Christmas at a Highland Castle

Chapter 3

‘She’s keen,’ Madeleine said, puffing under the unfamiliar weight of her skis an hour or so later, as she watched Tania heading out onto the dazzling white of the piste. Madeleine had to stop again to readjust the damned things, one seemed determined to slide out from the other at any opportunity. She decided that on a scale of one to impossible, skis had to come close to being one of the most awkward things on the face of the planet to carry. Perhaps only topped by something like an angry porpoise, or an armful of squabbling polecats. A sea of skiers flowed around her like a river around a rock.

If the rest of the people exiting the bubble station were a river, then Tania was riding the current, her lanky frame barely visible now, even though she was wearing an electric-blue ski jacket with a matching helmet.

‘Sorry I’m so slow.’ Madeleine hefted the skis up again and headed for the sunlight. She was already exhausted, and she hadn’t even reached the piste yet. Maybe this whole thing had been a terrible mistake.

‘Don’t be silly. I’m happy to show you the ropes,’ Rose said, waiting as Madeleine managed to get a ski-pole wedged between the metal grille flooring and the rubber matting and almost tripped over it. ‘Tania will want to see how many runs she can do before we meet up for lunch. The woman’s a demon skier.’

‘Perhaps you should just park me at the nearest restaurant and catch up with her,’ Madeleine said, as they made it out onto the slippery stuff. ‘Leave me, save yourself – that kind of thing?’

‘Not going to happen,’ Rose said. ‘I see your plan, my friend, and you don’t get a chocolat chaud that easily.’

‘Damn it.’ Grinning, Madeleine dropped her skis onto the snow, both landing upside down. ‘Typical,’ she said, puffing as she leaned over, trying to work out how to bend low enough to turn them right-side up while hampered by the unyielding ski boots the lower section of her legs were strait-jacketed into. The only saving grace was that Tania was already lost to her sight, having swished away moments after hitting the snow, so hadn’t witnessed her ineptitude.

‘You’ll get used to it all,’ Rose said, dropping her skis and slotting her feet into them. Madeleine wasn’t so sure about that. She suddenly wished she’d offered to stay behind, to wait for Clara to surface.

But Clara was noticeable, Madeleine thought, by her absence. Tania had checked on her before they left the lodge, but she hadn’t been mentioned since. Probably sleeping off the monster hangover she must be suffering. Rose had told her what Clara had been through, and it was impossible not to feel the weight of it, even for someone who had only just met the woman. Clara’s sadness was palpable, and Madeleine didn’t begrudge her a gentle start to the day. But she wondered for how long they should leave her alone. ‘Will Clara join us for lunch, too?’ Madeleine asked.

Rose sighed, pulling her goggles down to hide her eyes. ‘Maybe.’

Not a particularly forthcoming answer, but perhaps now wasn’t the best moment to press Rose any further. And glancing around at all the other skiers, slotting boots into skis and heading off with a nonchalance she felt sure she would never have the pleasure of experiencing, Madeleine figured she also had more immediate things to worry about. Like how to keep the ski she was attached to from sliding around while she balanced on it and tried to get the other boot to lock onto the other ski.

Eventually she had her feet in her skis, with both poles dug firmly into the snow to stop herself from slipping. Her upper arms already ached with the effort of staying motionless. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘God help me, but I think I’m ready.’

Thank goodness she’d brought her dark glasses with her. That was Clara’s overriding thought when she finally admitted to being fully awake. She slotted them over eyes that burned to the touch before dealing with the next immediacy. Water. She needed a lot of water.

With the tumbler someone had been thoughtful enough to leave beside her bed emptied and teetering on the edge of the bedside cabinet, Clara slumped back against the set of pillows and closed her eyes. Absolute dark was way better, even if the spinning sensation remained.

She shuffled herself around under the covers, without moving her head too quickly, and frowned. Why did her hand hurt?

Extracting an arm from the warmth of the bed, she unfurled her fingers to find a large Elastoplast stuck across her palm, the edges dog-eared and covered in cotton fluff from the sheets. Tentatively, she pushed the dark glasses onto the top of her head and made a closer examination, peeling back an edge until she saw the crusted slash of red and felt a sudden urge to retch. Slapping the plaster back into place, Clara repositioned the dark glasses and closed her eyes, concentrating on her breathing until the hot prickle threatening the back of her throat subsided.

What had she done last night? She realised she couldn’t remember anything much after the pizza and red wine in the restaurant. The rest of the evening was nothing more than grey fog. The fizzing of an untuned television screen before the satellite connection fired up. There was a rough memory of Tania coming into her room – maybe that had been the previous night … no, it must have been this morning – suggesting she take it easy for a few hours and aim to meet them for lunch.

The thought of food had the prickle returning to the back of her throat, accompanied by a sudden hot sweat which silently informed her just how forcibly her body would reject any attempts at eating.

This had to stop. She knew that much. Somehow, she had to find a way to make it stop.

For now, though, staying still was all she could master. Clara waited until the nausea had subsided. Waited until the throbbing in her head was nothing more than the heavy bass drumbeat she’d become used to. Waited until the excited chatter in the boot room had been replaced by the clumping of boots and the slamming of the front door, and she was certain they’d all left. She stayed put until she was sure the chef had finished cleaning down the kitchen and was also gone.

Convinced she was alone, she pulled on some clothes and headed upstairs. Raiding the cupboards until she located a first-aid kit, Clara held her breath as she peeled back the plaster on her palm and held her hand under a running tap. With her eyes closed, she rubbed tentatively, shifting the crusty dried blood from her skin. She’d never been good with the sight of blood.

She remembered the day Poppy sliced her arm open on one of the flints which made up the cottage’s garden wall. Clara had only turned her back for a moment, but a moment was all it took for Poppy to overbalance and topple against a razor-sharp knapped stone. She’d not long started walking, her balance still a little dubious. But the moment of suspension, between Poppy looking up at her with huge eyes and the realisation of what she’d done with its accompanying wail, was still crystal clear in Clara’s memory. As was the expression on Mike’s face when she video-called him for help. His insistence that she take Poppy to the Accident and Emergency department at their local hospital. His assurance that he would leave work immediately and meet them there. Her memory of later that evening, all three of them on the sofa; Poppy jiggling up and down to some kids’ programme’s theme tune with her bandaged arm held aloft, while Mike tightened his arm around Clara’s shoulder and told her she was amazing, and how lucky Poppy was to have such an awesome mummy. His lips close to her ear, his breath hot against her skin. The overwhelming feeling of reassurance and security, the three of them safe and together. The storm weathered and survived.

Clara removed her hand from the water, absently wrapping it in a tea towel. Heading across to the picture window, she pulled out her phone with her good hand. She shouldn’t listen to his final message again; she knew she shouldn’t. It didn’t help. Nothing helped.

Pressing the phone to her ear anyway, she closed her eyes on the mountain view as his words flooded her senses, all over again.

She was still stood there, phone against her ear, when the spell was broken by footsteps on the wooden stairs.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

A male voice, with a Scottish burr edging the words. Clara swung around and pocketed her phone.

‘I thought you’d all gone out for the day. I popped back to set this up and get some prep done for tonight.’ The man dumped a small fir tree at the top of the stairs and turned off the tap Clara had forgotten she’d left running. He smiled at her. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Tom. I’m your chef for the week.’ He glanced at the tree. ‘Well, maybe chef and general festive dogsbody might be a better description.’

‘Oh, right. Hello. Bit of a slow start for me this morning, I’m afraid.’ Shrugging, she ignored the tree. ‘I’m Clara.’

He gestured towards the towel wrapped around her hand. ‘Anything I can help you with?’ His gaze flicked across the first-aid kit; its contents strewn along the freshly wiped-down work surface. Next to it sat the blood-soaked, dog-eared plaster she hadn’t got around to putting into the bin.

‘No. Thanks. I cut my hand, that’s all.’

‘I’ve done first-aid training,’ he said, then grinned. ‘Makes me sound like a total Boy Scout.’ He took a step in her direction. ‘Seriously, though. Let me look. Let me help patch you up.’

It’ll take a hell of a lot more than a plaster and a smile to patch me up, Clara thought.

When Tania reached the restaurant at which they’d agreed to meet for lunch, she could see Rose and Madeleine already seated at a table outside, discarded mugs in front of them. She slid to a stop, removed her skis and headed up the slope onto the wooden decking with a spring in her step. The snow on the highest runs had been superb, and she intended to head over to the glacier after lunch. It had been past eleven by the time they made it onto the slopes and although she had skied hard for an hour and a half it wouldn’t take long for her to feel the pent-up adrenalin again, as it alternated between warming her muscles and making them feel strangely numb. It had always been the same, ever since she was a kid.

The discomfort of awkward ski boots, which made everybody else moan and complain, only served to heighten Tania’s sense of excitement. Her muscle memory slotted nothing but positive emotions alongside the physical sensations. While others shifted uncomfortably under the weight and the hard lines of the skis propped against their shoulders on the first bubble lift ride of the day, it was all she could do not to yank the doors open and throw herself out, James Bond-style, to get first go at the powder between the trees below.

She glanced across at Madeleine – she had questioned the sense of inviting someone with no skiing experience on the trip. But Rose had been insistent. Madeleine was great fun, she’d said. She was willing to give skiing a go, apparently, and if it didn’t work out, would be equally happy to relax in the lodge instead. However, it looked as though Madeleine had survived her first few hours on the snow after all.

‘Have you eaten?’ Tania asked, shoving her gloves onto the table before removing her goggles and helmet. She slid them alongside the gloves and sank into a chair, running a hand through her hair and tipping her face towards the sun as she did so. Aching legs and cold cheeks, crystals of snow filling the clear air? Her idea of heaven.

‘Not yet. We thought we’d wait for you,’ Rose said.

Tania was on her feet again. ‘Come on then, let’s get in the queue. I don’t want to waste time.’ She headed for the entrance to the restaurant, the building a perfectly proportioned alpine chalet, constructed from huge and darkly seasoned whole timbers which gave the place an aura of overwhelming solidity. The kind of building that gave the feeling it had been here forever and would remain forever, regardless of the harsh nature of the mountain seasons.

The Cocoon was also one of the less pretentious of the mountain pit stops. Another reason it was one of Tania’s favourites. There was no doubt the restaurants positioned at the very tops of the bubble lifts and the cable car, on the crests of the mountains, commanded outrageously beautiful views. And the food served in them was delicious, often cordon bleu. But the prices they charged were also outrageous; they were the kind of places people would visit once during their ski trip, even if the bill-payer did need to suppress a sob when l’addition arrived.

They were also the kind of places her stepmother would insist she and her father should frequent, and that was reason enough for Tania to lose interest in going anywhere near them.

The no-nonsense, queue up with a tray, school dinner approach at the Cocoon worked just as well, in Tania’s opinion. Better, probably, if you timed it right and the queue wasn’t long. Quicker. More time for skiing.

She pushed through the doors, sidestepped a slippery-looking patch of melted ice on the floorboards and headed for the pile of trays. With her line of sight on the menu board, trying to decide whether to go for a croque monsieur or tartiflette , she didn’t notice the man walking in the opposite direction. He wasn’t paying attention either, preoccupied with fixing one glove to the other with a carabiner. They collided shoulder to shoulder, Tania jerking to attention with a reflexive ‘ pardon ’ and taking a step backwards before it dawned on her that she recognised him.

It was Mr Explicit from the bar the previous evening. Mr ‘Let’s have sex in a hot tub’.

From the changing expression on his face, it was clear he also recognised who it was he’d collided with.

‘Oh. Hello again,’ he said.

Was that a hint of embarrassment she could hear in his voice? A crease formed between his dark eyes, and he ran a hand across a jawline which hadn’t seen a razor this morning.

‘It’s “hello” for the first time, I think you’ll find. I don’t remember any mention of a “hello” last night,’ she said, her eyebrows jacking to emphasise her point.

He cleared his throat. ‘Ah. Yes. Well … in my defence, I did offer to buy you a drink.’

‘Well done,’ she said, leaning forward to reach past him for a tray.

‘The offer still stands,’ he said, picking up a couple of trays and handing her one of them.

‘Which offer?’ she asked, challenging him again.

He paused for a beat, then said, ‘Both of them?’ The crease between his eyes deepened for a moment before he smiled, a sudden flash of brilliant sunshine in an otherwise brooding skyline. He closed it down just as quickly and shrugged. ‘Sorry. I’d had a few too many last night. The phrasing might have been off, but the sentiment wasn’t.’

‘Still totally inappropriate,’ she said, gesturing for him to join the queue and allowing herself a final glance up at him. ‘Please. Carry on. I’m waiting for my friends.’

Holding the tray against her jacket like a shield, she purposefully looked away from him towards the doorway, where Madeleine was making painstakingly slow progress in her boots, laughing about something with Rose.

The smallest of smiles mustered itself on Tania’s face, alongside a feeling of confusion whose origin she couldn’t place. She flicked a final look in Mr Explicit’s direction, killed the smile when she realised that he was looking at her, and frowned instead.