‘Ow! You’re on my hair,’ Clover mumbled.
‘Ufff,’ Matty groaned, turning over.
They lay motionless for several minutes, both of them breathing deeply and slowly, wanting to sleep for longer. But their legs were restless and they kept tossing about irritably.
‘What time is it?’ Clover murmured as Matty performed another one-eighty.
‘Don’know, don’care,’ Matty said, her face half swallowed by a ballooning pillow.
Clover listened to the sound of her own breaths. ‘I think I might be dying.’
‘I’m already dead.’
‘. . . Thank you for holding my hair back.’
‘Same.’
The sound of a door slamming shut made them both flinch. ‘Wha—?’ Matty moaned, barely able to lift her head.
Clover fared a little better. ‘. . . Hello?’ she croaked.
Johnny’s head peered round the door. ‘Oh good, you’re alive.’ He disappeared again.
‘. . . Wait . . . no we’re not,’ Matty wailed. ‘We are clearly dead . . . Clearly.’
‘You need to get up,’ he called through from the kitchen. They could hear him filling the kettle.
‘No. Never getting up,’ Matty moaned, trying to turn deeper into the mattress and sheets.
He reappeared at the door again. ‘It’s the last day and the sun is shining. They’re already all heading up. The queue’s building fast at the lifts.’
Matty pushed her face deeper into the duvet. ‘How?’ she cried. ‘How can they party like that and then get up and throw themselves—’ She lifted her head as something seemed to occur to her. ‘Wait a minute! Johnny, you’ve just come in!’
A loud silence came from the kitchen.
Clover opened an eye and stared at Matty, who was openmouthed.
‘Where have you been?’
More silence.
‘Johnny, did you pull?’
There was no reply, though they could hear him moving around in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, setting down cups. He walked through a moment later, carrying coffees for them. Clover inhaled the aroma gratefully – that alone was enough to lift her up.
‘Johnny, who did you pull?’ Matty demanded as he set down the coffee on Clover’s side of the bed.
He walked around and set down her coffee too. ‘You don’t still need this, do you?’ he asked, picking up the washing-up bowl that had been left on the floor last night ‘just in case’.
He went out again, leaving Matty staring after him in openmouthed amazement.
‘Why won’t he answer me?’ Matty hissed.
Clover reached an arm over and patted her. ‘I think the question you should probably be asking is, why do you care?’
‘. . . I don’t! I don’t care! I’m just . . . curious. Aren’t you curious?’
‘No.’
They heard the bathroom door lock click and the shower start up. They lay there for several moments more, feeling defeated by the prospect of getting up and beginning their day. With a sigh, Clover heaved herself to a sitting position and groaned, trying to remember quite how she’d got herself into this state.
‘Oh god . . . those Flügels,’ she groaned. ‘I’m never drinking again.’ She pressed the coffee mug to her lips and let the caffeine-scented steam mist her face. She felt worse than hung over. She felt humiliated. Matty had found her in the toilets, running in to throw up herself. What must Mikey and Logan have thought of them, bailing like that as they staggered out of the bar together, arm in arm and pale as death?
She closed her eyes and refused to think about the other thing.
Her eyes flew open as she remembered something else instead. ‘Fuck,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘. . . I spoke to Beau last night – about Amy,’ she muttered, trying to force her mind onto work.
‘Who?’ Matty groaned.
‘The fiancée.’
‘Oh . . . Why?’
Yes, why? She wasn’t sure herself. ‘Because I was off my face and it seemed like a good idea at the time? I don’t know why. I just saw him and . . . it came out. I guess I hoped that it’s true what they say about drunk talk being real talk.’
‘Who says that?’
‘My grandfather.’
‘Oh.’
Clover continued caffeine-steaming her face, trying not to feel so bad. It felt better being more vertical. ‘He was . . . strangely adamant that I should never mention her, never make contact with her, never bring up her name in Kit’s presence . . .’
Matty turned over. ‘So don’t tell me – now you’ve been told that, all you want to do is mention her, make contact with her and bring up her name in Kit’s presence.’
‘Naturally.’
Matty scowled up at her. ‘I don’t understand you two,’ she mumbled.
‘What’s to understand? We despise one another.’ She bit her lip thoughtfully, her instincts beginning to push past her hangover. ‘. . . But you know, for Beau to overreact like that, there’s clearly a story there.’
‘Or maybe he was just as pissed as you were.’
‘Possibly. But if she is a raw nerve for Kit . . . You’ve got to find a way to contact her.’
‘How? I’ve tried. Her agent won’t take any more of my calls; she says Amy doesn’t want to know. Her social media accounts are all private. What can I do?’
‘Be ingenious. Find a way.’
‘Ugh.’
‘Mats, I mean it. She could prove vital.’
‘She’s his ex,’ Matty groaned. ‘Probably everything she’ll tell us is lies anyway.’
‘We need to talk to her. Get a number for her, even if it’s the only thing you achieve all day.’
Matty sensed an opportunity. ‘. . . If I do, can I go back to bed?’
‘If you must.’
‘Yay.’ Mats snuggled deeper into the sheets, pulling them tightly around her neck. ‘I’ve been so jealous the past few days, being stuck inside while you and Johnny get to be up there. But not today.’
‘No,’ Clover sighed, dreading what awaited her up there. ‘Not today.’
It was instantly clear that yesterday’s training had just been a warm-up for today’s big finale. Every single rider was out there. The ‘parkitects’ had been working all night, refreshing the course, digging out and sharpening the angles. Coaches and trainers were standing to the sides, barking orders and swapping notes, watching intently as the athletes pushed themselves harder and higher.
Clover had been unable to rouse herself to move quickly, in spite of Johnny’s pleas, and it was lunchtime before they got to the glacier and skied down to the snowpark. While Johnny scanned for the best sites to set up according to the light, she looked around for familiar faces.
Mikey. She was looking for him. She had to at least apologize for running out on him like that. She knew he’d be on the park slopes. He’d spent much of last night telling her he was going to the FIS World Cup event at Modena next week.
‘Want to get some big air shots?’ she asked Johnny.
He looked at her, puzzled. ‘. . . Why? Foley doesn’t run that.’
‘Yeah, but we could try and find some new faces over there. Get some more soundbites.’
‘We did that yesterday. It’s the last day, Clo. Kit’s missed eleven days of this camp thanks to his drubbing. Don’t you think we should focus on him now?’
She sighed. ‘. . . Yeah, you’re probably right.’ The last thing she wanted today was to see him.
‘Hey,’ Johnny said, suddenly jogging her with his elbow. ‘You said you wanted to talk to Tipper McKenzie, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Johnny jerked his chin towards a figure walking down from the lifts, carrying a coffee. He was alone, for once, no sign of the others yet.
‘Shit,’ she said under her breath. There would be no better time. Of course her opportunity had to come when she could scarcely support her own head! ‘Come on then.’ She hastened forwards. ‘Mr McKenzie?’
She raised her arm to bring his attention to her as he looked up. She jogged over.
‘Yes?’ he asked, seeming barely to move. He was white-haired and incredibly lean, his cheeks pinched by the biting temperatures. He was wearing a plain navy ski jacket with jeans – as he always did – with nothing at all giving away his esteemed status in this community.
‘I’m Clover Phillips,’ she said. And when he didn’t reply, she said, ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Of course I do. You’re the reason my client has been a pain in my ass for the past month.’ He didn’t try to soften the words with a smile.
‘Oh.’ Clover nodded. ‘Well, I’m sorry you think that.’
‘It’s a fact, not a matter of perception.’
She widened her smile. ‘. . . Have you been told what it is we’re trying to do with this documentary? That the point is to offer an alternative viewpoint on Kit’s story?’
‘Does anybody actually believe that’s what you’re going to do? Kit’s story is now inextricably linked with Cory Allbright’s – and your position on that was clear.’
‘We approach every project with a neutral stance. In this instance, we were contacted by Julian Orsini—’
‘Yes. The less said about him, the better.’
‘You don’t get on?’
‘He knows nothing about this sport and even less about Kit. If I were you, I would make a point of holding his opinions in the highest disregard.’
Clover sighed, not interested in their politics. ‘Well, do you have a few moments to talk to us – on camera – about Kit?’
‘My understanding from Ari was that I have very little say in the matter. Apparently we are all obliged.’
Long-winded way of saying ‘yes’, Clover thought to herself, forcing a smile as Johnny got busy beside her, setting up the camera.
Tipper took a sip of his coffee as he waited, watching her closely. ‘How’s your eye?’ he asked.
Instinctively, her gloved hand rose to her face. She was wearing sunglasses but from the fact that he’d enquired, she knew the bruise must be visible again. ‘Better, thank you.’
‘It was reckless of you to get involved.’
‘Yes, well . . . I didn’t exactly think it through.’
Johnny cleared his throat, her cue that he was ready.
She smiled at him. ‘Mr McKenzie, you’ve worked with Shaun White, Mark McMorris, Scotty James – some of the biggest names in snowboarding. What was it that made you decide to take on Kit Foley, when he’s a relative rookie to the sport?’
Tipper gave a slow inhale; he looked like his patience was being tested already. ‘Kit had won the World Surf Tour nine times by the time he retired and I don’t doubt he would have continued to win if he’d chosen to stay in the sport.’ His words were clipped, his tone flat, as though he was bored having to speak. ‘When his agent made the approach, I made my decision based on the fact that he has a champion mindset and he knows how to win. He’s an athlete at the top of his game: strong, agile and prepared to push his body to its limits. He knows how to commit to a training regime, he can cope with pressure. And more than anything, he’s realistic about what is possible. Surfing has given him all the requisite skills for Halfpipe, but he knows that at thirty, taking up Slopestyle at this level would be . . . inadvisable.’
‘Yes. Exactly how easy is it to switch from surfing to riding a halfpipe?’
‘It’s easier for a surfer to snowboard than the other way round. In surfing, besides actually riding the barrels, they must also perfect technique for paddling, timing the waves and getting up on the board. All on a moving surface. In essence, all Kit’s had to do on the snow is learn to balance his weight through the centre of the board. In surfing, you ride with the weight on the back foot.’
‘But it’s a lot more involved than that, learning all the jumps. There’s almost a gymnastic element to those.’
‘Yes. But Kit’s highly focused. He’s probably spent as much time on the trampolines and airbags as he has on the snow. It was important to build his confidence with those moves before progressing to the hard-packed surfaces.’
‘Does he have an innate sense for jumps?’
‘No.’
‘. . . Could you elaborate?’
‘He’s able to do what he does through sheer determination. It doesn’t come naturally to him.’
‘Is that enough, when his competitors are constantly pushing the boundaries?’
‘My feeling – and I’ve told him this – is that he will get the high points by doing the basics very well – amplitude, style and rock-solid landings.’
She nodded. ‘His brother seems to have a natural flair. You and I are standing here at the Stomping Grounds training camp in Saas-Fee and there’s been much talk about Beau Foley potentially breaking into the professional circuit too.’
‘Beau isn’t my client. I focus solely on Kit.’
Clover was surprised. ‘Isn’t that . . . short-sighted?’
He looked surprised by her sudden bluntness. ‘Kit is the star. He only has a couple of years to break through. He’s my focus.’
She took a moment. ‘You’re very highly regarded in this industry. Did you think it might harm your reputation to become involved with Kit Foley?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think Kit Foley thought it might boost his reputation to be linked with you?’
‘You’d have to ask him that.’
Clover bit her lip. Blood. Stone. ‘. . . The snowboarding community is known for its camaraderie but Foley has been noticeably excluded, some might even say ostracized by the other riders.’
‘People are too quick to judge. They believe what they read – or see.’ His eyes narrowed accusingly.
‘Has it never troubled you, Kit’s role in Cory Allbright’s accident?’
‘No.’
Clover’s eyebrows hiked up. ‘He’s never denied that he deliberately breached Cory’s priority on the wave. He blocked his line and effectively forced him into the water. The wave picked Cory up as it broke and held him under . . . You don’t find that troubling?’
He inhaled sharply. ‘Kit and I have spoken privately, and at length, about what went on that day. I am satisfied with what he told me. I do not believe he is a danger to the other athletes.’
‘So you hold Kit blameless?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But you don’t seem to be holding him to any account. At the very least, he is guilty of gross gamesmanship.’
‘. . . It’s against the spirit of sport, but not the law.’
Clover had to look away; she could feel her anger surging. Johnny was watching her, a look of caution in his eyes.
‘Okay, I just have one more question for the moment – do you believe he’ll make it to the top?’
There was a long pause. ‘I do.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t sound sure.’
‘He’ll make it – but only if he wants it more than anything else.’
‘You’re not sure he does?’
‘I’m not sure he knows yet.’
Clover looked at Johnny. He gave her the ‘OK’ sign and she pulled back. ‘Thanks, we appreciate you giving us your time.’
He gave her a sceptical look with a half-nod, still no smile. He went to walk off—
‘Actually, I have a question for you,’ he said, turning back to them.
‘Yes?’
‘. . . Did something happen last night?’
Clover looked at him blankly. ‘Last night?’
‘Yeah. He’s been like a bear with a sore head this morning.’
‘We all have sore heads this morning,’ Johnny said. ‘There was a big night at the M+M bar last night and from what I saw, Kit seemed like he was . . .’ He swallowed, as if his brain was finally catching up with his mouth, and gave her a sidelong look. ‘Having a good time.’
‘Hmm.’ Tipper frowned, his gaze swinging from Johnny back to Clover again. ‘Well, whatever it was that riled him, we could do with more of it. He’s been riding like a demon today.’
‘I thought he was holding back,’ Clover said. ‘Because of his injuries?’
‘Not anymore. Something’s got him fired up and I wish I knew what. I’d pay to put it on tap . . . I thought it might be something to do with you.’
‘Us?’ Clover asked, looking at Johnny quizzically.
‘Well, that’s seemed to be the correlation lately.’
They watched him go. Clover felt her hangover bite at her again – she was hot, she was cold, she gave a shudder.
Johnny was already looking at her when she turned to face him. ‘Well,’ she said with a thin smile. ‘That was . . . interesting.’
‘Yeah,’ he nodded, collapsing the tripod. ‘That’s definitely the word I’d use.’
*
Jay Kaplin, Team Canada Yeh, I’ve seen him ride a few times now but he’s looking different today. He’s really starting to bring it. It’s like he was holding back before. (Laughs) I’m beginning to feel worried.
Clover Phillips Why do you think he was holding back before?
J. K. (Shrugs) I mean, he’s had some injuries. He got beat pretty bad, from what I heard.
C. P. Do you think there’s any truth to the rumour he was deliberately hiding his level?
J. K. (Frowns) . . . Nah . . . I mean . . . When you’re out here, you’ve gotta bring it. There’s no half measures on that thing. Snowboarding’s a state of mind. I think he’s just been slowly warming up.
C. P. He makes no secret of the fact that he’s here for the trophies, not the homies. Can he ever be one of the crew?
J. K. I dunno, man. (Sighs) He’s . . . he’s not your typical park rat, for sure.
*
C. P. What do you make of the way Kit Foley’s riding today?
Gabriel Beadeaux, Team France He’s stomping it out there! I think he’s forgotten he’s not on waves! (Laughs) Can someone please remind him he’s the rookie?
C. P. Do you think he’ll be a serious contender this season?
G. B. I do now.
C. P. And does his past reputation for gamesmanship concern you at all?
G. B. Gamesmanship? (Whistles) Listen, you can see he’s a warrior. He gets this different look in his eyes when he straps the board on. He goes from being chill to gnarly like that. (Clicks fingers) But I guess that’s what made him a champion before, though, right?
C. P. So it doesn’t matter to you that he’ll fight at any cost?
G. B. Well, the pipe is solo riding anyway, so I guess it doesn’t figure.
C. P. Would you want to share terrain with him?
G. B. (Silence)
*
Clover sat in the snow, her elbows draped over her knees. She tilted her face to the sun, relaxing into its warmth. Her hangover was receding. They had interviewed almost every rider. Almost.
‘There he goes . . .’ Johnny murmured.
She looked down at the pipe as Beau dropped in, his body looking supremely relaxed as he took flight. From what Clover could see, he had been getting better and better all day, growing in confidence as he put down tricks of increasing technicality.
‘Hear that?’ she murmured as he stomped the last jump, the onlookers cheering him madly; someone called him ‘homie’.
‘They love him,’ Johnny agreed. ‘But then he’s one of them. They can feel it.’
His point was clear – unlike Kit.
To her immense irritation, Tipper McKenzie had been right; Kit was on fire today too, though not for the reasons he’d assumed. She remembered the girl with black hair and the nose ring. Kit hadn’t had a bad night. He’d had a great night, and now he was riding with an energy that she hadn’t seen before. He didn’t have the poetic fluidity of some of the other boarders, didn’t have a gymnastic flexibility that made the crowd gasp; but he had power and a sharp technical sense, making whiplash turns that pivoted on a sixpence. A few times he’d put a hand down as he landed a jump but almost every one was rock solid. He was balanced and focused, showing the crowd, finally, what he could do.
But the low-level buzz of resistance against him remained. Clover could see it in the muted response to his tricks. He might be grudgingly earning respect, but he wasn’t loved; not in the way his brother was. Clover was no expert in the sport but it seemed to her that Beau edged his brother for flair – and sheer joy.
‘Coffee?’ Clover asked Johnny.
‘No, thanks. I’m already buzzing . . . But don’t you want to watch Kit? He’s next again after this guy.’
‘Nope,’ she said tersely. She could scarcely bear having to look at him. ‘You’re the one with the camera.’ She got up, clicked into her skis and poled off. It was only a couple hundred metres down to the Ice Bar, beside the chairlift, but it felt good to move her legs.
There was a short queue for the coffees and she took her place in turn, feeling in no rush. She turned around to look back up the slope – this position afforded an almost level-on view straight up the pipe – but she could see nothing as a spray of snow showered her suddenly, the furious froth of a board burning to a stop just inches from her. The snowboarder stared back at her, his chest heaving. With his helmet and visor on, for a second she couldn’t tell . . .
‘Mikey?’
He pushed his goggles up. His ski tan had deepened just throughout today, his freckles bolder and bigger across his cheeks. ‘Thought it was you.’
It had been an aggressive stop. ‘. . . Hey,’ she faltered. ‘Where’ve you been all day? I was looking for you.’
‘Yeah?’
She picked up the cool tone in his voice. He wasn’t interested in chit-chat and they both knew she knew he’d been doing slopestyle runs all day, training for Modena.
‘Listen, about last night—’
He shifted his weight on the board abruptly.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think I just ran out.’
‘No? What am I supposed to think, then?’
She shrugged, feeling mortified she was going to have to admit this. ‘. . . I was throwing my guts up. Matty had to take me back. Really, I was in no fit state. I pretty much passed out . . . I’m really sorry.’
He was quiet for a moment, watching her as if trying to read her for lies. ‘. . . That last shot really got ya, huh?’
‘’Fraid so. It wasn’t pretty.’
He nodded, looking away and watching as someone spiralled into the sky off the big air kicker. ‘Well, that’s a damn shame. It was shaping up into a great night.’ She saw the warmth come back into his eyes a little.
She grinned, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘Yeah, it really was.’
‘You all right now?’
‘Oh yeah! Nothing three baguettes and twenty-five coffees couldn’t sort out.’
He grinned back finally. ‘This is twenty-six?’
‘I don’t know how you do it – partying like that, then throwing yourself around here all day. I’ve found it hard enough just to get by and I’ve been keeping my feet on the ground.’
‘It’s the life,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m used to it.’
She nodded, wondering what that translated into in real terms: how many different parties, how many different girls? Not that it mattered.
‘We’re flying out tonight,’ he muttered, looking away.
‘Tonight? You mean you’re not staying for the last night?’
He looked back at her, hearing the disappointment in her voice. ‘Olympics team sponsor duties.’ He rolled his eyes.
‘Oh,’ she said, realizing the reason for his frustration as he’d barrelled up behind her just now. They’d lost their only chance last night. Time was up.
They watched another rider grind over some rails, Mikey giving a whistle of appreciation for his routine. He looked back at her. ‘Y’know, I could see you from where I was over there. I watched you all day. You looked busy.’
‘I wanted to get over to you to explain, but we had to make the most of the last day. We’ve missed so much time already and there won’t be any other opportunities to talk to the pros before St Moritz now.’
His eyebrow twitched slightly. ‘You’ll be at that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too.’ His grin widened, his message clear. Maybe they weren’t fully out of time then, after all?
A wincing ‘oooh’ rippled through the onlookers as a rider on the pipe fell.
Mikey grimaced. ‘Yuki Watanabe,’ he murmured. ‘Tends to over-rotate.’ They watched as the guy lay dazed for a moment, before getting up again. People clapped him off, shouting his name. Clover remembered they’d got a soundbite from him before lunch.
Mikey’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Hmm. It’s looking sharp up there today.’
‘Feeling tempted?’ she asked, watching him closely. He’d been a good kisser, lots of fun to be around. St Moritz could be a date to look forward to. God knows she needed some of those at the moment.
‘I thought I was done for the day, but I think maybe one last run . . .’ He looked back at her. ‘Especially if you’re gonna be cheering me on.’ He shuffled the board towards her. ‘Especially if I get a kiss for luck . . .?’
‘If you think you need it,’ she smiled.
‘The luck? No . . . But the kiss . . .?’ He leaned in and kissed her, sending memories of last night – the lights, the heat, the noise – pulsing through her mind.
He winked at her, pulling his goggles back down. ‘I’d better get up there then and start lining up.’ He bent down and unstrapped his boot. ‘Promise you’ll cheer?’
‘I promise. You go ahead. I’ll only be a few minutes.’
He kissed her again, pulling her in tight with an arm looped around her waist. ‘I’ll see you up there, then,’ he said, pushing himself off with his free foot and merging into the queue for the lift. She watched him go.
‘Ja?’ the man behind the counter asked.
‘Oh. Sorry . . . Milchkaffee,’ she said, turning away and pulling off her gloves with her teeth, to reach into her jacket for her card. She watched as the filters were tapped clean and reattached, levers pulled, steam billowing and roiling in the freezing air. Looking around, she saw a couple of riders take off into aerial tumbles, silhouetted against the sky.
The thick cream was poured . . .
‘Hey! What are you fighting me for, man?’
Her head jerked up, along with everyone else’s. The voice was fairly distant but the accent carried. It had come from the lift area; she saw Mikey’s hands up in the air in a gesture of non-complicity as another boarder chest-bumped him aggressively. There were maybe a dozen people in the queue, not enough to warrant any sort of elbows-out, me-first queue-barging.
‘What’s your fucking problem?’ Mikey demanded.
The other boarder didn’t reply or look back. He just got on the chair with a couple of skiers and sat on the opposite end, like nothing had happened.
Mikey looked at some other boarders in the queue, who raised their gloved hands quizzically. ‘Who was that?’
‘A freaking asshole,’ one of them said, with a baffled shrug.
‘What was he even fighting me for?’ Mikey asked again, to no one in particular, as the next chair swung round to scoop him up the mountain – leaving Clover staring on in silence.