THE CHALET
Catherine Cooper

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Copyright © Catherine Cooper 2020

Jacket design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Jacket illustration © Shutterstock.com

Catherine Cooper asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008400224

Ebook Edition © 2020 ISBN: 9780008400231

Version: 2020-09-01

Praise for The Chalet

‘I didn’t know who to trust in this twisting, turning thriller. Pure adrenaline, from the killer first page to the chilling last line.’

ERIN KELLY

‘I was gripped by The Chalet from start to finish and absolutely loved the vivid setting. A cracking read.’

CASS GREEN

‘I LOVED this fun, fast-paced murder mystery. Luxurious surroundings, great characters and deep, dark secrets. Can’t think of a more perfect book to take a stay-cation with!’

SUZY K QUINN

‘I could feel the icy chill blowing through the pages in The Chalet, and this wasn’t just down to the ominous snow storms. This is a thrilling read that I just couldn’t put down.’

MICHELLE FRANCES, author of The Girlfriend

‘A chilling and atmospheric thriller full of dark secrets and addictive twists.’

ROZ WATKINS

‘A cleverly plotted thriller set almost entirely in the French Alps. The descriptions of the snow and the cold brought back nostalgic memories and made me feel like I was there. I loved the action on the ski slopes and the insight into the world of ski chalets.’

ALLIE REYNOLDS, author of Shiver

Dedication

Dedicated to my Mum, much loved and greatly missed xxx

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for The Chalet

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part Two

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Part Three

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

PART ONE

Press Association

18 January 2020

BREAKING NEWS: A British national is reported to have died at the ski resort of La Madière, France. Details are as yet unclear. More to follow.

ENDS

1
December 1998, La Madière, France

I hate these kind of people. They come out here on holiday once a year with their brand shiny new Salomon this and K2 that and think they know it all. They’re so annoying. They know nothing compared to me.

‘So we want some virgin tracks today. Back country. Somewhere no one else goes. Somewhere a bit challenging. Know what I mean?’ says one, his accent plummy and entitled.

Yes, I know what you mean. You think you’re it, just because you went on a few trips with your posh school and now your smart City job or whatever pays enough for you to come out skiing once or twice a year. Well, let me tell you, you’re not. That’s why you have to pay someone like me who actually knows what they’re doing to come with you as soon as you venture off-piste. For all your flash gear and trying to use the right lingo, you know nothing about the mountains. Nothing.

But of course I don’t say that. These are my clients, after all. Instead I say: ‘Yup, no problem. I know exactly the place.’

I smile, rictus-like, and answer their pointless, predictable questions as we take the various lifts up to the very top. Yes, it’s fun living in a ski resort. Yes, I live here all year round. I lie about how long I’ve been here – I always do – that’s none of their business. No, I don’t have any plans to go back to the UK, etc., etc., etc. I love the mountains. They are my home. And my job would be almost perfect – if only I didn’t have to deal with clients.

It must be around a Force 8 wind as we get out at the top. The less confident of the two – I can’t be bothered to learn their names – pulls a face as the wind slams into us. ‘Bloody hell, it’s freezing!’ he yelps. The other one, maybe a few years older, but it’s difficult to tell the way they are so swaddled up in scarves, claps him on the back and booms, ‘Don’t be such a girl! This is what it’s all about!’

I snap my goggles on, pull my hat down over my ears and click my boots into my skis. My two clients are still faffing around with their gloves. Hurry up! I scream inwardly. I’m freezing.

‘Hey,’ shouts someone in a logoed jacket, one of the annoying tour reps who seem to change pretty much every year, schussing to a stop next to me. ‘You taking these guys down the couloir?’

‘That’s the plan,’ I reply, not that it’s any of his business.

He pulls a face. ‘I hope they know what they’re doing.’ And I hope you know what you’re doing, is what he actually means.

I roll my eyes – he can’t tell as I am wearing my goggles. ‘I wouldn’t be taking them if I didn’t think they were up to it,’ I snap. ‘I’ve done the risk assessment and they’ve signed all the correct forms.’

‘Hmm. Well, they’re my clients too and it’s a lot of paperwork and hassle for me if there’s an accident,’ he warns. Like I care about his paperwork.

‘Guys!’ the rep, I think he’s called Richard, calls to his clients, who are finally putting on their skis, thank Christ. ‘You be careful down there, OK?’

‘Right-ho!’ the older one yells. ‘We ready for the off?’

Just then, my business partner Andy turns up. Not for the first time, I wish I’d set up Skitastic on my own.

‘Why are you here?’ I ask. Checking up on me, no doubt.

‘My clients have decided to call it a day. Too cold, for them, apparently. Shall I come along with you?’

I’d much rather go on my own – I don’t want Andy babysitting me and picking holes in the way I do things – but even I know I can’t say that and still look like a reasonable person. So I shrug and say: ‘If you like. Makes no difference to me.’

And off we go.

The visibility is appalling. It was bad enough at the top, but once we’re over the back, the wind blasts directly into our faces. As I predicted, my two charges are barely up to the task. They both ticked boxes saying ‘confident black-run skiers’ on the forms – yeah right. It’s already clear that that isn’t true. I told them this was back country, but it isn’t really, luckily for them. I knew they wouldn’t be able to cope with anything properly hardcore. ‘Couloir Noir’, as it’s called, isn’t actually a couloir at all, it’s just a steep, narrow slope. Officially it’s off-piste, but it’s about as vanilla as off-piste can get. As long as you know where you’re going, like I do, you start at the top of the chairlift and you pop right back out at the bottom of the chairlift, no major deal. No hiking, no putting on skins. Nothing much to be alarmed about at all. But because it’s at the top of the glacier, these losers can boast about how they went ‘down a couloir off the back of the glacier’ when they get back to their pathetic little offices or university or wherever it is they go when they’re back at home, which is all they want. I know their type.

It’s no surprise to me that they don’t look like they’re enjoying it in any way. Andy has hung back a bit, saying ‘I’ll pick up any stragglers’ and left me leading the clients. As one of them snowploughs and picks their way down, the other one bolts past me, thinking he’s something special because he can go fast, whereas in reality he’s simply out of control. It’s not big or clever, it’s downright dangerous. Andy races past me and I shout, ‘Make that guy wait! He doesn’t know where he’s going!’ but my voice disappears into the howling wind.

‘This is trickier than I expected,’ says the slower one.

He’s trying to sound confident, but I can hear a wobble in his voice. I know I should say ‘You’re doing great,’ but I can’t bring myself to do that, because, well, he isn’t. Being nice is Andy’s remit, not mine. That’s the only reason I have a business partner, I’m not that good at the being friendly bit, while Andy is. I’m just here for the mountains; as far as I’m concerned, the clients are a necessary evil. Andy does the client stuff: the showing them Mont Blanc, the boasting about how the mountains are our office, the going on about how we have the best job in the world and all that. So instead of offering the struggling skier some platitude like Andy would (or lying, if you will), I turn away and simply say: ‘Follow my trail. Stay close.’

We catch up with the other guy, who has mercifully had the sense to wait, but after a brief chat about the importance of skiing within your limits I set off again, faster than I would normally like to in these conditions, to make sure I stay ahead of him. He is not going to out-ski me – I am clearly the better skier here by a mile, as well as being in charge. They should be behind me, following my trail, like I told them. Why would they book me if they’re not going to do as they’re told?

Totally unhelpfully, Andy has disappeared again, who knows how far down the slope. I make a few more turns, faster this time to make sure the clients can’t overtake me again, and then look back to see where they are.

And by the time I do that, they’ve both disappeared.

2
January 2020, La Madière, France
Ria

‘Champagne?’ says the devastatingly pretty girl in a discreetly logoed polo shirt, holding out a tray of silver flutes. I smile and take one.

‘Thank you.’

‘How was your trip?’ she chirrups, and then surprises me by actually waiting for an answer.

‘Oh. It was fine. Thank you.’

‘I’m Millie. I’m your chalet girl for the week, and if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable or enjoyable, you only need to ask.’

There’s a whoosh of cold air as Hugo comes through the door and puts a proprietorial hand on my waist. I flinch.

‘Champagne, sir?’ the girl asks, proffering the tray. ‘I’m Millie. I’m here to make your stay as comfortable as possible,’ she repeats.

‘Lovely stuff,’ he says.

‘Would you like to take a seat by the fire while Matt brings your things in?’ Millie continues. ‘And I’ll bring you some canapés. The others are due in the next hour or so, so I thought we’d wait for them before we start dinner?’ With a small nod, she turns and disappears through a wooden door into what I assume must be the kitchen.

Hugo and I sit down on one of the two huge sofas by the roaring fire. I take a swig of my champagne as Hugo slowly sips his. ‘It’s quite a place, huh?’ he says.

It is. An entire side of the building is plate glass – it’s dark now, but even so the view of twinkling lights across the valley is amazing – I bet it’s even more impressive during the day. The ceiling is double-height, the walls are made of stone, there’s a large granite dining table and expensive-looking fur throws everywhere. Real flambeaux were burning outside when we arrived. ‘It’s quite a place,’ I agree. Before I met Hugo, I’d never been anywhere like this.

‘It was a good idea of yours, coming here,’ he says.

‘I knew you’d like it,’ I say, blandly.

‘I’m sure Simon will love it too,’ he adds. ‘Very … suitable.’

‘Suitable?’ I say, trying and failing to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. ‘Really?’ He looks momentarily hurt, and for a split second, I feel bad. Hugo can be annoying, but he means well. And this week is important to him, I know that. ‘What is he, royalty or something?’

‘Well, maybe “suitable” was the wrong word,’ he mumbles. ‘But if Simon has a good week, I’ve got a much better chance of him buying into the company. You know how these things go.’

I nod, wondering if I’m imagining a subtext of ‘so make sure you behave yourself then and don’t do anything to embarrass me’.

He takes my hand. ‘Are you glad you came along too now?’

I turn to him and smile. ‘Yes,’ I lie.

Simon arrives around an hour later and is exactly as I expected him to be – overweight, red-faced, and with a booming voice. His comb-over looks distinctly Grecian 2000-ed. Conversely, his wife Cass isn’t what I expected at all – she’s about twenty years younger than the rest of us – easily young enough to be Simon’s daughter – with immaculate blond hair and, most surprisingly, a tiny baby in her arms. Hugo didn’t mention that. They are trailed by another young woman, in her very early twenties like Cass, who I guess must be the child’s nanny.

After a round of shoulder-slapping and mild insults (Hugo and Simon) and air-kisses and fussing over the baby (Cass and I – totally insincere on my part), the nanny, Sarah, whisks baby Inigo away and we all sit down for dinner around an enormous table.

Dinner is exquisite. More champagne and dainty amuse-bouches are followed by an incredibly light soufflé, then quail with dauphinoise potatoes, and a platter of desserts. And lots of wine, of course.

I thought it was traditional for chalet girls to eat with their guests, but it turns out this isn’t that kind of chalet. I should have guessed. In fact, I should have known, being the one who booked it. Millie moves efficiently between the table and the kitchen, bringing dishes, clearing plates, pouring more wine and water, so no one’s glass ever runs dry. Simon is booming away about something – I’m not really listening – and every now and then Hugo laughs or agrees sycophantically. I feel a stab of hatred for him, and then feel guilty. I knew what I was getting into when I married him. It isn’t his fault.

Cass and I make polite conversation during dinner. She is sweet but dull. I ask her about the baby even though there is probably no one in the world less interested in babies than me, and she answers politely but somewhat uninterestedly. Before Inigo’s birth she worked in catering; she hasn’t decided if she’s going back to work yet but probably not; Simon is keen she stays at home. She’s not very forthcoming. I talk a bit about my work and mine and Hugo’s wedding and she smiles and nods, her eyes glazing.

I’m beginning to wish I had tried harder to persuade Hugo I didn’t need to come along this week.

Millie returns with a tray of coffees and herbal teas and places it gently on the table. ‘Unless you need anything else, I’ll say goodnight?’ she says, tactfully phrasing it as a question. She must be desperate to leave by now. ‘I’ll see you all in the morning. What time would you like breakfast?’

‘Eight o’clock please!’ Simon says, without as much as catching anyone else’s eye for agreement. ‘We want to be out on the first lift tomorrow, don’t we, Hugo?’

‘Absolutely!’ he agrees, as I knew he would. Whatever Simon says goes this week.

‘Ladies?’ Simon adds. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of booking you an instructor – I hope you don’t mind.’

I open my mouth to object – I don’t want to get up at eight o’clock and nor do I want a ski lesson. But Hugo shoots me a look and I close my mouth again, silently fuming.

‘Sounds great,’ says Hugo.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to go to bed,’ I say, yawning theatrically and picking up a mug of herbal tea. ‘I’m going to have this in our room.’

‘Be there in a minute, darling,’ Hugo calls. My skin prickles, and I pretend I haven’t heard.

Our room is almost as impressive as the living room. The enormous bed has crisp white linen enclosing an incredibly puffy duvet which is practically obscured by various furry throws and rugs. I stroke one of the throws. Real fur.

There are exposed stone walls and wood panelling everywhere, like downstairs. A huge sliding door rolls back to reveal a freestanding bath for two in the enormous bathroom and there’s also a massive marble tile-lined shower. I kick my boots off to feel the heated floors which can be controlled by a touch panel on the wall.

The room is immaculate because all our things from our matching Mulberry luggage (a wedding present from Hugo’s mother) have already been unpacked and put away. That’s one of those services that these kind of places always offer which I hate – I don’t want other people touching my things. I check that my purse and iPad are still in place in my handbag, not that I suppose for one moment they would have been stolen.

I turn the taps on in the enormous bath and tip the entire contents of one of the little green Hermès bottles in. Hermès – very nice. I strip off and throw my clothes on the floor. The mess will annoy Hugo, but I don’t care. I sink back into the bubbles, turn off the taps, and close my eyes. Only seven more days to go.

‘Ria?’ Hugo’s voice is sharp and too loud. I open my eyes. The water is lukewarm – I must have fallen asleep. ‘Have you seen my book?’ He gives me a look – I can’t quite work out if it’s reproachful or sympathetic. ‘You shouldn’t fall asleep in the bath. It’s dangerous.’

I haul myself up and Hugo hands me a robe, but not before his gaze flicks up and down my naked body. Ugh. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m exhausted though. It’s been a long day.’

He trails his fingers lightly down from my neck across my breasts and down to my waist. ‘Too tired to …’ he asks.

I kiss him chastely on the cheek and say: ‘Why don’t you have a quick shower and then we’ll see?’ knowing full well that I will pretend to be asleep by the time he gets into bed.

I keep my eyes closed and breathe slowly and evenly as I feel Hugo lie down beside me. He gently kisses the back of my shoulder and I think I hear him sigh as he rolls away and turns the light off.

It feels like the middle of the night when there is a knock on the door. ‘Morning! I have tea for you. Can I come in?’ Millie calls softly through the door. I press my face into the pillow, ignoring Hugo’s erection which is jabbing into my back.

‘Come in, we’re decent!’ Hugo mumbles, flicking the light on.

‘I’ll leave it here for you,’ Millie says as she puts the tray down on the desk, discreetly averting her eyes from the bed. ‘Breakfast will be ready for you at eight, but there’s no rush if you’d rather have a lie-in.’

I catch a whiff of Hugo’s morning breath as he stretches and yawns while the door clicks quietly shut behind Millie. ‘No chance of that,’ he says. ‘Not if Simon has anything to do with it. Come on,’ he throws back the covers exuberantly, ‘up you get!’

I sit up blearily. ‘Did Simon say something about a ski lesson? Do I honestly have to do that?’

‘It would help me massively if you did,’ Hugo shouts from the bathroom. ‘I’d like you to spend some time with Cass so you can find out what Simon’s plans are.’

‘Plans?’

He pushes the door open and pulls his toothbrush out of his mouth, rolling his eyes. ‘For the business! Is he planning to buy in? What might it take to impress him? What can I do to persuade him? That sort of thing.’ He wraps a big white towel around his waist and starts shaving. ‘It’s no big deal, is it? Cass has skied before, but she’s lost her confidence since the baby was born, according to Simon. It’s not like you’re only going to be on the nursery slopes or anything. Simon just thought she’d be happier with an instructor. I think it’s rather sweet. Thoughtful of him.’

I sigh and throw back the duvet. ‘Fine. But if it’s too boring, I’m going to make my excuses and leave.’

I pad into the shower and switch it on, enjoying the powerful torrent of slightly too hot water from the huge rainhead on my skin. Much as I’d prefer not to be here, I have to admit the luxurious surroundings are pretty fantastic.

Once Hugo has finished shaving, he drops his towel and takes it upon himself to join me in the shower. It is absolutely the last thing I can be bothered with right now, but I can’t think of an excuse to get him out.

3
December 1998, La Madière, France

Where are they? I go to call out to them but then remember I don’t know their names. Andy will probably know. ‘You all right there?’ I yell. Silence. The wind is picking up and the visibility is worse than ever. ‘Guys? You there?’

Andy finally hones into view further down the slope as I slowly traverse my way down.

‘Where were you?’ I fume as I stop, deliberately spraying snow at the fucker. ‘I’ve lost the clients!’ A panicky feeling is rising inside me even though this is not my fault. It isn’t. The clients shouldn’t have lied to me. They shouldn’t have told me they were much better skiers than they actually are. What if I’d taken them down the kind of terrain they were actually asking for? What if we’d tried something steeper and more gnarly? Then where would we be?

‘I thought you had them,’ Andy says.

‘You should have been watching!’ I explode.

‘Bloody hell, calm down, Cameron! They’ll be fine. They must have gone ahead of us – you can’t see where anyone is when it’s like this.’

‘I would have seen them if they’d gone past me,’ I counter.

‘Yeah, right, whatever. Either way, standing here isn’t going to achieve anything. Best we can do is carry on down and see if we catch up with them. If we get down and we still haven’t seen then, then we’ll think about what to do next.’

Andy sets off down the slope without waiting for me to reply, almost instantly disappearing out of sight because the visibility is so bad. I race after, furiously. No one is beating me down the slope just to prove they’re the better skier! After a few seconds I whizz past the twat, down, down, down. I can barely see a thing but it doesn’t matter, I know this slope so well I could ski it with my eyes closed. Which I might as well be doing, given the conditions right now.

I’m so focused on beating Andy down that it’s only when I get to the bottom I remember the missing clients. Argh! Where are they?

I stare up at the slope, but there’s no one in sight. A few seconds later, Andy appears. ‘I thought we were meant to be looking for the clients? Why’d you race off like that?’

‘Seeing if I could catch them up if they were ahead,’ I lie. ‘Don’t want them deciding to fuck off home because we’ve left them standing in the cold too long.’ Where are they? ‘You didn’t see them?’ I ask Andy.

‘No.’ There’s a pause. ‘D’you think we should call someone? Let someone know they’ve gone AWOL?’

In spite of the freezing wind I feel a bead of sweat run down my back inside my jacket. ‘It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it? I bet they’re fine. Let’s head up on the lift and ski down again, properly slowly this time. We’ll probably pick them up second time around. You’ll give me a hand, won’t you?’ I ask, even though it almost kills me to say it.

Andy gives me a strange look. ‘Yeah. I will. It’s dangerous for them out there on their own in these conditions. Let’s get going.’

Back on the lift, it is even colder and windier than before. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck and dig my chin into the top of my jacket. I peer downwards through the blizzard in case the clients have somehow made it back on to the piste – it’s possible from the couloir, though only really if you know the way – but I can barely see a thing. Even the piste appears to be deserted – anyone sensible has already called it a day.

The lift shudders to a halt about halfway up, leaving us swinging as the wind continues to roar around us. We sit in silence, huddled into our jackets, faces down against the wind. After a few minutes which pass more like hours, there is a squeal and the lift starts moving again. Thank God. ‘Can’t wait to get off this mountain,’ Andy says. ‘It’s freezing. God knows why these poor saps come out in this weather.’

The chairlift stops again just as the lift station comes into sight. Someone has fallen over getting off and is for some reason taking forever to get themselves back upright, despite the lift guy hauling them up. There’s something purple in the snow by their feet – a hat or scarf. I watch as they bend to pick it up and drop their pole.

‘Hurry up!’ I mutter, through clenched teeth. My fingers hurt, they’re dug so far into my hands now. Andy looks at me sideways and says: ‘It’ll be OK. You need to calm down.’

‘I am calm!’ I snap, but I’m lying. I’m not. The lift finally starts moving again and we slide off onto the snow.

‘OK – I’ll take the left side, you take the right,’ I say. ‘We need to go down really slowly. Both of us,’ I emphasize. I feel like I’m going to be sick. The trail is narrow and what I want to say is, ‘We need to check over the edges too,’ but I can’t quite bring myself to. The weather is still closing in and it’s going to be impossible to see anything anyway. Andy nods solemnly. My unspoken words are hanging in the air.

I feel worse and worse as we ski down in near silence. I try to peer over the edges but it’s impossible. We call out periodically – ‘Hey! You there? You OK?’ but I can tell it’s pointless – I can’t even hear myself over the wind. We get to the bottom and look at each other.

I am so cold and stressed I can barely get my words out. ‘What do we do now?’

4
January 2020, La Madière, France
Ria

I didn’t want to come this week, for many reasons, but even so, it feels good to be in the mountains. The sun is out, the sky is blue and the air is clear. I went out this morning with every intention of playing the dutiful wife and skiing with Cass like Hugo wanted me to, but in the end I found that, after a few runs, I just couldn’t be bothered. Sorry, Hugo. Cass is young and boring and once I’ve asked about the baby which I’m not interested in and her former catering business (ditto) we don’t really have anything to say to each other.

I head back to the chalet hoping that no one will be there so I can spend some time in the hot tub on my own. But as soon as I open the door I can hear that someone else is here. Millie appears at the top of the stairs, straightens her logoed polo shirt and rearranges her face into its usual fixed smile.

‘Hello, Ria. I wasn’t expecting you back so early – I understood Simon had booked you an instructor for the whole day.’ Her forehead creases. ‘I hope everything’s OK?’

‘Yes, everything’s fine – just thought I’d spend some time in the hot tub.’ It comes out snappier than I’d intended, so I smile to try to soften it. Sometimes I forget how to play the part of the dutiful corporate wife. Or it’s not so much that I forget, it’s more that I simply don’t want to. ‘It’s a while since I’ve skied and my legs are already aching. Is it OK if I use the hot tub? I don’t want to get in your way.’

‘Yes of course!’ she gushes. ‘Whatever you like. I’ll go and take the cover off for you now if you want to go up and get changed? I’ve finished doing the rooms up here. Would you like me to bring you anything out there – a glass of bubbly maybe? Or some water?’

I shake my head. ‘No, that’s fine, thank you.’

Millie nods discreetly, comes down the stairs and goes out to the large terrace where I see steam rise from the hot tub as she pulls back the cover. After changing, I spend the afternoon alternating between the hot tub and the terrace, where Millie brings me a heated blanket for my lounger. I decide to take her up on her offer of a glass of champagne or two after all. It is blissful.

It’s amazing what a difference an afternoon all to myself makes to my mood – by the early evening I’m almost glad to be here. Almost. The fire is lit in the double-height living room, the stars are out, and the champagne is ice-cold. I guess things could be a lot worse.

‘Ria – may I introduce Matt please?’ Millie says as she offers me a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Matt is in the same polo shirt as Millie and very much in the same mould although older – immaculately groomed and with a fixed smile.

‘I’m the rep for Snow Snow within the resort,’ he says, shaking my hand. ‘We have five chalets here, as you may know, twenty throughout the Alps, but we like to pride ourselves on individual service. Is the chalet to your liking?’

‘Yes – it’s lovely,’ I say. ‘It’s even better in the flesh than in the pictures.’ I feel myself redden. I’m not sure why.

‘We’re particularly proud of this one – our most luxurious, even if it is one of the smaller ones,’ Matt says. ‘So how was your day today – did you get out on the slopes?’

‘I did for a while – it was very nice. And I enjoyed the hot tub too.’

His eyes almost imperceptibly flick up and down my body and I wonder if he is imagining me naked. Hugo comes over and puts his arm around my shoulders, but I shrug him off, pretending I’m reaching for a canapé.

‘Matt, this is Hugo,’ I say, deliberately not introducing him as my husband. Hugo shakes Matt’s hand and then starts boring on about the runs he and Simon did today, the specifications of his skis, the importance of various bits of kit and loads of other stuff that Matt no doubt has no desire to hear about.

I tune out for a while and when I turn my attention back to the conversation a few seconds (or minutes? Who knows?) later, the conversation has turned to how long Matt has worked in the resort and his plans for the future.

Eventually we sit down to dinner. I make sure I sit next to Matt – not because I particularly fancy him, but at least flirting with him will provide me with a distraction.

Dinner is amazing, again, and the wine is fabulous. I drink more than I should. Hugo won’t like me getting drunk, especially in front of a potential investor like Simon, but, well, whatever. I feel like drinking tonight and so I will. Getting drunk is the only way I’m going to get through the week, plus it’ll give me a good excuse to stay in bed tomorrow morning and not go to my boring ski lesson with boring Cass and listen to her bore on about her boring baby. Hugo is being pathetically sycophantic, laughing at Simon’s crap jokes in between glaring angrily at me when he thinks no one is looking.

Millie reappears at the table and Hugo puts his hand over my wine glass. ‘I think you’ve had enough, don’t you, darling?’ he says with a fake smile. He almost never does stuff like that – dares to tell me what to do. He’s obviously desperate to impress Simon.

But as far as I’m concerned, that doesn’t mean I can’t have a drink if I want to. ‘No, I don’t think I have,’ I say, flicking his hand off my glass and turning towards Millie. ‘More of the delicious red, please – thank you.’

Millie hesitates and then pours me a small glass. I feel a twinge of pity for her – it’s not fair to involve her in my rage towards Hugo. I resolve to leave her a huge tip when we leave. ‘In fact,’ I state, slurring slightly and, I admit, deliberately, riled by Hugo’s attempt to make me feel guilty, ‘I think we should play a drinking game. Who’s up for it?’

‘Always up for a drinking game!’ Simon practically shouts. ‘Quite the filly you’ve got there, Hugo!’ he adds, raising his glass to him across the table. Hugo glances at me and I grin.

‘How about “I have never”?’ booms Simon.

‘Yes! I’ll start,’ I yelp. ‘I have never … had a threesome.’

Simon roars with laughter. Hugo looks at me in horror. Matt raises his glass and drinks, smirking.

‘Matt!’ Simon bellows. ‘You dirty dog. Now that’s a story I’d like to hear. OK, you go.’

Cass stands up abruptly. ‘Will you all excuse me?’ She pulls the sleeves of her somewhat frumpy cardigan down over her hands and casts a nervous glance towards her boorish husband. ‘I’m going to check on Inigo and then go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Without waiting for a response, she smiles tightly and leaves the table. Simon doesn’t even look at her. ‘Come on, come on …’ he prompts Matt.

Matt clears his throat. ‘I have never … been to Zimbabwe.’

‘Oh please!’ Simon shouts. ‘You don’t need to go all polite and poncey just because we’re clients. Although,’ he drains his glass, ‘I’ll drink to that obviously – and you too Hugo, you girl.’ Hugo obediently empties his glass and winces. He’s never been a big drinker. ‘Do another.’

Matt grins. ‘OK … I have never … had a same-sex sexual encounter.’

Hugo reddens and Simon looks expectant as I slowly drain my glass and slam it down.

Simon slaps his hand on the table. ‘Ha! Brilliant. That’s an image that … anyway, Ria – your go.’

‘I have never …’ the words ‘been in love’ force themselves into my mind but instead I say, ‘been arrested.’

Nobody drinks. I put my hand on the inside of Matt’s thigh. He doesn’t push it away.

A few rounds later, Hugo, who is quite clearly furious with me for not adequately playing the part of the corporate wife, says he’s going to bed and Millie also takes her leave. By now my hand has reached Matt’s crotch and I can feel he’s hard. I wish Simon would go to bed but he’s pouring himself another glass of wine and wants to move on to Fuzzy Duck.

Suddenly tiredness overwhelms me in the way it sometimes does when I’m too drunk. I retrieve my hand, stand up and say: ‘I can’t drink any more. I’m off to bed. Night all.’

Matt looks at me aghast – obviously thought his luck was in. Maybe it is. Maybe another night.

I stumble up the stairs into our room, expecting it to be in darkness, but Hugo is sitting up in bed, jaw clenched, pretending to read. He puts his book down and stares at me.

‘How dare you embarrass me like that,’ he hisses.

I wave my hand at him and lurch into the bathroom. ‘’S fine. Simon loved it. And you’re here to impress Simon, as am I, apparently. If anything, I’ve done you a favour.’ I lean in towards the mirror and beam at myself. ‘He thinks I’m great.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ Hugo says, prissily, now at the bathroom door in his Hugo Boss boxer shorts instead of the horrible old Y-fronts he used to wear. One of the many minor adjustments I’ve persuaded him into since we got married. ‘And the way you were flirting with Matt too – God! What did I do to deserve that?’

I look at him blearily. ‘Nothing, darling,’ I say, I can’t be bothered with being told off by Hugo. But I know the best way to end this, and as I’m so drunk the idea doesn’t seem too unbearable. I wobble over to him and put my hand down his boxers. He makes a pathetic attempt to pull away huffily, but I know he can never resist me. Thankfully, it doesn’t take too long.

5
December 1998, La Madière, France

‘We’re going to have to phone it in,’ Andy says. ‘Make it official.’

I feel sick. ‘Don’t you think it’s too soon? Maybe they made their own way down and are chugging vin chaud in a bar as we speak?’ I suggest.

There’s a pause. ‘D’you think?’

Argh. ‘I don’t know!’ I shout. ‘Either way, we’re in serious trouble.’

I know we’re both thinking the same thing. If we call out search and rescue and it turns out the men are fine, we’ve still lost two clients in bad weather. Word gets round about that kind of thing very quickly and no one will ever book us again. And if the clients aren’t in the bar, if they’re really lost, then …

‘We can’t do nothing, Cameron!’ Andy snaps, clearly thinking the same as me and starting to panic too. ‘We need to think. Do something. What’s the best thing to do? How about we check if they’re back at their chalet?’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ I explode. I take a deep breath. Calm down. Calm down. ‘OK. Here’s the plan,’ I say. ‘You whizz back to the office and call the chalet. I’ll go back up and check the route again. You radio me as soon as you’ve called them, and I’ll radio you if I find them before you’re back. If we still haven’t found them, then we’re going to have to phone it in.’

Andy doesn’t say anything.

‘Agreed?’ I prompt. ‘It’ll take you max twenty minutes to get back. We don’t want to mess everything up for no reason when everything’s probably fine. Yeah?’

Andy nods. ‘Yeah. I’ll go down and we’ll speak in twenty. But everyone can hear us on the radio, so I’ll say “all good” if it’s OK or, um, I don’t know, “nothing here” if not. You do the same.’

I watch Andy disappear off down the slope and get back on the lift, bracing myself against the wind. The thought of ‘if not’ hangs ominously in the air.

6
January 2020, La Madière, France
Ria

There is a gentle knocking at the door and Millie comes in with our morning tea. I keep my eyes tightly shut. My head hurts and my mouth is dry. I don’t want to have to deal with Hugo’s disapproving looks and I don’t want to listen to a lecture about how I need to behave better if he wants to get Simon on board. I simply don’t care. I shouldn’t have come here. Maybe I shouldn’t have even married Hugo.

I hear the door close softly and Hugo prods me in the back. Thankfully this morning it is with his hand. ‘Ria? You awake?’

I mumble something incoherent which I hope makes me sound like I’m still asleep. Hugo sighs, gets out of bed and goes into the shower. I carry on pretending to sleep while he gets dressed and he doesn’t try to wake me. I guess he’s still annoyed about how I behaved last night. Once he’s left the room, I manage to fall back to sleep for real.

What feels like seconds later, Hugo slams open the door and says, far too loudly, ‘Ria! Wake up! Now!’

I open my eyes and look at him grumpily. ‘What? Why can’t you let me sleep? Do I have to go skiing each and every day with bloody Cass? I thought this was supposed to be a holiday, for me at least, not just some giant schmoozefest. Why can’t I stay in bed if I want to?’

‘God, Ria, it’s always about you, isn’t it?’ Hugo says, uncharacteristically snappy. ‘I don’t care if you’re too hungover to ski. Serves you right after your appalling display last night. Anyway, you need to get up. Cass has gone missing and we need to help look for her.’

I sit up and rub my eyes. ‘What? Why do we need to look for her? She’s a grown woman. She’s probably gone for a walk or something.’

Hugo sighs. ‘You may well be right, but Simon is beside himself. It seems she’s been suffering with postnatal depression and he’s worried she might hurt herself or something. He says she wouldn’t go out without the baby and without telling anyone.’

I sigh and sink back onto the pillows. ‘Yes she would – the baby’s always with the nanny. Cass barely seems to spend any time with it at all.’

Hugo strides over to the bed and hauls the covers back. I turn over on to my front, feeling strangely exposed. ‘It doesn’t matter what you or I think,’ he says in a low voice. ‘I’m sure she’s fine too. But I want us to look like we’re being helpful. Like we care – which I do, even if you don’t. So get yourself out of bed and get dressed, OK?’

Once I’ve had a quick shower, some paracetamol and two Berocca to try to wake myself up, I go downstairs to the living room.

Simon is sitting on the leather sofa, holding the baby and staring into space. Matt is on the phone speaking French and gesticulating, and Millie is standing anxiously and awkwardly by the sofa, patting Simon’s shoulder.

‘Simon?’ Hugo says. ‘What can we do to help? Should we go and walk around the resort? See if we can see her?’

I look out the window and see that it is snowing. Really quite hard. Please say no, I plead inwardly.

Simon ignores Hugo’s question, gets up from the sofa and distractedly hands Hugo the baby. Hugo makes a coochy-coo noise at Inigo and Inigo giggles. ‘Who’s a gorgeous boy?’ Hugo says in that stupid high-pitched voice everyone seems to use to talk to babies.

Simon gives Hugo a despairing look, runs his hand through his thinning hair and paces up and down by the enormous glass wall. Hugo turns his attention back to Simon, pulling a sympathetic face while gently rocking the baby.

‘It’s all my fault,’ Simon says, his voice strained and strangulated. ‘I shouldn’t have stayed up last night. I shouldn’t have got drunk. I should have been in bed with Cass, looking after my wife and my baby. It’s all my fault. She’s so vulnerable at the moment. I shouldn’t have brought her here. If anything’s happened to her …’

Millie pats his shoulder again.

‘I’m sure she’s fine, Simon,’ I say, in what I think is my best sympathetic voice. Hugo will be impressed. ‘She’s probably gone out to clear her head or something.’

Matt gets off the phone. ‘Well I’ve called the gendarmes and they say they’ll keep an eye out for her, but it’s too early to do anything yet as she’s an adult and she’s only been missing a maximum of a few hours. I’ve also called the tourist office and the mairie, but there’s not …’

‘The hospitals!’ Simon almost shouts, stopping his pacing. ‘Shouldn’t we call the hospitals?’

Matt and Millie exchange a look. Sarah, who has just come in with Inigo’s blanket, subtly rolls her eyes at me and I hold in a smirk. She reaches her arms out towards Hugo to take the baby and Hugo kisses Inigo’s head before he hands him over. Ugh.

‘Shall we wait a little and see if Cass turns up first?’ Matt says tentatively. ‘After all, we’ve no real evidence that anything is wrong yet.’

Simon slumps down onto the sofa and sinks his head back into his hands. ‘I’d like it if you would call the local hospitals, please,’ he says quietly, without looking up. ‘I would do it, but I don’t speak any French.’

‘Of course,’ Matt says, in a professional tone of voice, no doubt hiding his irritation. ‘I’ll do it now.’

‘I’ll go and have a walk around the resort,’ Hugo says. ‘She’s got to be somewhere.’ He looks at me meaningfully. I say nothing. But then I glance at Simon again and he seems so pitiful that I can’t help but say: ‘I’ll go too, soon as I’ve changed into something warmer.’

Hugo and I agree that we will cover the ground more quickly if we split up. The chalet is piste-side on the very edge of the village, so once we’ve walked down the tree-lined driveway to the main road at the top of the village, he sets off to the left while I say I will walk around to the right. If I was Cass, who has no doubt slipped out for some quiet time by herself, I’d be really annoyed to be found. So I put my head round the door in most of the cafés and shops I pass for the first hundred metres or so and then stop for a café au lait in one which has a particularly nice open fire.

About an hour later I wander back to the chalet. Nothing much seems to have changed except that Matt has gone and Simon has moved over to the huge glass wall where he is staring miserably out over the valley. Hugo isn’t there, and I wonder briefly if I should have stayed out longer pretending to look for Cass.

‘No news?’ I ask. Millie smiles sympathetically and shakes her head.

‘Not yet,’ she says.

‘I don’t understand where she could have gone,’ Simon says hoarsely, banging his fist against the glass. ‘If anything’s happened to her, I’ll never forgive myself.’

7
December 1998, La Madière, France

I take the chairlift back up again. The wind is now blowing even harder and it is absolutely freezing. The lift keeps stopping, no doubt as the few fools who are still out braving this weather fall over as they fight to get off and stay upright at the top with the wind buffeting them. If the wind gets any stronger, they’ll probably have to close these upper lifts. Which means I might only have one more go at checking the run before … I must find them this time, I think. I must. It’s so hard to see in this weather. They’ve got to be there somewhere.

As the lift gets to the top, my radio crackles. My hands are so frozen that I struggle to pull my gloves off and unzip my breast pocket. Is it Andy? ‘Hello?’ I shout. The lift station looms into view through the mist and I wrestle against the wind to force the safety bar up. ‘Hello?’ I shout again into the radio as the wind catches the bar and throws it back down, bumping my arm and jolting the radio from my frozen fingers.

‘Fuck!’ I shout as I watch the radio fall, quickly enveloped by the mist. I throw the bar up and slide off the lift onto the snow.

Now what? Were they back at the chalet or not? Was that even Andy on the radio? I’ll have one more check of the slope and then I’ll have to head back to the office, check in with Andy and see if they’ve been found.

I ski as slowly as I ever have, traversing wide, unable to see beyond about a metre in front of me, calling all the time. ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ It’s deserted. Anyone with any sense has gone back to their cosy chalets and apartments by now.

I get to the bottom; there’s no sign. Feeling like I might be sick, I head back to the office.

If Andy hasn’t found them, we’re going to have to make a decision. Although chances are, if they really are in trouble, anything we do will already be too late.

8
January 2018, London
Hugo

I’d always thought that someone like Ria would be totally out of my league.

I’m not exactly ugly or anything, I’m more what you’d call nondescript. No one remembers me. Even my mum struggles to pick me out in old school photos.

So I absolutely couldn’t believe it when Ria approached me at the party. It was a work party, and I hadn’t wanted to go, even though it was a party thrown by my company so, by extension, a party hosted by me – not that I had any hand in organizing it beyond signing the cheques. I’m not very good at events, but my brilliant PA Olivia says that, as the owner of the company, I have to go to these things. I don’t really see why – I think if anything, my social ineptitude is likely to put people off using my company rather than encourage them to do so. Olivia is beautiful and clever and always knows what to say, so personally I think it would be better if she did all the socializing for me, but no. That’s not how it works. Not according to Olivia, anyway.

‘Clients like the fact that we’re a small company with a real face – your face,’ she says. ‘When they book a holiday through you, they feel they’re getting personal service.’

‘But I don’t have anything to do with the clients. I certainly don’t book their holidays for them. Most of them do it online now, anyway.’

She tuts and rolls her eyes. ‘Stop being so literal. You know what I mean.’

I don’t, but experience has taught me there’s no point arguing with Olivia.

My driver takes us to the party – this one is at the Natural History Museum. At least if I get stuck for something to talk about with the clients, I can comment on the exhibits. Everyone likes the big blue whale, but many liked the dinosaur better. I wonder if Olivia had that in mind when she booked the place – a ready-made conversation piece. She knows I am useless socially and makes allowances for me. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

The party starts at eight and we arrive at half past. I’m grateful that Olivia no longer makes me be present at our parties from the outset to greet everyone as they arrive, like she used to when she first started working for me. Luckily, she soon saw how awkward that was for all concerned. In some ways, walking into a huge room full of people is harder, but in other ways it’s much easier. If I arrive later, everyone has a drink in their hand and has usually found an old colleague or friend to talk to, so most of them are less bothered about talking to me. Some come along to try to do business with me in a very direct way, which always appals me as I never know how to react. But it seems to me that for most of the people who come, these events are really about the free champagne. It costs the company a fortune but, according to Olivia, the PR people, and the accountants who know more about these things than me, these twice-yearly events are worth it for the ‘goodwill’, whatever that means. So I take them at their word and grin and bear it. Or bear it, anyway.

The car draws up outside the museum and the driver gets out and opens the door for us.

‘Ready?’ Olivia says.

I groan. ‘As I’ll ever be.’

‘It’s two hours of your life. Maximum three. Try and enjoy it.’

‘You know I won’t. I never do.’ I arrange my face into a fixed smile. ‘Better?’ I ask.

She sighs. ‘Kind of. Come on, let’s get inside.’

As soon as we’re through the door, a wall of noise hits me. How can anyone enjoy this? A couple of sweaty-looking men in cheap suits and name badges approach me straight away and shake my hand. One of them starts talking at me about some hotel his group has acquired and how it would be a brilliant fit for us. I am looking at him, smiling and nodding occasionally but I’m not listening. I hate all this and I’m no good at it. I’m much happier doing business by email – even a phone call somewhat fills me with dread. I want to go home.

‘Do you think it could be of interest?’ he pushes.

‘Possibly,’ I say vaguely, having absolutely no idea because I have no clue what he said. I stopped listening before the end of his first sentence, and I can’t stand being put on the spot like this anyway. I pass him my card. ‘Can you email my secretary and we’ll have a look? As I’m sure you understand, these decisions aren’t made in an instant. Or, in all honesty, by me usually. I just sign them off.’ I have rehearsed this line. Olivia came up with it for me.

Olivia looks at me in the way that a proud mother might look at a four-year-old performing in his first nativity play – in that ‘see, I know you can do it!’ way. I should probably feel patronized by her, but I don’t – I couldn’t manage without her. My palms are sweating. I don’t want to talk to these people.

‘It was lovely to meet you, but I’d better circulate. I’ll look out for your email,’ I add, which is a total lie. I’ve already forgotten the guy’s name and who he works for.

‘Of course, of course!’ he says, whipping out his card and pressing it into my hand. I immediately give it to Olivia, who pulls a face and it’s only then I remember that she’s told me before that that looks rude. ‘I’m giving it to Olivia for safekeeping,’ I bluster, no doubt making an already awkward situation worse.

‘I’ll email your secretary tomorrow,’ says the hotel man as he backs away.

Olivia gives me an exasperated look.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘You know what,’ she mutters, rolling her eyes. ‘Come on, let’s get you a drink.’

I wonder about reminding her that she should be more polite to me as I’m paying her salary, but I remember that last time I did that she threatened to resign. And I don’t want that. It would be a disaster.

Olivia lifts two glasses from a tray carried by a skinny girl in a black dress which is so tight you can see her nipples. I remind myself that you are not allowed to notice things like that these days and keep my eyes firmly on her face. Olivia hands a glass to me and says: ‘Right. Half an hour of mingling, then a short speech. Another half an hour of mingling, and then you can go and get back to your computer games or whatever it is you do in your spare time. OK?’

‘Yup.’

A woman in a suit bustles up to Olivia and starts babbling about some issue with the canapés. I am wondering if it’s OK to wait for the canapés woman to finish so that Olivia can continue to circulate with me, but then the canapés woman strides off with Olivia teetering after her, so I’m left on my own.

A panicky feeling rises in me as I glance around the huge room full of what looks like tight-knit groups laughing and joking together – how can I possibly march up to one of them and start talking? I might be paying for the party but that doesn’t make it any easier to join a group of people I don’t know and think of something to say. Now that everyone has had a glass or two and become reacquainted with their industry mates, they’ve probably forgotten that their whole reason for being here is meant to be to suck up to me.

I down my champagne and abandon the glass on a nearby table. I’m about to head off to the gents for a pee to give me something to do when a woman with sleek dark hair wearing a tight emerald-green dress appears in front of me. My first thought is that she looks like a mermaid.

‘Mr Redbush?’ She tilts her head to one side and hands me a glass of champagne.

‘Hugo, please,’ I say, as Olivia said I should in almost all situations. ‘And you are?’

‘Ria. I run an events company, it’s called, um, Ria Events.’

I laugh, even though it isn’t funny. ‘Good name.’

‘Thanks,’ she says, blushing. ‘Sometimes we book locations and hotels through Redbush Holidays, which is why I’m …’

‘It’s very kind of you to come,’ I say. ‘I hope you are enjoying the evening?’

I sound like some kind of Victorian gentleman or Montgomery Burns from The Simpsons. I am always rubbish at speaking to women. I look over Ria’s shoulder to see if I can spot Olivia.

‘It’s lovely here,’ she says, circling her finger around the top of her champagne glass. ‘I mean, it’s a lovely venue. I haven’t been here before.’

‘You never came to the museum as a child?’ I ask.

‘No.’ She pauses. ‘My childhood was rather odd. But you don’t want to hear about that now.’

I do actually, but feel it would now be impolite to ask.

Ria looks up at me through long, dark lashes. ‘In all honesty, I’m not much good at parties. I always find events like this intimidating. I feel I have to come for the sake of networking and the like but, honestly, I’d rather be in a quiet bar chatting one-to-one with someone.’

I smile. ‘I know exactly how you feel.’

She takes a strand of her almost-black hair and twirls it around her finger. I feel a stirring of lust in my groin and panic – is she about to walk off?

‘All these people,’ she continues. ‘So exhausting. In many ways, I think I’m in the wrong line of work. I make my living organizing parties and events, but I’d rather gouge my eyes out than actually go to one. In many ways, I’m just not that good with people.’

I smile. ‘I’m totally with you there. I’m not supposed to admit this, but these parties fill me with dread. I’m much happier talking one-to-one too.’ Argh. Does that sound too cheesy? Like a bad pick-up line?

Olivia reappears at my side. ‘Right. All sorted. Now then …’

‘Olivia – this is Ria. She runs Ria Events and books locations through Redbush sometimes.’ Making an introduction. Giving them both some information about each other. Olivia will be impressed – it’s what she’s always trying to drill into me. I don’t want Olivia to whisk me off to talk to more boring men in shiny suits – I want to stay here and talk to Ria. She’s the only woman who’s spoken to me all evening, and definitely the only person I’ve met here, or anywhere recently for that matter, who I’d actually like to spend more time with.

Olivia extends her hand. ‘Ria. Lovely to meet you. Thank you for coming. I hope you’re enjoying the evening? I’m so sorry, but I’ll need you to excuse Hugo, he has to give a speech …’

‘It was lovely to meet you, Ria. I’d love to continue our conversation later,’ I say. I feel myself blush. I’m terrible at this. Was that too direct? Am I going to scare her away? Am I supposed to pretend I’m not bothered in case she thinks I’m a potential stalker? Might she even think I’m harassing her? Am I being inappropriate as she’s a client? Would she feel like she had to come for a drink with me if I asked? It’s such a minefield talking to women these days. ‘I mean, only if you’d like to …’ I bluster.

Olivia looks at her watch, clearly embarrassed for me. ‘Hugo, we need to—’

‘I’d love to,’ Ria says, to my utter amazement.

Olivia’s mouth drops open. I clap my hands together, and then silently admonish myself for doing so. ‘Great! Well, I’ll get my presentation out the way, then we can go somewhere quieter. Nicer. Just you and me. Like we were talking about a minute ago.’

She smiles shyly. ‘Yeah. That would be lovely.’

Olivia takes me by the arm and smiles tightly at Ria. ‘Will you excuse us, please?’

‘I’ll see you by the stage in twenty minutes,’ I call behind me to Ria as Olivia bustles me away.

‘What was that about?’ Olivia hisses.

‘What? Can’t I ask a girl out if I want to? I mean, ask a woman out?’

Olivia rolls her eyes. ‘Well of course you can, but this is hardly the time or the place. You’re supposed to be networking, not asking out the first female who thrusts her tits at you. You’re the boss here – there’s no need to be so grateful.’

I am mildly shocked – Olivia never speaks to me like that. Or rather, she does but I’ve never heard her say anything like ‘tits’ before. She sighs, stops marching me towards the stage and turns to face me.

‘Sorry. Who you do or don’t ask out is none of my business – it’s up to you, of course. I just don’t want to see you … taken advantage of.’

I don’t entirely understand what she means. I get that some women are going to find my money attractive but that doesn’t mean I can’t take anyone out for a drink, does it? Sometimes I think that’s why I’m still on my own. It’s easy for me to assume women who want to spend time with me are only after my money. Sometimes they are. But I like to think I can spot those women a mile off. Besides, even if I include the so-called gold-diggers, I’m hardly beating off women with a stick.

‘Thank you for your concern, but I’m a big boy, Olivia, I can make my own decisions,’ I say primly. ‘Now, shall we get this presentation out of the way?’

The presentation is mortifying as usual but I read the words on the autocue and everyone claps politely, no doubt counting the minutes until they can get back to drinking their champagne. I can’t concentrate properly, wondering if Ria will be waiting for me like she said or if she’s already gone off to giggle with her friends about how dorky I was when we spoke. Perhaps she was only talking to me as part of a bet or dare. It’s not like that’s never happened before, though admittedly not for a good few years (or not that I know of, at least). Do grown-ups do that kind of thing? I don’t really know.

I step down off the stage and Ria is there at the front, right where I suggested she wait. I grin. Maybe I didn’t mess things up too badly this time. ‘Ready?’ I ask.

She smiles back. ‘Ready.’

I ignore Olivia, who is frantically trying to tell me that I need to stay at the party and network some more. Business can wait this time.

We go to my club, though I’m not sure it’s quite the right place to take someone like Ria. While it’s quiet and exclusive, it’s not exactly what you might call hip. But as I almost never go out socially, I can’t think of anywhere else to go.

We sit on a low sofa, facing each other and holding those enormous gin and tonics with peppercorns and rosemary they serve there. I don’t consider myself the most interesting of people, but Ria is easy to talk to and laughs at my feeble jokes. She keeps touching my arm to make her point and, after a few more drinks, her leg is pressed up against my leg. Despite my lack of confidence when it comes to these things, a couple of hours later when I ask her if she’d like to come home with me and she says yes, I’m not really that surprised.

9
January 2020, La Madière, France
Ria

In the time it takes me to go upstairs and get changed into some dry clothes, Cass arrives back. I hear a small commotion while I’m getting dressed and by the time I go downstairs she’s sitting on one of the enormous sofas with Inigo fidgeting in her lap while Sarah hovers nearby. Cass’s eyes are shiny and she’s pulled her oversized cardigan down over her hands again in that nervous way she always does. If I didn’t know better, I’d probably assume Cass was the nanny and Sarah the spoilt young wife. Cass somehow looks out of place and uncomfortable in these luxurious surroundings, making even her high-end designer clothes look cheap and ill-fitting. Sarah, however, seems completely unfazed by it all. Perhaps she has nannied for rich families before.

‘Ria!’ Cass calls as I come in, unnaturally bright. ‘I’m so sorry you went out looking for me unnecessarily. I woke up early, went out for a walk and forgot to take my phone – it didn’t occur to me that anyone would be worried.’ She looks vague and spacey and I wonder if she’s on antidepressants. Didn’t Hugo say something about postnatal depression earlier?

‘Because why would it?’ Simon says, snippily. His ‘devoted and worried husband’ mode of earlier appears to have disappeared. ‘We’ve wasted Matt’s entire morning, making him call the hospitals and the police, and Hugo and Ria have been all over the resort looking for you. In fact, Hugo is still out there in the cold for all I know – I can’t get hold of him to let him know you’re back.’

‘It’s not a problem for me. Don’t worry at all,’ Matt says. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’ He glances at his watch. ‘That said, I’m a bit behind now with a few other things, so since Cass is safely back perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I …’

‘No! No, of course not,’ Simon says, clapping Matt on the back effusively. ‘I’m only sorry my wife has wasted your time in this way.’ He emphasizes wife in a way which couldn’t have sounded more sneering if he’d tried – he might as well have said ‘stupid little wife’ and be done with it.

Cass is fussing over Inigo and pretending she isn’t listening, but I see her redden and tears brim at Simon’s words.

‘It’s honestly fine,’ Matt reiterates magnanimously. ‘I’ll pop by for a drink later in case there’s anything you need.’

As soon as Matt is out of the door, Simon’s face darkens. ‘Right. Well, now you’re back, Cass, I should go and find Hugo and tell him the good news that you’re here. Can’t have him tramping around in this weather for no good reason.’ Simon gives Cass a final disparaging look – she is still dandling Inigo on her knee and pretends not to notice – before he storms out of the chalet, banging the door behind him.

Cass looks up at me. ‘I’m sorry if I worried you, Ria.’ She looks back at the baby and I see the tears which were brimming fill her eyes and roll slowly down her cheeks.

I sit down next to her. Though I barely know Cass at all, right at this moment I feel sorry for her. Anyone would.

‘Are you OK?’ I say, lamely. ‘Can I get you anything?’

She shakes her head. ‘I’m fine. I’m sorry for causing a fuss. All I wanted was a bit of time to myself.’

She hands the baby back to Sarah, who takes him and stands over by the window as if she’s looking out at the view. I wonder if she is listening to our conversation. I pat Cass gently on the knee and say ‘I understand’, though it’s not true because I don’t understand at all. Sarah seems to have Inigo most of the time so I’m not sure what the problem is for Cass or why she feels she needs time to herself. Perhaps she means time away from Simon – that I can understand.

Another couple of fat tears roll down her cheeks and she swipes them away with the heels of her hands. ‘It’s weird being here,’ she almost whispers, her voice hoarse. ‘Simon came here a long time ago with an old girlfriend. I know it’s silly, but … I hate things like that. I keep wondering if he had a better time with her than he’s having now with me and Inigo.’ She looks down, as if embarrassed by her outburst, having suddenly confided in me, unbidden. She wipes her face again.

I touch her arm gently, thinking to myself that she’s being a bit of a bunny boiler. I mean, who cares if Simon has been here before with someone else? But I guess postnatal depression probably does weird things to you.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I say, in my best sympathetic voice. ‘He’s with you now and you have a baby together! You’re his world. You should have seen how worried he was when he didn’t know where you were this morning.’

She sniffs and looks up at me. ‘Really?’

I tilt my head to one side. ‘Yeah. Honestly, you’ve got nothing to worry about. He adores you.’

She smiles weakly. ‘Thanks. Yes. I guess I’m being silly. It’s just, with the baby and everything … I don’t feel like myself at the moment. It makes me think about things I don’t want to and brings back bad memories. Makes me think about … well. You know.’

We both sit in silence for a few seconds while I absentmindedly pat her arm. I have no idea what she’s on about but telling her so isn’t going to help either of us.

‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a while, if you’ll excuse me?’ she says, standing up, suddenly brisk. ‘I hope Simon manages to find Hugo quickly. It’s not a nice day to be outside. And please … you won’t say anything to Simon about what I said, will you? I wouldn’t want him to know I’m being so silly and jealous. I’m sure it’s just me being all hormonal. I know Simon loves me. I shouldn’t have said anything. Shouldn’t have bothered you with my stupid thoughts.’

She does that thing with her cardigan sleeves again and looks down at the floor. I can see she has gone red.

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘And don’t worry about Hugo – he won’t mind at all, I’m sure. He loves both being out in the snow and playing the hero.’ Anything that helps him suck up to Simon is good news as far as he’s concerned, I add to myself silently.

After Cass has retreated upstairs, Sarah comes over with Inigo and sits down on the sofa next to me. She lies him down in her lap and he grins up at her.

‘Poor Cass,’ I venture. ‘Seems like she’s finding motherhood a little tricky.’

Sarah tickles Inigo and he squeals in delight. He’s a big round football of a baby and I can see that if you’re into that kind of thing, he’s probably quite sweet.

‘Yeah,’ Sarah says. ‘She’s very … nice and it’s clear she wants to be a good mum but I can’t help wondering how she’d manage if I wasn’t here. Even with my help, it seems like she’s struggling.’ She looks up at me. ‘Shit, sorry, it’s not my place to say that, is it?’ Her brow furrows. ‘You won’t tell her, will you?’

I smile. ‘Of course not,’ I say, though I am mildly shocked. Sarah is Cass’s (or at least Simon’s) employee, after all, and I am a virtual stranger. It seems out of order that she’d speak about her like that to me. I decide it’s best to change the subject.

‘Have you been a nanny long?’ I ask.

She wiggles Inigo’s hands above his head and he giggles. She seems like a natural with babies.

‘Not that long,’ she says, still looking at Inigo rather than me, pulling faces and making him laugh. ‘Cass is only the second mum I’ve looked after. But I’ve got a lot of younger brothers and sisters, so I’ve always been used to babies.’

‘And where were you working before?’ I ask, struggling to place her accent. Bristol? London? Difficult to tell.

Sarah picks up Inigo and stands abruptly. ‘Dubai,’ she says. ‘With another English family. Look, I’m sorry to be rude, but I think I’d better go and see if Cass is OK. It’s been lovely chatting though.’

Sarah heads up the stairs before I can say another word, as if she can’t get away from me fast enough.

The coffee I had while I was pretending to look for Cass has made my hangover worse, so I go up to our room to lie down too.

I pick up my iPad to read the news, but it opens on my emails page. My stomach lurches and my heart starts beating faster – I know I didn’t leave it like that.

I hear the chalet door bang, heavy footsteps on the stairs and then the door bursts open. ‘Cass is back!’ Hugo exclaims.

‘Yeah, I know. We had a chat. I feel sorry for her – she seems like she’s in quite a state. Personally, I think Simon could have been more sympathetic. Plus the nanny is a bit of a bitch, as it turns out. But listen, Hugo, have you been using my iPad?’

He frowns. ‘No. Why d’you ask?’

‘So you haven’t been looking at my emails or in my contacts or anything?’

He kisses me on the forehead. The minor drama of Cass going briefly missing seems to have enlivened him to the point he’s forgotten that he was annoyed about me getting drunk last night. ‘Of course not! Why would I do that?’

I shrug. ‘Dunno,’ I say, tugging the pillows from Hugo’s side of the bed so I can sit myself up straighter as I start to feel sick again. Hugo is flinging open cupboards and drawers, taking off his clothes and pulling out others. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

‘Getting changed! Simon and I are going skiing. We’ve wasted enough of the day already.’

I glance out the window, where the snow is blowing almost horizontally across the glass. ‘Skiing? In this weather? Rather you than me.’

‘It’ll be great! Fresh snow! Can’t come all this way and not ski because of a bit of bad weather. Plus, Simon is hardly going to be impressed if I wuss out of skiing because there are a few snowflakes blowing around, is he?’

I shrug. ‘Up to you. I hope you both know what you’re doing.’

Hugo hauls on his salopettes, leaps off the bed and kisses me full on the mouth. ‘It’ll be fine – Simon has booked a guide, so we can do some proper off-piste. You get a couple of hours’ rest and we’ll do some baby-making later, OK? That app told me it’s your most fertile day today.’

I cringe – I hate the way he follows my cycle – it makes me feel like a prize cow. I should have never let him download the app. But I can’t be bothered to start a row so instead I smile weakly and say, ‘Yeah. I’ll be here. See you later. Have fun.’

10
December 1998, La Madière, France

I head back to the lift, but the lift operator wags a finger at me. ‘Trop de vent,’ he says. Too windy. I feel like I’m going to explode. This is it. No more looking for the clients. If Andy hasn’t found them, we have to do something. We can’t put it off any longer – we probably shouldn’t have left it as long as we have. I wonder about asking the lift guy if I can borrow his radio to try to speak to Andy, but that would mean going public with this as almost anyone can listen in. And what’s the point of ruining our reputation if the clients are already safely stuffing their mouths with cake in their chalet?

Part of me knows the good, responsible thing to do would be to alert rescue, just in case, but what are they going to do anyway? You can’t get a helicopter out in this weather, and it’s going to get dark soon. This could barely be worse.

‘It’s fine,’ I mutter to myself. ‘It’s fine. Andy will have got hold of them. They’ll be in a bar somewhere, showing off to their mates about skiing the couloir in these conditions. It’s all fine. Fine.’

My breathing slows. I’m not going to mess up the good name of my company for a couple of arseholes who made out they were better skiers than they actually are and who I’m 99 per cent sure are fine. They’re fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine. It’s all going to be fine.

I head off down the lower slope, which is by now almost deserted, and join a queue for the lift which will get me back to the office and back to news of whether or not we’re in deep shit. Because of the wind, the lift is moving slowly and stopping often. The snow bites at my face. It would almost have been quicker to put on skins and hike. By the time I finally get to the top, they are no longer allowing people on any lifts, even down here – the wind is too strong. I ski down the short run back to the office and fling open the door.

‘Why the hell aren’t you answering your radio!?’ Andy yells.

‘I dropped it!’ I shout back. ‘Did you find them or not?’

‘No. I found the forms they filled in with their details – you’ve got to get this office more organized, by the way; it took me forever.’

‘Did you call the chalet?’ I ask impatiently. Now is hardly the time to be hassling me about housekeeping.

‘No! I was waiting for you! I didn’t want to broadcast the fact that we’ve – you’ve – lost them, when for all I know you might have found them.’

‘Well I didn’t,’ I say tightly. ‘Which chalet are they in?’

Andy glances at the form. ‘They didn’t mark it. Which you would already know if you could stop shouting at me for five minutes! I’m trying to help you here! They’re your clients – not mine!’

‘They’re our clients. Our ski school. We’re in this together.’

‘They were out with you,’ Andy says coldly.

I take a deep breath. This isn’t the time. And I need to keep Andy on side. ‘We both need to calm down. They’re here with Powder Puff – that annoying rep passed by as we were setting off and said they were his clients, remember? Where’s their chalet?’

‘Powder Puff have loads of chalets. We’ll have to call their office. Do you have the number?’

‘Somewhere.’ I rifle through the piles of paper on my desk and feel Andy’s impatience growing until eventually the unhelpful twat shouts, ‘Come on!’

‘You’re not helping!’ I shout back. ‘Look, it’s here. Richard, the rep’s name is,’ I say, as I pick up the phone and dial.

‘Richard? Hi. It’s Cameron from Skitastic. We were skiing with a couple of your clients this afternoon and they’ve gone AWOL. Yeah, the ones you saw me with. No, not long – they’re probably fine but could you call whichever chalet they’re in and check if they’re back? They didn’t mark which one they’re in on the … I KNOW! I’m not exactly pleased either … Look, we’re all on the same side here, aren’t we? Yeah. Yeah. OK – call me once you’ve spoken to the chalet girl. I’m in the office. Appreciate it, mate, yeah.’

Andy sits down, head in hands. ‘This is bad.’

‘They might be at the chalet,’ I say, hearing the desperation even in my own voice.

‘And if they’re not?’

‘They might be in one of the bars,’ I offer, though I’m already fearing the worst.

‘How are we going to know, though? There are masses of bars! They could be anywhere!’

‘If they’re down, they should have let us know they’re safe, shouldn’t they?’ I persist. I sound pathetic even to my own ears.

‘They should have, but you know what punters are like – they don’t think. And it’s getting dark now.’

‘I think we should give it till six,’ I say.

‘And if they’re not back by then?’

‘Well then, I guess … I guess we have to call rescue.’

‘Who won’t be able to do anything in this weather.’ There’s a pause. ‘If they’re not back, they don’t stand a chance.’

The phone rings.

11
2018, London
Hugo

After Ria spent that first night with me, she never really moved out again. I couldn’t believe my luck. I don’t remember asking her to move in – it happened by degrees. I cleared a drawer out for her stuff because she was staying so often, then a cupboard, then her letters started arriving there ‘because it’s easier as I’m here the whole time anyway’. I didn’t mind in the slightest; I’d never lived with a woman before and seeing her stuff around the place made it feel like a proper home, rather than somewhere I just came to play X-Box and sleep after work.

After a month or so she said she thought it was pointless her paying rent on her flat, so would it be OK if she brought the rest of her stuff over? It was only then I realized I’d never been to her flat. I asked her why.

Her face fell. ‘My weird flatmate’s always there. Plus I’m too embarrassed for you to see it. It’s a hole.’

I took her hand. ‘Why would you be embarrassed? London is expensive, you’re running your own business in tricky times – there’s no shame in finding things a bit of a struggle.’

‘Yeah but you’ve got all this.’ She cast her hand around the flat, indicating my glass wall overlooking Tower Bridge, my state-of-the-art Bang and Olufsen speakers, and the early Damian Hirst that I’d bought last Christmas for the exposed-brick wall above the reclaimed fireplace. ‘I’d feel like the poor relation, taking you to mine. I used to have my own little place, which was nice enough – nothing like this, obviously – but … well, I had to sell it.’

I nodded, assuming she couldn’t keep up with the mortgage payments. It’s not exactly uncommon. I took her in my arms, squeezed her tight and then let her go, feeling a stab of love for her as I saw that tears were brimming in her eyes.

‘I inherited the money to buy this flat, and the business, from my father, as you know,’ I said. ‘I work hard, but all this was pretty much handed to me on a plate. And I doubt I’d have managed to hang on to it if it wasn’t for Olivia and the other people around me who are much better at all this stuff than I am.’ I put an arm around her again and kissed her forehead. ‘You’re building your business up from scratch. In my book, that’s much more impressive than having a smart place to live.’

She smiled weakly. ‘I love you,’ she said, burrowing her head into my chest.

I grinned. It was the first time she’d said it. ‘I love you too,’ I replied. I’d been dying to tell her for ages.

After that, things between Ria and me moved quickly. Olivia disapproved – there were a lot of sly references to gold-digging and the like – but I was in love and Ria loved me, I was sure of it. And even if she didn’t, as far as I could see, Ria was as good as I was ever going to get. For me, that was enough. I loved her. I’d be a good husband to her, she would be a good wife to me and … well, that’s about everything you could want in a marriage, isn’t it? I’d never been as happy as I had since Ria came into my life and there was no way I wanted things to go back to how they were before. I wanted to marry Ria, have children with her, buy her things, and make her happy. That was what I wanted from life and it was none of Olivia’s business.

I was nearly forty by then, Ria almost the same age, so if we wanted children, there was no time to waste. Six weeks after we met, I took her to Paris and proposed at the top of the Eiffel Tower. It might not have been the most original idea, but she said yes, which was all that mattered.

Three months later we got married in Las Vegas – just us, no friends, or family. Ria didn’t want a traditional wedding and I didn’t mind what we did as long as she was happy. She agreed to stop taking the pill and we had lots of sex. For the first few months at least.

Her events planning business went from strength to strength, following a cash injection from me. Meantime, several terrorist events in a row and currency changes meant that things weren’t so good for Redbush Holidays. Which is why I so desperately need Simon to invest – I wish Ria would take that on board and stop behaving so badly.

12
January 2020, La Madière, France
Ria

With Hugo and Simon out skiing, I settle down on the sofa with my iPad to read. When everyone else is out, it’s actually pretty nice here. The leather sofa I’m lounging on, covered in cosy throws and furry cushions, is one of the most comfortable I’ve ever experienced. The rugs are deep and sumptuous and the view is exquisite, Millie has lit the fire and it’s crackling away. It’s a far cry from the caravan holidays I was used to in my childhood, but very much the kind of thing I’ve enjoyed since I met Hugo. My jumper is Brora and my cashmere socks are from The White Company. It would be difficult to feel more cosy and snug, so I’m not remotely tempted to go out skiing in this terrible weather. If only I could stay here alone and not feel like I had to chat to boring Cass, suck up to sad sack Simon, and fend off Hugo’s advances, it would all be pretty sweet.

Half an hour later, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Matt. Arse. If I’d known he was coming round I’d have put some make-up on at least. I smooth my hair and smile. ‘Hey.’

He smiles back. ‘Hi, Ria. I thought I’d pop by and check everything’s OK after all that … business with Cass this morning? Is she all right?’

‘Come in!’ I usher him inside, frowning at the blizzard blowing outside. He stamps his feet on the mat and comes in. ‘Sit down,’ I say, indicating the fabulous sofa. I might find out what brand it is and see if I can persuade Hugo to get us one for home. ‘Yes, I think Cass is fine,’ I continue. ‘She’s in her room. Probably having a nap.’

Matt nods and sits down at one end of the enormous sofa. I sit down at the opposite end, tucking my feet under me. His eyes travel down my body and then back up to my face. I smirk subtly at him.

‘So … um,’ he says, reddening. ‘I saw the boys heading off skiing as I arrived. Simon said they’d booked a guide I think and were hoping to get off-piste?’

‘Yup,’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t catch me out there in this weather.’

‘I went out this morning but didn’t stay long,’ he says. ‘Not fun when it’s like this.’

‘Nooo’, I agree.

There’s a pause. I guess he’s wondering if I remember coming on to him last night or if I was too drunk and have forgotten. I’ll let him wonder for now.

‘So what are your plans for today if you’re not skiing?’ he asks.

‘I thought I’d hang out here for a while. It’s such a lovely chalet, it’s nice to spend some time in it. I’m really enjoying myself.’

‘It is a lovely chalet,’ he agrees. He looks across to the huge window. ‘One of my favourites. Did you choose it for the view?’

‘Kind of. I work in events management and I’ve had my eye on it as a venue for a while.’ This is not the entire truth, but it’s near enough – it’s also the version I’ve told Hugo. ‘Then Hugo was looking for somewhere to bring Simon to impress him – he’s hoping he’ll invest in his company – so I suggested here and … well, here we are.’

Matt nods. There is an awkward silence, filled with sexual tension. We both know what is happening here. But we are at opposite ends of the sofa and I am Matt’s married client, so neither of us really know how to move things forward, not now that we are sober. ‘Good choice,’ Matt ventures.

‘But then it turns out that Simon came here with an old girlfriend,’ I continue, ‘and Cass is feeling insecure about it. I think that was part of the reason for her solo walk which worried everyone so much.’

‘Ah! Poor Cass. I guess having a new baby can make things …’ he tails off, realizing this isn’t a good conversational route to go down for many reasons. ‘I hope she’s OK. She seems …’

He clears his throat. ‘Well, anyway, none of my business. Changing the subject entirely, if the weather improves tomorrow, perhaps I could take you out skiing – show you the resort? With Cass, and the boys too, if they’re interested,’ he adds, quite clearly as an afterthought. ‘It’s all part of our service. I have to take my company jacket off so as not to tread on the local instructors’ toes but, being a small company, we like to—’

‘Sounds great,’ I interrupt, cutting him off because I don’t want him to go back into corporate mode and I’m already wondering how I can make sure none of the others want to come with us. ‘Why don’t I meet you at the Schuss Café at ten?’

Matt grins. ‘Sounds perfect. I believe I’m due here for dinner tonight, so we can firm things up then. And if there’s anything you need in the meantime, give me a shout. Send my regards to Cass, I won’t disturb her if she’s tired.’

‘I will.’

‘And I hope the boys have a successful day skiing.’

‘I’ll pass that on.’

We both get up and move towards the door. ‘Well then,’ he says. I lean in, inviting him to kiss me on the cheek. He reddens slightly, unsure what to do. I put my hand on his arm and do the bise, two kisses French style, as if I do that all the time, which I don’t, but I want to touch him.

I squeeze his hand briefly. ‘See you tomorrow.’

13
December 1998, La Madière, France

‘Hello? Richard. Right. OK. Thanks … Yeah, I will. I don’t think we’ve got any option now that … Look, now is hardly the time, is it? Yeah. I’ll keep you posted. Bye.’

‘So?’ Andy asks, stupidly. Isn’t it obvious?

‘They’re not there.’

‘So what do we do? How long have they been missing now?’

I look at my watch, and then out of the window. It’s getting dark, the wind sounds like a jet engine and it’s still snowing.

‘We don’t know that they’re missing!’ I snap. ‘We just don’t know where they are.’ I am pacing about the office, but it’s too small and I feel claustrophobic.

Andy picks up the phone. ‘Isn’t that the same thing? We have to call rescue now. We can’t sit back and do nothing. Something’s obviously wrong.’

‘But …’ I say, uselessly. ‘We said we’d give it till six. They might have gone to the bar like we said and be boring some poor sod with how they lost their guides and found their way down like heroes and—’

‘Apart from anything else, rep-boy Richard knows now. So if they don’t turn up …’

‘And if they do, everyone will think we’re incapable idiots anyway,’ I counter.

Andy holds up the phone towards me. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘Make the call.’

14
Daily Mail

29 December, 1998

Two British men have gone missing in the French Alpine ski resort of La Madière.

The two men, brothers aged 22 and 24, who have not yet been named, were skiing off-piste with local guides when they went missing in bad weather.

A search team was launched immediately, but so far no trace of either man has been found.

The young men are believed to have been staying in a Powder Puff holiday chalet with their girlfriends, who remain in the resort anxiously awaiting news.

A spokesman for Powder Puff holidays said: ‘Obviously we are all deeply worried about the missing men and hoping they will turn up safe and sound. In the meantime, we are supporting the rest of their party as well as we are able.’

15
January 2020, La Madière, France
Ria

Millie appears with a freshly-made cake and a tray of steaming mugs of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows in a dish at almost exactly the same time as Hugo and Simon stomp up the stairs from the boot room.

‘Good afternoon!’ Millie says as she places the tray carefully down on the granite table. ‘How was your day?’

‘Cold, windy, fucking amazing,’ says Simon, tearing off his too-tight Porsche ski jacket and flinging it down on a chair.

‘Hugo?’ I ask, slightly naughtily. I know he isn’t a particularly confident skier and is unlikely to have enjoyed the day at all, not that he’d ever be likely to admit that even to me. But there’s no way he’d have even considered going out in conditions like today’s if he wasn’t so desperate to suck up to Simon.

‘Yeah, it was good,’ he says tightly, also taking off his jacket (Black Crows – chosen by me) and handing it to Millie. I notice it is soaking wet – he’s probably had a few falls. ‘Looking forward to tomorrow,’ Hugo adds. ‘We’ve booked the same guide to take us out. He was great.’

I let my face fall. ‘Oh, what a shame. I thought I’d ski with you tomorrow, Hugo, but I’ve arranged to meet Matt at ten in the Schuss – he said he’d show me around the resort. Is that OK?’

Hugo’s face hardens – he won’t want me skiing with Matt alone after accusing me of flirting with him the other night, which, to be fair, I was – but I also know he won’t say anything in front of Simon. ‘Yes, of course,’ Hugo says lightly. ‘Perhaps we can all meet up for lunch?’

‘What a good idea!’ I trill. ‘That would be lovely.’

I turn back to my iPad, quite certain that a lift will close, I’ll get lost or something else will make me miss my lunch date. ‘Cass could come with us too if she’d like,’ I add, making a mental note to make sure that, one way or another, she won’t want to. Judging by the ski lesson I joined her for briefly, she doesn’t enjoy skiing much, so I don’t think it will be difficult. I might book her a nice spa day as a ‘treat’ to make sure.

Millie cuts the cake, places a slice on each plate and hands them round. ‘Hugo, Simon, I understand from head office that you were both keen to meet Cameron, the owner of this chalet and some of the others in the resort. He’s planning to come for dinner this evening – assuming it suits you, that is. Would that work for you all?’

Simon nods, stuffing his face full of cake. ‘Fine,’ he mumbles, crumbs unpleasantly falling out of his mouth as he does so. He swallows the huge mouthful with a large gulp and belches. ‘’S’cuse me. Looking forward to meeting him.’

‘Great!’ Millie says. ‘I’ll let him know. Now, if you have everything you need, I’ll go and get on with preparing dinner.’

‘Better be a good one if the boss is coming, eh?’ Simon quips.

‘Absolutely. Although I hope all the meals I prepare are equally as good?’

‘You’ve got no worries there. We’re only going to say nice things about you,’ Simon adds, staring at Millie’s ample boobs. He may as well have smacked her on the bum. I don’t know how she puts up with it.

‘Thank you. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything else, otherwise I’ll see you for canapés at about eight?’

‘That sounds lovely, Millie, thank you,’ I say, to avoid giving Simon the chance to say anything suggestive.

Hugo turns to look out of the enormous window. ‘It’s really coming down now,’ he says.

Simon claps him on the back. ‘Great!’ he roars. ‘Imagine the powder tomorrow!’

16
December 1998, La Madière, France

‘The most important thing is that we get our stories straight,’ I tell Andy as soon as I put the phone down.

‘What do you mean? I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not getting involved.’

‘You’re already involved. You were with me when we lost them. You helped me search.’

‘And that’s bad because …’

‘It’s not!’ I hiss. ‘But not only have we lost two men, in retrospect, we probably should have alerted the authorities earlier. Given the conditions.’ I wipe my hand over my face. ‘This is serious stuff, Andy.’

‘But you’re the boss, as you never tire of telling me.’

I pull Andy closer to me so that our faces are almost touching. ‘You were with me – I didn’t hear you saying we should call rescue out,’ I growl. ‘Both of us skied too fast at times, we didn’t always put the clients’ needs first. Either of us. We are in this together. OK? I go down, so do you. Neither of us have covered ourselves in glory here. The way we dealt with things wasn’t exactly textbook, was it? Richard saw both of us with the clients. You and I are both on all the business documents, even though I put in pretty much all the money. So you are as liable as me. Understood?’

Andy violently wrenches out of my grasp. ‘Let go of me, OK? Fine. Let’s get our stories straight then.’

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