Don't You Forget About Me Part 30

'Whoops!' I slide sideways, and Seb catches me, laughing.

'Hang on to me,' he grins. 'It's not far.'

With Seb leading the way, his feet crunching steadily through the snow, we make our way past numerous ski chalets, each looking more luxurious than the last. Until finally we reach an amazing wooden A-frame set high on a slope, with panoramic windows, a huge deck and . . . my heart leaps with excitement . . . is that an outdoor hot tub?

'Well this is it,' announces Seb, coming to a halt. 'Our home for the weekend.'

'Wow,' I gasp, staring at it in delight. It really is like something from a glossy magazine. Wait till I tell Fiona!

Standing at the entrance, he bends down to kiss me. His mouth is soft and warm in the icy air and I feel as though I've been dipped in melted happiness. Could it be any more perfect?

Suddenly there's a commotion inside the chalet and I jump back, startled, as I hear a man's voice.

'Dude! You're here!'

A very loud American voice. A voice that sounds exactly like . . .

'Chris,' grins Seb, as the door is flung open to reveal Seb's friend from the restaurant. Leaping upon him with a high-five, there's lots of punching of shoulders and back-slapping.

I watch, as frozen as the landscape around me. I can't believe what I'm seeing. Chris is here? In our ski chalet? What the . . . ?

Oh no. This is the friend.

My heart plummets. I can barely dare to think it. But as the words peg out in front of each other, I force myself to string the words together.

It's. His. Chalet.

Abruptly I feel my earlier enthusiasm melting faster than the polar ice caps.

'And Tina!' booms Chris, turning to me. 'Great to see you!'

'It's Tess,' I try to correct, but he's already la.s.soed his huge arms around our shoulders and is corralling us inside like an overexcitable cowboy.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse . . .

'Hey Anna, look who's here!' he yells.

As we enter the open-plan living room-c.u.m-kitchen, the Ice Queen herself emerges from behind the fridge door. Dressed in white jeans and a white polo neck, she reminds me of a skinny white icicle, and has about as much warmth.

'Guys, hi,' she says in clipped Chelsea tones, the ones that Fiona is forever trying to master. 'How was your trip?' She holds out two beers.

'Cool,' grins Seb, dumping the bags and grabbing one. Chris grabs the other. I watch them taking thirsty glugs. I'm actually quite parched myself, I realise, glancing back at Anna, but it's as if I'm invisible.

Something tells me that Anna and I aren't going to get along.

'So, you ready, powder monkey?' whoops Chris.

'Totally!' enthuses Seb.

I glance between them. I have no idea what they're talking about.

'What's a powder monkey?' I ask, tentatively.

Anna lets out a derisive little snort of laughter.

'It's what we call crazy s...o...b..arders like us, babe,' explains Seb, sliding his arm around my waist. 'But don't worry, I've sorted you out some lessons.'

'You don't ski?' exclaims Anna.

'No,' I reply tightly, shaking my head.

'Golly,' she gasps, wide-eyed.

She looks so incredulous you'd think I'd just informed her I can't spell my own name.

'Skiing's for old ladies,' quips Seb, flas.h.i.+ng me a smile. 'Tess is gonna learn how to s...o...b..ard.'

Anna looks as though she's just sucked on a lemon, and I smile gratefully back at Seb.

'OK, well, what are we waiting for? Let's. .h.i.t the slopes!' whoops Chris, slamming his empty beer bottle down on the countertop. 'You ready?' he looks at Seb.

'You bet,' Seb grins. Turning to me, he raises his brow questioningly. 'Tess?'

Nerves flutter, but I briskly push them away. 'As ready as I'll ever be,' I smile. I'm going to be fine. There's nothing to be worried about. This is going to be so much fun.

Right?

Er no, well no, not exactly.

Standing on the slopes for my very first time, listening to my instructor, I glance at my reflection in the window of the ski school. There are many words I could choose right now, but fun is not one of them.

For starters, I look like the Michelin Man. Whereas everyone else is wafting around looking s.e.xy in their cargo pants and skinny thermal tops, goggles perched casually on their foreheads like sungla.s.ses in St Tropez, I'm padded up to the nines like a comedian in one of those fat suits. Believe me, this brings a whole new meaning to 'layering'. In fact I have so many layers I can barely walk, let alone s...o...b..ard.

First off there're thermals and base layers. Followed by fleeces and mid-layers. Followed by a bright puffy jacket and waterproof trousers. Then kneepads, wrist pads and elbow pads. A pair of what are like waterproof oven gloves. A helmet. And just to make sure I don't harbour any hope of trying to look in any way at all attractive, a pair of reflective goggles that not only squash my nose down so it looks as if I've done too many rounds in a boxing ring, but also leave a big red mark around my face.

It was Seb who took me to the shop and got me kitted out. He was super-generous and paid for everything, then safely deposited me at the ski school for my first lesson. Which was really sweet and thoughtful of him, but if I'm truthful it's not really the romantic weekend away with my boyfriend that I was hoping for. In fact, as he waved me off on his way to the cable car to meet the others, wis.h.i.+ng me luck and arranging to meet me back at the chalet later, I felt as though I was a four-year-old being dropped off at school on her first day, rather than his girlfriend.

But hey, I don't want to sound ungrateful. I'm sure it's just because it's all new to me, that's all. A couple of lessons and I'll soon be snuggled up to Seb on the cable car and whizzing down the slopes with him. Just think, we can be powder monkeys together!

'So, theez is 'ow you 'old your feet.'

I turn back to focus on the instructor. His name is Francois and he's handsome in that cool, eighteen-year-old French ski instructor way. All suntan, mirrored Ray-Bans and long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, he's swis.h.i.+ng around on his s...o...b..ard as if he came out of the birth ca.n.a.l on it.

In comparison I feel like his mother. This is not helped by the fact that I am indeed the oldest here. By quite a few years, I realise, looking around me and noticing that most of the other pupils in the cla.s.s barely come up to my kneepads. Now I know why they call these the nursery slopes, because most of them are literally still in nursery. Even more embarra.s.sing, whereas I'm struggling to stay upright, they seemingly have no fear and have picked it up in no time.

And are already whizzing past me like cannonb.a.l.l.s. I shriek, hastily jumping out of the pathway of one before I get mown down.

'Superb, Freddy! Bien, Henri,' applauds the instructor, whizzing around on his s...o...b..ard to join them.

Actually, on second thoughts, I might need more than just a couple of lessons, I muse, wobbling over and landing flat in the snow.

It's not until a few moments later, after I've managed to hoist myself back up on my board, that Francois appears to notice me again and whizzes over. 'No, not like that, like theez,' he instructs impatiently.

I try to balance. I really do. But it's impossible. Yet again the board shoots from underneath me and I fall over for what must be the umpteenth time. 'Ouch,' I yell, landing hard on my b.u.m. Wincing, I rub it with my gloved hand and pick myself up again. It's only a few bruises, I tell myself cheerfully. Practice makes perfect and all that.

Trying to ignore the fact I'm growing increasingly cold and wet, I go to grab my s...o...b..ard, then falter. Unexpectedly my eyes start to water. Oh G.o.d, how embarra.s.sing, why am I crying? I'm being silly. It's only a few bruises. Except that's not true as much as I'm ashamed to admit it, it's more than a few bruises. I've tried so hard to throw myself into this, to enjoy myself and be enthusiastic, to love s...o...b..arding as much as everyone else seems to but- But . . . I just don't. I'm not enjoying myself and I don't love it and I don't know what's wrong with me. A tear escapes and I brush it away quickly before anyone notices. The worst bit is I know I'm lucky. Most girlfriends would chew their right arm off to be taken away on an all-expenses-paid trip to the French Alps for the weekend. It's my fault I'm not enjoying it. It's not anyone else's. And it's certainly not Seb's.

I think about him now at the top of the mountain. He'll be with his friends, having glorious alpine adventures full of sun and scenery, and breaking to enjoy the best bars and restaurants on the upper slopes.

At the very thought I suddenly feel completely alone. More alone than I can ever remember feeling, wearing this silly outfit, miles away from home, with no one to talk to but lots of French-speaking children.

It's all I can do to fight back the tears as I glance back at Francois. But he's given up on me and is busily flirting with a suntanned blonde in hot pink salopettes. Probably one of the mothers of the cannonb.a.l.l.s, I reflect, watching them laughing together. I might as well not be here.

In which case . . .

Throwing my s...o...b..ard over my shoulder, I turn and set off slipping and sliding down the slope in the boots that have given me blisters. I'm beginning to think I was right the first time. I'm beginning to think I should never have come.

Chapter 29.

I find an internet cafe and order myself a hot chocolate. And a slice of that delicious-looking cake. Well, I have been exercising. If you can call falling over 'exercising', I wince, easing my aching body into a chair.

After the freezing cold of the slopes, I've never been more grateful for the cosy warmth of inside and, taking off my sodden gloves, I warm my hands against the cup and take a sip. It's delicious. Sometimes there really is nothing that hits the spot like a mug of thick, creamy hot chocolate.

For the next few minutes I do nothing but sit there in a sort of trance-like daze, eating cake and drinking hot chocolate, feeling myself slowly coming back to life. Gradually thawing out and feeling a bit better, I glance absently at one of the computer terminals. Actually, while I'm here I might as well check my emails, I decide, putting down the cup and reaching for the keyboard.

I'm just logging on when I hear my mobile beep. It's a text from Fergus: How's your mini-break?

Reading it I feel a beat of pleasure. Getting a text from a friend never fails to cheer me up. I start texting Fergus back but my fingers won't work properly, the result of being previously frozen solid, and it's taking forever with all the fiddly b.u.t.tons. I give up. I'll just call him instead. Vodafone have sent me a text telling me I've got some new special cheap rate to use my mobile abroad, plus right now I could do with hearing a friendly voice.

I dial his number and he immediately picks up.

'Don't tell me, you're in some sw.a.n.ky hotel in Paris, surrounded by champagne and red roses,' he quips in his Irish accent.

Why does everyone keeping saying that? Fiona said exactly the same thing when I called her while I was on my way to the internet cafe, to check on Flea, and didn't even try and hide her disappointment when I told her the truth. Her voice dropped about two octaves, from all high and excited to all flat and bored-sounding, and she suddenly said she had to go as there was someone at the door.

'Not exactly,' I say, s.h.i.+fting my damp bottom in my chair. 'You got the country right, but I'm not in Paris. I'm in Chamonix, s...o...b..arding.'

'Crikey.' He sounds impressed. 'I didn't know you s...o...b..arded.'

'I don't, I'm rubbish, it's Seb who's the expert,' I sigh, then realising I sound like I'm complaining, I try to be more positive. 'It's my first time. I'm having lessons; hopefully I'll be a quick learner.'

'Well, good on you,' he says supportively. 'Never fancied it myself. Give me a beach any day . . .'

Not for the first time, I feel myself silently agreeing with Fergus.

'So anyway, come on, forget about me, don't keep me in suspense, how was your audition?' I ask, switching topics.

'It was great craic!' He sounds suddenly galvanised. 'I was in a really good mood as guess what? she replied!'

'Who did?' I ask innocently.

'Sara! My Missed Connection!'

For a brief moment I feel a clutch of anxiety, a split second of guilt that zips across my consciousness as I have a sudden recollection of creating that fake email account late last night, pretending to be someone else and writing the email, signing myself as Sara . . .

But then my doubts vanish as I listen to him gabbling excitedly down the phone.

'. . . really gave me that boost I needed for the audition, my nerves completely vanished . . .'

'Brilliant,' I enthuse, feeling a swell of happiness and more than a little relief.

'. . . apparently she noticed me too, but was too shy to say h.e.l.lo . . .'

I've never heard him so happy, sending that email was definitely the right thing to do. I'm so pleased it worked.

'. . . and that she'd love a coffee but she's flying to Thailand next week to go and work in an elephant sanctuary.'

OK, so I admit it's not the best excuse, but it was late and I had to think of a bulletproof reason to let him down gently. It's the best I could come up with under the circ.u.mstances.

'Oh well, never mind,' I soothe, 'at least it proves you weren't rejected. And I bet you get the part too.'

'Well, actually there's a rumour they gave it to someone else, I'll find out for sure next week-'

'No way!' I exclaim indignantly. 'But that part was perfect for you!' Now I know how mothers must feel when they think their child is much better than everyone else's.

'It's OK, I'm fine about it-'

'Well I'm not!' I protest hotly. I'm not kidding, I feel like ringing up those stupid casting people myself and asking them what they were thinking! Fergus was obviously the best. Of course I'll be polite and everything, I'll just firmly tell them that he's way more talented than everyone else and- 'I think it's fate if I don't get it.'

My imaginary speech in which I'm outraged is brought to an abrupt halt.

'Fate?' I echo dubiously. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean maybe I'm not meant to be an actor,' he says blithely. 'I haven't been very successful so far, have I? Maybe I need to do something else, something more fulfilling, something that's really going to make a difference.'

'Like what?' I ask warily. I'm not liking where this conversation is heading; in fact, I'm beginning to feel a bit worried.

'Like going to Thailand to work with elephants.'

Oh G.o.d. This cannot be happening.