The bedroom door closed with a discreet click, and Laura leant back against it, her eyes scanning the room in anticipation of the homage to Versace – but everything was a soft winter-white: the linen-hung walls, the huge eight-foot-wide bed, the curtains, the sofa along one wall. It was the muted, almost faded leopard-print carpet that gave the suite its name, and it was stunning, completely unlike the French-Swedish looks Laura was always seeing in the interior decoration magazines that she and Jack had scoured so reverently when doing up the cottage.
Light poured in from the dual-aspect floor-to-ceiling windows and she saw the fur yeti boots – one standing, one on its side – positioned in the sun like basking cats, the matching hat tossed casually on the seat of a tub chair.
The furniture in here was as fine as in her room, but the surfaces were cluttered with antique perfume bottles, and an enormous baby-pink powder puff had dusted the glass top of the dressing table slightly. Laura peered closer, inhaling the subtle scent. It was completely Hollywood, completely, contrarily Cat: when everyone else was wearing mousse foundation, it appeared she was using old-school, high-glam powder puffs.
Laura’s eyes fell upon a silver-framed black-and-white photograph of Cat and Rob on their wedding day and she picked it up. It had been a winter wedding, and the shot was a close-up: a white fur hood encircled Cat like celestial light, her emerald eyes were flashing, and her laughter was almost audible to her as Rob, so handsome in his morning coat, gazed at her with a smile on his lips and adoration in his eyes. Laura remembered the story he’d told her of how they’d met: a kiss had been their hello; a passionate, life-affirming kiss that had precluded everything and everyone – even the woman who had spent the previous eight years with him and must have all but picked out her ring. Laura swallowed at the thought of such an all-consuming love. It excited her a little, but it terrified her more.
She put the photo down again, and her eyes flitted quickly over the other silver-framed snapshots: Cat and Rob leaning back in a Riva speedboat, water glistening behind them; Cat in a bikini, standing on a swing on a beach, her hair blowing behind her; Rob lying back on a picnic blanket, his arms behind his head as he stared sleepily at the camera . . . Laura could tell Cat had taken that one from the way he was staring into the lens.
She moved away hurriedly, unable to look such unadulterated happiness in the eye any longer. It made her feel like a snoop. Ski kit. That was what she needed. Cat had told her – practically ordered her – to get some from here.
She crossed the exotic carpet determined not to look at anything else – bedside table: water carafe; Berocca; reading glasses; baby names book, oops! – and flung open the wardrobe. Its contents glittered back at her like jewels in a box – extravagant evening dresses, many full length, shimmered lightly in the draught, sequins and embroidery catching the light; a fur jacket jostled for space; ten or more pairs of jeans in varying shades were folded in cubby holes, and more deluxe jumpers than Laura could count had been colour-coded for easy access. The ski-wear was at the far end of the wardrobe and looked like a one-stop ski shop – there were all-in-one suits (of the type Sam had been wearing), shiny padded coats – a few belted, others fur-trimmed – and skinny twill salopettes. How did Cat ever decide? What could the elimination process possibly be? Everything looked brand spanking new, and very expensive.
Laura’s eyes were immediately drawn to a red all-in-one, but she just as quickly pulled them off it. The last thing she wanted was to stand out. She was just pulling out a discreet pale blue and white jacket and some white trousers when she heard the doorbell ring.
She dropped her head in despair. Her moment of reckoning had come.
Mark was standing on the mezzanine, leaning against the wall, texting, as she came out, still tying her hair back in a ponytail.
‘Hi,’ he smiled, taking in her designer get-up. The fit was perfect, the colours infinitely flattering. ‘I’m Mark, your instructor.’
‘Laura,’ she nodded, shaking his hand.
Kitty had been right. He was crazy hot, with a ski tan she reckoned was probably year-round, day-old stubble and an all-American-type smile. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-four; perfect for Fee, she mused. Far better than that Paul, anyway.
‘So, Rob says you’re a novice.’
‘Not quite.’
‘You’re not a novice?’
Laura took a deep breath and shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Oh. How much skiing have you done before, then?’ he asked, clearly puzzled.
‘Quite a lot.’
‘So . . . ’
‘Rob misunderstood. I used to ski. I don’t any more.’
‘Right. A bad accident, was it?’
Laura paused. ‘You could say that.’
‘So you lost your nerve?’
Laura didn’t reply. She hadn’t lost anything.
‘Well, look, we’ll start slowly. I’ll treat you as though you’re a beginner, and try to see where the lack of confidence shows – it might come out in the turns or whatnot – and we can take it from there. That sound okay?’
Laura nodded.
‘Have you got your own boots?’
‘No. I never would have come if I’d thought there was any chance of me skiing this weekend. I’m supposed to be working. That’s why I’m here.’ She bit her lip. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this.’
Mark paused, puzzled by her reluctance. Who didn’t want to ski in Verbier? ‘What shoe size are you?’ he asked, walking into the porch.
‘Thirty-eight.’
He crouched down and looked at the row of boots arranged in descending order by the benches.
‘Okay, thirty-eight – let’s try these. Sit down.’
Laura relaxed. They were red – an auspicious sign. She let him put the boots on her, quite prepared to curl her toes like a geisha if need be to make them fit.
‘How do they feel?’ he asked, snapping the last clasp shut around her ankle.
‘Heavy.’
‘Can you wiggle your toes?’
She nodded.
‘What about round the leg? Do you feel like your legs can move?’
‘No, they’re pretty snug.’
He stood up. ‘Right, now for the skis,’ he said, eyeing the remaining pairs left on the racks. He picked up a set of carvers. ‘We’ll start you on these,’ he said, opening the door and letting the cold air rush in. ‘A hundred and thirty pounds?’
‘What? The lesson?’ Laura asked, patting herself for cash, even though she knew full well she hadn’t put any in her pockets. She couldn’t. Everything was too slim-fit, even for a fiver.
‘No,’ he grinned. ‘Your weight. For the bindings.’
‘Oh.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not really sure.’
He nodded and went out. Laura followed him.
Mark fiddled with the skis using a small screwdriver, threw the skis on to the snow and held out his hand. ‘Right, if you just step in,’ he said, helping her to balance.
Laura slid her feet in and, as she felt the boots click into place, a feeling – old, familiar – stirred deep within her. She closed her eyes. ‘Just go through the motions,’ she told herself.
‘Lean forward,’ Mark ordered, holding her up. ‘And to the side . . . Right. We’re good to go.’
‘Excellent,’ Laura whispered sarcastically, eyeing the undulating terrain. The slope of the land circling the chalet was gentle, as though the gardens sleeping beneath the snow had been levelled and landscaped, but a hundred yards further on the ground dropped away and the wide open expanse fed in rivulets into the trees before connecting further on with the piste she could see from her balcony.
‘Now, before we go anywhere, I want to see your posture and natural balance, so I’m not going to give you your poles just yet,’ Mark said, tucking them under his arm.
Laura eyed them as she might eye up water in the desert.
‘I want you to bend your knees and bring your weight forward . . . that’s it. Now, twist from here,’ he said showing her how. ‘You use turns to control your speed on the descent. When you make a turn, always turn your upper body into the mountain, like this . . . very good. Use your shoulders to finish the shape . . .’
Laura followed his lead effortlessly through changes of weight and position.
‘Okay. Now we’re going to have a go at making our way over to the trees there,’ Mark said, pointing with his pole. ‘Don’t worry! I won’t expect you to ski through them. We can walk that bit. I just want you to slowly point your skis gently towards that tree over there. Try to think about keeping your skis straight so that the tips don’t cross. And on my mark, you’re going to come to a stop by doing a snowplough. Weight forwards, bend your knees inwards and push your heels out so that the tips of your skis make a point. Think you can do that?’
Laura nodded, determined to let him patronize her. It made it easier.
‘Okay. When you’re ready, then . . . I’ll be at your side the whole way,’ he said kindly.
Laura looked down at her skis, then towards the tree Mark had pointed out. In truth, she knew the gradient here was so gentle you could roll a baby down it, but she was still scared. She knew the second she moved, no matter how slowly, it would all come rushing back – the love, the passion, the thrill.
She tipped the skis forwards and to the side slightly, feeling the snow instantly slide beneath her.
‘How’s that feeling, Laura?’ Mark asked as she glided smoothly over the powder.
Laura nodded, trying her best not to feel anything. The wind slipped over her skin and ran through her hair like water as she carefully turned her body one way then the other. She tried to concentrate on the cold in her toes instead.
‘Okay,’ Mark said after a while. ‘Now begin to push your heels out. You’ll feel the resistance against the snow and it’ll slow you down to a— Oh! To a stop. Just like that. Well done.’
Laura looked around them. They had travelled maybe five hundred yards and were at the treeline. The paths weren’t as narrow as they’d appeared from the chalet, but they weren’t wide runs either.
Mark looked at her, considering. ‘Do you think you’d be comfortable going through the trees here? Or would you rather walk? A lot of people get nervous on the narrower paths. It’s not far to the piste. Maybe half a mile.’
‘I’m happy to carry on,’ Laura nodded solemnly.
‘Okay, well, let’s do the same again, then. Control your speed with your turns and move into a snowplough whenever you feel you’re going too fast. I’ll go ahead this time, and I want you to ski in my tracks, okay?’
Laura nodded and they set off again, moving into the shade of the trees and out of the wind. The firs were like giants, shooting up to heights of six metres or more, all fighting for the sunlight, which fell on to the forest floor in dappled spots. Everything felt enchanted; nothing could be heard except the swoosh of their skis. She sniffed and tried to think about the red tip of her cold nose.
Laura kept up with Mark easily, double-imprinting his S-bends with her own, never too wide or shallow, always on his line.
Mark turned to face her as they reached the side of the piste, his eyes noting the accuracy of her turns upon his. ‘Right. We’re at the highway now, so there are other people to think about. The first rule is that you always give way to the person—’
‘Downhill from you – yes, I know.’
‘Do you want to go into parallel turns?’
Laura shrugged.
Mark handed her a set of poles and ran her through the mechanics of the more advanced turn. She pretended to watch him closely, trying to quell the enthusiasm that was beginning to surge up in her. All she had to do was go from the top to the bottom. Top. Bottom. Up and down again. For one hour. And just not feel anything.
‘Check it’s clear uphill, then push yourself off. I’m going to follow you from behind, this time, to see how you’re doing. Use a snowplough if the parallels feel too much, and don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you all the way. Just call if you want me to pull ahead, okay?’
But Laura didn’t even pause to nod. Having sighted a clearing in the piste, she pushed herself off, sweeping on to the run in wide arcs, her body instinctively, gracefully moving in and out of the pull of the mountain.
‘That’s fantastic, Laura!’ Mark called out behind her. ‘Just keep going!’
But she scarcely heard him. The second she built up any kind of speed, she had lost the fight. Nothing could stop her – she was free again, untrammelled, undamaged; so weightless she almost felt she could fly, just take off and feel the wind under her body.
All around her, other skiers were winding and weaving, bobbing and rising – feeling the same rush. For the first time in years, she felt part of something; felt part of the club again. She laughed with delight, feeling the strength in her muscles kick in as she worked them – really worked them.
But before she knew it, too soon, she ran out of mountain. She was too fast, too good. The slope levelled off and she and Mark slid to an easy stop at the back of the queue for the chairlifts.
‘Wow, Laura!’ Mark said, grinning and slapping her matily on the shoulders as she giggled delightedly. ‘That was incredible.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ she panted, looking back up at the piste, where the skiers looked like ants from this distance. She dropped her face in her hands. ‘I can’t believe I did it.’
‘And with some serious style, too. Come on, out with it! What’s your background?’
Laura hesitated as they reached the front and the chair-lift scooped them off their feet and lifted them into the blue sky. ‘I skied for my university.’
Mark narrowed his eyes. ‘And . . . ?’
Laura snuck a glance across at him.
‘There’s something else too, isn’t there? I can feel it.’
She looked ahead. ‘I was invited into the British Juniors.’
Mark’s mouth dropped open. ‘And you let me demonstrate a freaking snowplough? Man!’
‘I didn’t join, though,’ she said hastily, rebutting his admiration. ‘So where are we going now?’
‘I’m taking you on to the best runs on this mountain.’ He winked at her. ‘You just became my favourite client!’
Two hours later, Laura’s thighs were burning and her cheeks were hot pink, but she didn’t want to stop. She’d lost the fight spectacularly. Up there, in the virgin snow, the passion had rushed down on her like an avalanche, burying her resistance, and she’d given herself up to it completely. It was too late now; it had been too late this morning when she’d glimpsed the peaks through her curtains. It wasn’t just because it was a pretty view; the mountains were part of her. Something in her physical make-up, her DNA, remembered what her conscious mind would not allow: that she was happy here.
Faced with the off-piste, she’d made her deal in a heartbeat: she would ski this weekend. She would ski her heart out, pounding, carving, slicing and scarring the snow; she would write her signature on skis; she would bounce over the moguls like a buggy on the moon. She would give herself up to this exhilarating happiness, this unadulterated passion, here in the midst of strangers who knew nothing about her. She would stop being Laura Cunningham this weekend. She would be simply Laura-the-jeweller. For once, she was prepared to pay the price when the joy turned to torment and she had to parcel this up and hide it somewhere deep inside her.
‘Look, still no white bum!’ she laughed, showing off her spotless, snow-free suit as she and Mark readied themselves at the top of a black run. They had gone across to the far side of the Four Valleys ski area where it was quiet and hard core, and she’d taken everything he’d thrown at her in her stride – bump fields, woods . . .
‘See you at the bottom!’ she called out, pushing herself off and pointing directly downhill. She had no fear. She trusted her body’s instincts on this in a way that she didn’t on anything else.
‘Hey!’ Mark called, setting off after her and racing in her tracks. She only just beat him to the bottom, laughing so hard that she did, finally, topple over when she was almost at a stop.
She lay there, spreadeagled in the snow, her hands across her stomach as she laughed and laughed and laughed. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been so happy.
‘What have I created?’ Mark chuckled, sidestepping over to her to pull her up. But a sudden wave of snow obscured Laura from his sight as another skier came to a dramatic stop between them.
‘Do my eyes deceive me?’ the skier asked, looking down at her. He pushed his goggles back and Laura found herself looking into those distinctive blue eyes again.
‘Alex!’ she exclaimed, propping herself up on her elbows.
‘You said you couldn’t ski.’
‘No, I said I didn’t,’ she sighed. ‘There’s a difference.’
Alex shook his head. ‘I’ve just watched you bomb down that run like a pro. He couldn’t catch you,’ he said, indicating to Mark.
‘How did you know it was me?’
‘Looking like that?’ he asked, holding out a hand and pulling her up. ‘Who else could it have been, Laura-the-jeweller?’
He held her hand for a beat longer than was necessary. ‘So where are you off to next, then?’ he asked, looking round at Mark.
‘Well, actually, we’re heading back to Médran. I’ve got another lesson in a quarter of an hour.’ He looked over at Laura. ‘Unfortunately. I could ski with you all day.’
‘I’ll bet. Call this a job?’ Laura teased as Mark grinned and Alex looked on.
Alex slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well, tell you what, you get back to your next lesson and I’ll take Laura from here.’
Mark looked from Alex over to Laura. ‘Are you sure? You’re a great skier, but you don’t know the runs yet.’
‘No. But I do,’ Alex insisted. ‘The rest of us are meeting at Chottes for lunch, so I’ll take her with me.’
‘Is that okay with you, Laura? I’m very happy to take you back to Médran.’
Laura didn’t hesitate. As if she was done for the day. ‘Yes, it’s absolutely fine. My legs are up for a bit more.’
‘Aaah!’ Alex grinned, slapping a hand over his chest. ‘A woman after my own heart.’
Laura giggled as she shook Mark’s hand. ‘Thanks for everything. You’ve been brilliant.’
‘No,’ Mark argued. ‘You have. That was seriously fun.’
They watched him hop on the ski lift that would take him back to the resort.
‘So,’ Alex said, turning back to Laura. ‘Alone at last.’ A wicked smile crept on to his berry-red lips. ‘What are we going to do with ourselves?’