Beth’s up north this weekend and it’s coincided with something I believe she will be able to help me with. Other than Jack, I can think of no better person. In fact, she’ll be better.
It’s to do with the small matter of learning how to ski.
I know, I know, if there was one decent thing to come out of Jack’s death, it was my lucky escape from attending the lesson he’d booked as a surprise. Let’s face it; it was more of a bloody shock. I’d have been more comfortable with a bungee jump. So there’s no rhyme or reason as to why I’m going to the lesson he booked, other than because, well, Jack booked it. It feels right to go.
Or, more specifically, it feels wrong not to go.
You see, earlier in the week, I went to Matalan with my mum. She was tricking me into buying some new clothes, since I’d shown up in Liverpool with a wardrobe suitable for trekking around Southeast Asia. I’ve had to forfeit my personal style just to stop her going on.
‘I get in from work, Chloe, and you’re watching that Jessica Sarah Parker again,’ she’d said, through tight lips like an amateur ventriloquist, flicking through the rails of multicoloured plain t-shirts.
‘Sarah Jess—’
‘And you’re never dressed. It’s gone five o’clock. And you’re never, ever dressed.’
‘So stop barging into me room.’
‘You should stick to plain old-fashioned sleeping in your room. Oh! And that stuff you were doing in the garden. Don’t. Save that for your room, too.’
‘You mean yoga?’ I’d motivated myself twice to do a twenty-minute YouTube workout.
‘It looks a bit voodoo-witchcraft. Imagine what next door’ll be making of that. Now, this is lovely. It’ll show off your legs. You’ve always had fabulous legs.’
She hands me a little black dress with long lace sleeves.
‘I can’t imagine one place I’d ever go to and wear this,’ I’d told her.
‘You’re impossible, love.’
And thus went my new norm.
So at the Matalan checkout, when I received an email reminding me of my forthcoming ski lesson, my reaction was not how I’d predicted. I suddenly had something to do this Saturday that didn’t involve my mum and Carol, or our Kit’s wedding, or watching my old DVDs braless. It was something planned by Jack, for me. Going keeps us alive.
‘This is only going to work if you can ski,’ Jack had said to me on our third date. February.
‘As in, this-this?’ I’d asked, referring to him and me with a pointed finger.
‘Skiing’s my favourite thing in all the world.’
We’d met in the middle, the Hilton in Nottingham, and we were in the pool. Outside was grey and rainy, and nobody else was in the pool except us, but we spoke low, the ambience so clinical that any echo felt like somebody might be spying on us.
‘I can do basic tap dancing or a decent downward dog, but skiing? Me? Never.’
‘You don’t know until you try.’
‘I’m thirty-six, Jack. I do know.’
‘My mum learnt when she was forty.’
‘Your mum’s a national television star. She has spectacular blood.’
‘So do you.’
‘Ha. Don’t flatter me onto the piste.’
‘See? You already know the jargon.’
When Jack was spending his half terms in the Alps and eating fondue, I was in Pontins begging my mum for a Slush Puppy. Learning to ski felt daunting, and catapulted me into a world I wasn’t comfortable with. What if I didn’t take to skiing? I’d have to sit out, like the kid who was crap at sports, while Jack and his pals raced down mountains all day. What would I celebrate during the après-ski? Beth told me that’s the best part, because you’ve survived another day on the slopes; you’re drinking from sheer relief.
‘I go every year,’ Jack had said, opening his legs under the water and catching me between them like a shark’s bite. We’d circled around, stuck to each other, kissed.
‘I’m not stopping you,’ I’d said. I also knew he’d been recently, meaning I had a whole year to ignore it. Maybe he’d back down, or decide against skiing next year. Maybe he’d break his leg before going. Maybe – quite possibly – we wouldn’t even be together this time next year. This was only our third date.
But Jack had never backed down.
His persistence had reminded me of being ten and wanting to go to a Spice Girls concert. When I’d got Jack the canvas print of the man in the shopping trolley as a moving-in present, Jack had got me a ski lesson. An indoor slope, of course, just outside Liverpool. He’d picked a date close to our Kit’s wedding so we could escape to the slopes for a day if (and when) family politics became too intense. But honestly, even with the original email confirmation stuck to the fridge, I’d never had any intention of actually going through with it. Until now.
Beth, however, has other ideas about this weekend.
‘I’m not going there,’ she says down the phone.
I’m sat hunched on the bottom stair chatting on my mum and dad’s landline. We’ve had this thing, ever since we stopped living with our parents in our early twenties, that whenever we both happened to be back home, we would always call each other on the landline, for old times’ sake.
‘I’m at me niece’s birthday party in the morning,’ she goes on, ‘and I’m taking me grandad to the botanical gardens on Sunday. Babes, don’t make me spend a Saturday wearing the bowling alley equivalent of ski gear when I’ve brought Diane Von Furstenberg with me.’
‘But we can get a hot chocolate with whipped cream and little marshmallows.’
I’m hit by that image of Florrie on Facebook.
Bet that was taken in a fancy Alpine chalet. Was Jack with her? Did he take the photo?
Stop!
‘Or hot wine?’ I suggest. ‘What do they call it; vin chaud?’
‘It’s not Christmas. It’s August, for fuck’s sake.’
‘We can go to Nando’s afterwards.’
‘Have you forgotten who the fuck I am?’
She wants to go to some posh place in town and have a one-to-one dinner with me where I’ll be forced to eat tiny crumbs of food that cost a bomb. She’ll order wine that pairs with the dishes perfectly, too. But I don’t want a one-to-one with her. I don’t need a therapy session or to be asked how I’m feeling about Jack. I still haven’t caught up with her since the whole Thailand and Vietnam fiasco and it’s not something I want to indulge in now. You see, Beth will one hundred per cent want to indulge. I’d rather not think about how wrong it went – I want to focus on what can go right. If I can get on a pair of skis, it would make Jack so proud. Who knows, maybe I’ll want to book a second lesson. Or a holiday.
‘Beth?’ I ask. ‘Please. I need this.’
She unleashes a long, deep-throated sigh. ‘Fine.’
Neither of us has a car though. Beth came up to Liverpool on the train and I sold mine when I moved in with Jack – there’s nowhere to park it at the flat and I don’t need a car in London anyway.
‘We’ll Uber,’ Beth says when she arrives at my mum and dad’s house.
‘Lalalalala!’ my dad sings, his fingers in his ears.
I lean close to her and mumble, ‘Don’t mention the U word. Touchy subject.’
My dad’s about to start a shift, otherwise he’d take us willingly. My mum offers to give us a lift instead, which is a small miracle. She can’t stand driving; even gets a lift to work from Carol.
‘Heard you went to Budapest last weekend?’ my mum quizzes Beth. She barely waits for the answers. ‘He’s lovely, your Fergus. Minted, too, eh?’ and she winks in her rear-view mirror to Beth, sat in the back oozing expensive scent. ‘Now, you’re not gonna be luring our Chloe back to London, are you, love?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Sue,’ Beth says. ‘Loving your hair colour, by the way.’
‘Oh, I did it meself this morning. It’s called “Poppy Rust”. Keeps me young. And you look stunning, Beth. Have you lost weight?’
Beth beams. ‘Not by choice.’
‘Lucky you,’ my mum scoffs, and gives me a once-over. I’m not wearing any of my new Matalan clothes. I probably look like an ageing backpacker. ‘I wish you’d give our Chloe some tips – you know, with our Kit’s wedding coming up.’
I happen to be the trimmest I’ve been for a long time, thanks to the strange eating habits – and at times, non-eating habits – I’ve established since Jack died; but yeah, she has a point. I’m not toned, and I definitely look a mess next to Beth. I always have.
‘Is Fergus at your mum’s then?’ my mum continues. ‘Lurking in the shadows as usual?’
‘Golf, somewhere in Surrey,’ Beth says, flicking her warm caramel locks behind her shoulder. ‘Middle-aged before his time, Sue.’
‘It was a lovely wedding you had, Beth. Love a fella in a kilt.’
I’m bored of this. If my dad was driving we’d be listening to his CDs – The Who and Aerosmith – or he’d talk about football, something I’ve lost touch with over the years. He used to take me to home games when I was little, and him and our Kit still go together. The new season kicks off this weekend. Still, I appreciate the lift. We’re dropped off like teens going to the local disco, my mum waving and watching us go. She’s not picking us up, though. Beth has insisted we go into town later; she’s booked a restaurant.
‘There’s children everywhere,’ I say, my first impression of the indoor ski slope.
‘Oh, babes,’ Beth says, ‘it’s Saturday afternoon. What did you expect?’
I don’t reply. And I definitely don’t mention the funky smell in the air. A blend of bodies – particularly feet – and socks, and wet rubber floor mats. It’s Beth though. She can read my mind.
‘Do you honestly think I’d be able to ski if I’d started off somewhere like this?’
‘It’s cool,’ I lie. Try. ‘Honestly, this is gonna be great. And hey, you get to piss yourself laughing at me falling on me arse, don’t you? Come on, when was the last time we did an actual activity together?’
‘We’ve never done an “activity” together. We aren’t “activity” people.’
‘We’ve been to the pictures.’
‘Babes. That’s the least active activity you can do. It’s the antithesis of activity.’
At the kiosk for the ski-school, I present the email on my phone and the young lad in uniform with a man-bun asks my age.
‘You joking?’ I ask, not understanding. And – for fuck’s sake – blushing.
‘You said it’s a lesson for you, yeah?’
I nod and look to Beth, who sports her most impatient frown.
The young lad swallows; scratches his head. ‘It’s valid for age twelve to sixteen years,’ he says.
‘She’s sixteen,’ Beth says, but the lad laughs. ‘We both are.’ He stops laughing. She’s giving him that glare, the one that makes anybody do anything she bloody well wants. It’s a rare talent that I’ve tried – and failed – to mimic over the years.
I’m handed a plastic ticket and told to gear up.
‘Your instructor’ll meet you by that vending machine in fifteen minutes.’
‘Perfect,’ Beth smiles, and it’s the young lad’s turn to blush now.
‘Can I just ask,’ I interrupt, ‘it’s a private lesson, yeah?’
‘Erm, no. There’s eight of you altogether,’ I’m told, to which he adds, ‘all between the ages of twelve and sixteen.’
I turn around to see kids strap their feet into huge boots, giving their parents shitloads of stuff to hold in the process. Booking the wrong lesson must have been a simple mistake, but this is so far from anything I could ever imagine myself doing with Jack. What was he thinking?
‘Listen babes,’ Beth says, ‘forget the lesson—’
‘No! I’m here and this is what Jack wanted. Just because you don’t wanna—’
‘Eh! Calm the fuck down. I was gonna say – forget the lesson and ski with me. I’ll teach you.’
‘You will? You can do that?’
‘I’m a queen on the slopes, babes. I can do anything.’
Good God, to have her confidence.
Beth leads the way to get us kitted out. She sorts me with boots and skis, telling another young lad (also with a man-bun) behind the counter my sizes and experience. She lies and says I’m not a beginner. I nudge her. She says, ‘Trust me.’
I’ve never put my foot into a ski boot before and oh, fuck me, it’s weird. It’s like one of those dreams where your limbs are dead weights, except the weight is cemented to my feet. Plus, when I try to walk, I look like I’ve shat myself. We change into the salopettes and jackets, put on our gloves. Somehow – somehow – Beth looks good, rocking the whole Alpine-meets-Chav look that can only be achieved with hired skiwear.
‘How did Jack ever think this would be a good idea?’ I say, as the escalators take us up to the slope. I’m panicking about stepping off the moving stairs in these boots.
‘He’s clearly only ever been skiing in the mountains,’ Beth shrugs.
‘God, there’s so much stuff to carry,’ I say. ‘And it’s freezing.’
‘I can already see how much of a hoot you and Jack would’ve had, babes.’
Beth places her skis down onto the snow and I copy, mine flopping and flipping over. She shows me how to step into each ski, tells me to listen for a simple ‘click, click,’ and then to dig my poles into the snow so I don’t lose my balance. I do exactly what she says, and immediately lose my balance anyway and fall awkwardly onto my side, one foot still attached to a ski, one not. Without fuss, Beth offers her hand to help me up; but I can’t. I can’t get up. I’m bulked out with an evil contraption around my ankles and quite frankly, this is fucking impossible.
‘Beginner’s luck, eh?’ I attempt a joke.
She holds me steady as I grab her forearms to click, click into my skis. She hands me my poles and we’re ready. I’m about to do this. I’m going to ski. I trail behind Beth who bends her knees, digs her poles in and gently propels herself forwards across the flat snow towards the chairlift. She’s like a graceful swan. Dance music pumps across the dauntingly steep slope (which Beth has already remarked is ‘tiny’) and the dull noise from the lift mechanisms fills me with dread. How am I going to sit down with skis on? And how the fuck am I supposed to get off when we reach the top?
‘Just bend your knees, hold your centre, clench your buttocks and follow me,’ Beth says. ‘I’ll go proper slow. Okay?’
I nod, but all my focus is on sitting down. Beth has both her poles in one hand, and guides me with the other as we shuffle along. Our skis and boots bear an uncanny resemblance to huge clown shoes. As we get into position on the line for the chair lift to sweep us up, I’m terrified. A hollow shakiness ripples through my body and I shut my eyes tight, willing myself to disappear. Then whoosh! We’re up! I’m sitting, my skis and feet off the ground. Beth pulls the metal safety bar over us. I whoop, do a little dance to the beat and … drop one of my poles.
‘Shit!’
Any elation is short-lived. And the weight in my ankles, hanging down with these boots and skis attached, I mean. Fuck. Me. How is Beth so calm? How?
‘Don’t panic, babes. To be honest, you don’t need your poles when you’re learning.’
‘But I liked the poles!’ I moan. ‘They made me feel safe!’
‘Look over there,’ she points to a line of kids gliding at a nice pace down the slope in single formation, following the zigzag trails of the instructor. ‘None of those beginners have poles. It’s all in the knees. Imagine you’ve got little headlights on your knees – keep them facing the direction you’re going in.’
‘Right.’
‘And keep your legs wide, point your toes in, make an upside-down V,’ she holds her legs up and demonstrates. I give it a go, but she says, ‘No, never cross your skis.’
Seriously, and people pay the earth to do this as a holiday?
The lift ascends slowly, giving me time to rehearse my ‘V’, think about my knees. Kids as young as four or five whizz past down the slope. If they can do this, so can I. Surely.
‘In a real resort,’ Beth says, ‘the lifts are magical. The view; the clean air.’
‘I can only imagine.’
‘No need to be a sarky bitch, Chlo.’
‘No need to rub it in.’
The chairlift exit is creeping up and I watch the family in front raise the safety bar and ski off, around the lift, stopping at the top of the slope. They make it look so bloody easy. A lot of people seem to wait at the top, some chatting or fixing their gloves, some psyching themselves up for the down. There are a lot of people shuffling around on snowboards.
‘Okay,’ Beth says, raising the safety bar, ‘after three. One, two …’
‘THREE!’ I blurt, exerting all my energy into standing but keeping my knees bent, and I’m doing it, I’m off! I’m going forward, fast – so fast, too fast, still going, going, going, how the fuck do I stop—
I crash into a gang of teenagers.
I’m face down in the snow and have no desire to turn face up. Ever.
I hear a cacophony of ‘Fucking watch it!’ and ‘No worries!’ – both ends of the skiing spectrum unleashing their feelings. Beth’s on her knees, whispering into my ear.
‘Let’s go and have a cocktail. Me cousin can get us on the guest list for a new member’s bar off Castle Street—’
‘Beth. No. I need to do this!’
‘But you’re miserable.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah! This isn’t you, Chloe. You weren’t even the teeniest bit excited to try. You’re just doing it for the sake of it and torturing yourself. Look, would Jack really want to put you through this all because he likes it?’
‘Loves it. He loves it, pal. I mean, loved it.’
I haul myself up onto all fours and use Beth once again as a crutch to get into my skis.
‘Jack would’ve understood if you didn’t wanna ski.’
‘Don’t talk to me about Jack, Beth. Don’t you ever talk to me about Jack.’
‘Whoa, babes—’
‘No, you don’t know him. You didn’t know him. Fuck.’
But did I? Did I know him? I know he never backed down about skiing – it was the highlight of his year, and when possible, he’d even go twice. Was this an integral part of him that I never knew, clearly never showed him a blind bit of interest in, and now, I’ll never know? Had I only seen Jack’s basic colours? Had the entire fucking rainbow still been out there to be discovered?
Perhaps by people who weren’t like me. People more like him.
‘I know you needed to get away,’ Beth says, gently, still holding her arm out for me like I’m an invalid, ‘but maybe going off to Thailand wasn’t the brightest idea, so coming home’s always good to touch base, figure out your next step—’
‘Oh, what’s with all the self-help clichés, Beth?’
‘What’s with acting like a fucking child?’
‘I’m sorry. Can we just do this?’
‘Fine.’ Beth takes my remaining pole from me and leans forward to suss out the slope, her possible route down. ‘I’ll go slow. I’m not going straight down, that’s not how you ski. Side to side – see? Look at those girls there, see how they’re going towards one side, then almost up the mountain and then they slowly turn with their legs in that upside-down V? Yeah?’
‘Simple. Let’s do it.’
‘And remember, babes, keep your legs wide. The wider they go, the slower you’ll go.’
I salute, and almost fall flat on my arse.
‘Steady,’ Beth says, and off she goes into the snow, like Elsa in Frozen.
And I follow. I really do. She’s true to her word, going slow and side to side. I dig deep, keep my toes pointed inwards, my legs wide. It aches; a tiring pain. I’m using muscles my body wasn’t aware it had. And now, shit. It’s time to turn. Beth makes a grand half circle around from left to right. She makes it look like a dance. All I have to do is copy; tread on her exact tracks.
My skis cross at the toes.
I see it happening, powerless to stop. Once they’re crossed, I’m stuck. My arms start flailing around – for help; for balance; fuck knows – and I go flying down the slope at a speed I feel like I’ve only experienced inside a moving vehicle. I hit the floor and my skis are both gone, lost somewhere further up. I come to a bumbling, messy stop in the middle of the piste.
I sit on the slope and hang my head. Beth has skied to my side, still poised.
‘I’m so useless,’ I cry. ‘At everything.’
‘No, you’re not, Chlo. You’re a teacher, for fuck’s sake.’
‘No, I’m a failed actress who ended up in a call centre, and a teacher by absolute default.’
‘Most actresses are failed ones.’
‘Well, I go further,’ and I attempt to count out on my fingers, hindered by the giant gloves. ‘I’ve failed in relationships, failed at moving away, failed at everything I’ve ever tried to do since I left school. I’ve totally failed at being an adult.’ I manage to get onto my feet without Beth’s help this time, which is marginally easier without skis attached to my feet.
‘Come on, babes. You can’t just stand in the middle of a slope without skis. It’s a hazard.’
‘Oh, and with skis it isn’t?’
‘Your attitude stinks. I wouldn’t mind, but I’m doing you a favour, remember?’
‘It was supposed to be fun!’
‘Chlo. We need to move. You’re gonna have to bum shuffle down.’
‘You’re fucking kidding, right?’
‘No. It’s the only way down, for you.’
So I go. Like a baby who’s not worked out how to crawl, I shuffle. On my arse.
‘Wanna try again?’ Beth has the nerve to ask once I reach the bottom. My face says it all. ‘Okay, that was me trying to make you laugh, babes.’
‘You don’t understand, pal,’ I say, as Beth guides me away from a line of kids queuing for the chairlift. ‘I mean, look at you. You’re a success story. You move in elite circles, feel at home as a VIP.’
‘You’ve got no clue.’
‘No, I think I’ve got the right clue, actually.’
‘That stuff means nothing and you know it. Give yourself more credit.’
‘Nothing? Beth, you’ve got a husband and a home.’
‘Look. You’re not the only thirty-six-year-old who’s single and childless, you know.’
I wish she’d stop shouting at me. We’re sat right beside the speakers, taking off those God-awful boots.
‘What do you want me to do, Beth? Get on Tinder? Swipe for love? To use one of your clichés, get back on the saddle?’
She scoops up her boots and wriggles her toes to let them breathe.
‘I want you to listen,’ she says.
‘All I do is listen!’
She shakes her head slowly. ‘No you don’t, babes,’ and looping her boots and poles onto her skis, she walks away from me. I know, from her tone of voice, that we won’t be having dinner together this evening. I want to stop her, beg her to stay. We haven’t had a fight since we were really young and somehow it matters more now that we’re old. I feel like running to the loo, locking the door and crying, but I also want her to leave so I can try to make sense of why I’m here. Immersing myself in Jack’s plans makes me feel closer to him, like we’re still together. And I wish Beth could understand.
Except I don’t feel closer to Jack today.
If anything, I feel further away from him than I ever thought could be possible.