here when they get out of the oven.’
He drained his coffee cup, putting it back onto its saucer and pushing it towards her.
‘Well, better have a refill then.’
Rebecca, you great, big-mouthed tit. He won’t leave now! Never mention baked goods to a man if you want him to leave. Rule 101 of baking. Although, with Robbie, she wouldn’t have been able to coax him in the first place. Her ex-boyfriend wasn’t a carb-lover. Cake was an alien foodstuff to him. If she’d offered to whip him up a Victoria sponge when they were together, he’d have laughed in her face and skied for two hours to work off even the thought of the calories. She laughed to herself, before she remembered that she wasn’t that person back then. She wouldn’t have been baking. She’d have been on the snow with him, giving him a run for his money. If Robbie saw her now, he’d probably be relieved he got out when he did. She pulled the hem of her top down, suddenly aware that she was flashing her muffin top to the room. Robbie would have laughed at that too.
She filled the man’s cup up from the coffee pot, trying to turn her brain back onto autopilot. She had all the feelings today for some reason. About her mother, about the competitions she was avoiding yet again. About Robbie, the man she once knew so well, and now didn’t understand one iota. Things changed, she knew that only too well. She didn’t even trust her own body anymore. Mr Scruffy started tapping away on his tablet screen again, in between taking deep, appreciative sips of his coffee. The man was making love to the cup! It was like watching an alien meet the world. He just looked so … she came back to the word lost again. He looked out of place there, driven. Definitely not a holidaymaker.. It had made her think, and she didn’t do that anymore. She lived day to day, and that was just bloody fine. She topped his coffee up again.
The man thanked her, taking the cup between his hands and holding it to his mouth a moment. His glasses steamed up again, and he didn’t even seem to notice. He was too busy enjoying his drink like a man who had never seen a coffee bean before. God help whoever had to accommodate him. It wasn’t her problem though. She had the next batch to get on with and people to serve. Same as every day.
‘So, you live here year-round?’ She could feel his green eyes on her, and suddenly she found herself wishing she was more like her old self. Just for a second, she wanted to be more. She hadn’t felt like that for a long while, and it was very unsettling. I’ve been out of the race for a long time, but now, I regret that I don’t have anything to say to this man. Which is fine, because soon he’ll be gone. He’ll be gone and I’ll be back in my little flour-coated bubble. The old me would have chatted away, no paranoia about who he was. Who I was. I miss just feeling normal.
‘Yep,’ was all she said in the end. He nodded at her, but didn’t look away.
‘So, the café isn’t open year-round, right? What do you do then?’
She answered him without looking, keeping her focus on her work. If she bored him quick, he would leave quick. Worst-case scenario, she could throw a bun at him. Shut him up.
‘I read, hang out, there’s plenty of work in town, so I tend to do that. Bit of cleaning, baking gigs. I don’t need much. Hans needs a sitter here, so the rent’s pretty cheap.’
Or free, truth be told. Rebecca did pay him something each month, when he let her, but it was a token rent really. She paid her own utility and phone bills, and bought her own food, so he wasn’t fussed. She found out a while ago that she didn’t need a lot. Sometimes she looked through old bank statements to laugh at herself, and how the old Rebecca used to live. It seemed like she’d had it all at the time. How odd it is that things change so much.
The man’s nodding at me as though he’s really listening to what I’m saying. Weirdo. It’s my turn.
‘So,’ she said as cheerfully as she could, getting on with the baking, ‘what brings you here?’
I’m a supreme master at changing the subject. Especially when someone is asking about my life. I don’t tend to talk about that.
He opened his mouth to speak, to finally, hopefully tell her what he was doing there, and more importantly, when he was leaving. Rebecca held her breath as he started to speak, but the door was suddenly flung open, a blast of cold air billowing through the café from the force.
‘Good morning Alpine adventurers!’ Hans strode in, bellowing, his beard full of ice, encased in his usual Day-Glo warm weather gear. He kicked the door shut behind him, his arms full with a huge cardboard box. He came over to the counter, nodding and saying hello to customers as he went. Leaning forward to look at Rebecca’s handiwork, he took a deep sniff.
‘Nice,’ he said jovially, his iced eyebrow raised in her direction. ‘Croissant Death Day rolls around once more.’
‘Yep,’ she agreed, trying not to grin at him. This was what she’d been waiting for. After all, what made a girl feel better more than taking the mick out of her friends? ‘I just wanted to mark the day, you know, so you wouldn’t forget.’
‘I’ll never forget what day it is.’ He nodded to the calendar, his face grave. ‘The follicles on my forearms still scream when you get near.’ Rebecca chuckled, making Hans cover his arms in reflex.
‘I know, I know. Your arm hair’s safe. Newbie error. The treats will be worth the trauma.’
He came around the side of the counter and dropped the box at her feet, and then his gaze slid to the man in the corner. He banged his hand on the counter hard, making a couple of the customers jump.
‘Luke! Luke! My friend! You came! I can’t believe it!’ Rebecca was looking at the door, at the diners, wondering who Luke was and why Hans was so excited. He was a bounding puppy on his lowest days, so this was extra-excitable behaviour.
‘Can you believe this, Becca? Luke!’ Hans tapped her on the arm excitedly, before striding back over to the man he called Luke. The very man Rebecca herself had been obsessing over all morning. He grabbed him in a big hug, lifting him clean off his feet. Luke was quite a tall lad, but Hans was a huge, craggy rock face of a man. The first time Rebecca had met him, she’d half expected a Sherpa to be herding goats across his back.
‘Hans, dude, have you been eating ski lifts or something? Jesus, you’re bigger than the mountains!’ Luke, aka Mr Scruffy, was perched in his arms like a giddy puppy, his gangly legs dangling down. Hans just clung on for dear life, laughing his head off. It was like watching a bear hugging a salmon. A rather gleeful salmon, that seemed happy to be caught. And, in the right light, Luke did have a rather Clark-Kent-cum-Superman thing going on about him. She’d been too irritated by him to notice earlier, but now Hans was in effect crushing the life out of him, she could admit to herself that he was a tiny bit cute. In certain lights. Maybe. And now I’m fantasising about sexy fish wearing glasses. I need help. I bet David Attenborough doesn’t have these problems.
‘So,’ Hans says, releasing him just enough to enable him to draw breath, ‘what are you doing here? I never thought you’d …’ He made a plane movement with his hand, complete with whooshing sound. ‘I mean, I’m just so—’
‘I’m here to do this, let’s just leave it at that.’ Luke rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand, and Rebecca realised, he was uncomfortable with the question. ‘Work’s been a bit mental, I guess …’ Hans clocked the messy workspace, and raised a brow in surprise. Rebecca glared at the mess at Luke, but he was too busy avoiding Hans’s eye. She knew shifty when she saw it.
‘But anyway, I made it! Are we …’ He paused and shot a quick look at Rebecca, then back up to Hans. ‘… all set?’
He said it jovially, but there was something in his voice. Rebecca noticed the way he and Hans nodded at each other. I’m intrigued, but realistically, it can’t be good, and I want nothing to do with drama. I have had enough of that to last a lifetime. Baking the next batch of croissants was something she could do. She could make coffee, serve customers, clean tables. There was routine in that, a regularity to the mundane that she needed to keep herself steady. Present, and not on that mountain top, about to shove off the snow and screw up the life she knew and dearly loved. At the time, anyway. She’d had her eyes opened on some things with the rose tint of time. Robbie, for example. That was another disaster she’d skied right into.
She folded the next set of croissants, laying them out on trays so that she could pop them in the oven. The two men kept chatting quietly together all the while, and Rebecca found herself relaxing once more into her work. But she didn’t miss Hans shooting her looks from time to time, which was odd. Even for him. Probably checking the fire extinguisher was still on the wall, ready to go. The poor man had PTSD from their ‘Hans School of Baking’ time. It wasn’t every man who could take a broken, slightly bitter, ex-professional skier and turn her into not only a decent waitress, but a bloody good baker to boot. Hans had done a good job, Holly too. They’d held her together till she could stand on her own feet once more. One of them had even sacrificed a forearm to the cause, and a fair bit of man pride.
The men still had their heads together when her chicken timer clucked loudly. Another gem from her mother under the guise of career development, but at least this one had a good use. The biographies of influential female athletes she sometimes posted were still firmly in the bottom drawer. Taking the special batch of croissants out of the oven, Rebecca beamed as she looked at her work. She might have zero interest in … well, anything, but these moments, seeing what she had made, they helped her drag herself out of her frosty pit every morning.
‘Are these what all the fuss is about? They smell lovely, but what is that flavour?’ Luke was suddenly there in front of her, bent double, looking enraptured by the tray of golden loveliness.
‘It’s my own creation actually, I like to try new combinations.’ Shut up, mouth. She pursed her lips together tight.
Hans was standing behind him, huge hands on his hips, an odd look on his face. A look Rebecca knew well.
‘Well, they smell lush.’ Luke looked up at her, well, into her breasts. It had been a while since a bloke had done that. Even if it was just an eyeline faux pas on his part. I wish I had worn my better bra. I bobbed my comfortable one on this morning. Lets the ladies do their thang. It had to be a man who invented the underwired bra, I tell you. Those babies take out washers and dryers with a single errant wire, so why the hell do we shove our breasts into them, scaffolded and bound like captives? No thanks. I’ll let my puppies fly free, ta. Still, given the way that Luke was looking at her relaxed little uniboob, maybe Victoria’s Secret had a point.
‘Thanks,’ she said, folding her arms over her chest, removing his viewpoint. He looked up at her, and she could see he was blushing. Which made her blush, and when recognition hit that he had been caught out, his face exploded into a tomato-like hue. It was endearing in a way. She found that she didn’t mind him looking. The feminist in her shuddered, but allowed it.
‘So Luke,’ Hans boomed from behind, making them both jump. ‘I have somewhere you can stay, for a few days at least. I’d put you up myself, but things are hectic at mine.’ Hans is the least hectic person I know. What’s going on?
‘That’s okay, I wouldn’t want to impose.’ Luke waved him off, looking ever more awkward by the minute. ‘Nonsense!’ Hans stepped forward, slapping him on the back hard. Luke took a stumbling step forward and coughed a little. ‘You can’t impose on us, right Becks?’
Shit. I think I know what’s coming. Nah … he wouldn’t do that. I know he won’t. Surely he won’t …
‘Miss Atkins here would be honoured to put you up, wouldn’t you, Becks?’
‘Er …’
‘No!’
‘Brilliant!’
Luke and Rebecca both spoke in unison, but Hans was by far the biggest, loudest windbag. Damn him.
‘It’s settled then! The lodge has a guest room, it’s pretty big, there’s a desk there, Wi-Fi is a bit patchy sometimes, but it works. Rebecca will be glad of the company, I’m sure!’
He looked at her cheerily, and she made an ‘I’ll murder you in your sleep’ face at him, complete with throat-cutting action. His grin only got wider, and she even spied a little Swedish twinkle in his eye. What an utter berk. I wish I’d burned his other arm bald too now.
‘I don’t think Luke here wants to stay with a stranger, Hans! You have room at yours, surely? It’s just the two of you in that big place.’ She threw her arms behind her head wildly, gesturing to the upstairs. ‘Better than this pokey little hole, I’m sure!’
At that very moment, the thin clouds in the sky parted, and the sun shone bright through the windows, making the whole place look like a holiday postcard. Hans’s face was pinched, and he was straining with the effort of not laughing at her. She could see it. She wanted to headbutt him, to Morse code her distress to him with the anxious tapping of her feet on the solid wood floor.
A-b-o-r-t.
N-o w-a-y-H-a-n-s.
Hans looked her in the eye and his face spread into a slow, smug smile.
‘It’s settled then! He’ll stay here.’ Hans spoke as though Luke wasn’t standing at the side of him, looking back at his case as if he were wishing it was big enough to sleep in, and he could avoid the game of pass the stranger. ‘I tried to get him a room, I looked as soon as Luke said he might visit. It’s all booked up.’
‘Right,’ Rebecca muttered. She knew he was telling the truth, but it didn’t make him less of a git to speak it. She waited till Luke wasn’t looking and made an angry face at her boss and one-time good pal. ‘Err …’ Luke was pulling a face himself, but looking at Rebecca expectantly. ‘It would only be for a few nights, just till I find somewhere …’
He trailed off, and they all knew that it was highly unlikely. Hotels and B&Bs around here all had waiting lists, and cancellations not snapped up in seconds were few and far between.
‘It’s fine,’ some cheery woman said. Rebecca looked behind her, but saw nothing but the wall of the kitchen area. Great, it was me. Stupid, helpful, cheerful me.
‘Are you sure?’ Luke checked, and she found herself feeling a little bit sorry for him. He did look a little pathetic, a tad waif and stray.
‘Of course!’ Hans cut in, throwing his arms wide theatrically. ‘Not a problem, my friend.’
Rebecca looked at Hans in a last-ditch attempt to get out from under this mess, hoping she could project her inner feelings from her eyeballs to his brain. He ignored her at first, standing there like a waxwork. She tried to grab his attention, to glare into him the fact that she didn’t want some old friend of his shacking up under her roof. She had things to do, real, serious things. She was halfway through her Midsomer Murders boxset for a start, and she wasn’t stopping that for anyone. She didn’t want Luke there, in her life. She just wanted to bake and forget, and be left the ruddy hell alone. She hadn’t shared a space with a member of the opposite sex since Robbie. She didn’t count Hans. He was Holly’s, and they didn’t see each other that way. Never had. They had bonded over the sport, and then over their love for the resort. Baking had been an unexpected bonus for both of them. She was still staring at him, Luke busying himself with tidying some of his papers now.
‘So we’re doing this?’ she asked, trying not to plead. ‘Like, really doing this?’
Hans flashed his gaze her way then, and she knew she’d lost. He had the same look in his eye many times, and it only ever ended one way. His. Eugh, chirpy people are so relentless. I’m pretty sure he knows just how much I will hate this, but his shit-eating grin just tells me that I lost. Rats. Luke was back now, looking like the Danny DeVito of the Twins duo at the side of Hans.
‘And you’re sure it’s okay with you, Rebecca? I feel awful just turning up and messing your day up.’
‘I’m sure, Luke. I would be happy to put you up.’ Put up with you, more like. ‘Would you like a croissant?’ Ignoring her shaking hand, she picked up her tongs, knuckles white on the handles, and placed one onto a plate. Hans stepped forward too, but she passed the plate to Luke and started tonging the others into the display cabinet swiftly, ready to sell.
‘Sorry Hans, but you’re allergic to these.’ She gave him her very best, friendliest smile. The one she reserved for the worst of the customers, those who ground her gears to the max. The one that looked like it said, ‘I understand, I am here to serve you,’ but really meant ‘Leave now, and I’ll let you live.’
Hans looked confused as he pushed his huge hand through his hair, sticking his thick hat back on his stupid broad head.
‘I don’t have any allerg—’
Rebecca closed the back of the glass cabinet and looked straight at him. He shuddered, and Rebecca’s eyes narrowed.
‘Yes Hans, I’m afraid, if you eat one of these, it will definitely kill you.’
Have that, boss. You fill my spare room, I don’t feed your belly.