She wanted to ask him to open a bottle of wine. Or pour her a gin and tonic. Or maybe get her a double vodka. That the hair of the dog might be the best way to deal with her hangover. Then she felt the sting of her hand, underneath his neat bandaging, and shook her head. ‘I’ll stick with water, thanks.’
‘OK. Do you mind if I get on with some prep work for this evening?’ he said. ‘Or I can leave you alone, and come back later, if you’d prefer?’
‘No. Please, carry on. But don’t you want to go skiing?’
‘I wasn’t planning on going out today.’ He glanced through the window on his way back to the kitchen area, then pulled a large chicken from the fridge and found a cutting board. ‘Plenty to keep me occupied here.’
‘I suppose it’s different when you’re here for the whole season. You can pick and choose when you want to ski.’
He nodded. ‘Exactly. It’s not like being here for a week, grabbing every second on the snow.’ A frown crossed his brow. ‘Don’tyouwant to go skiing today? Apparently, there might be a storm later in the week. It might be worth getting some good days in early, just in case.’
Clara chewed on a piece of apple, which gave her time to decide what to say. Was she going to get outside today, or was she going to fester in the comfort of the lodge? She had promised Tania that she would join in, that she would rediscover her ski legs and enjoy the beauty of the mountains. And so far, she had done the complete opposite.
In the end, she opted for a non-committal shrug.
‘Well, if you do go out, head for the runs higher up. The lower ones get a bit busy in the afternoons and you’ll waste time queuing at the lifts. Creux is nice, or if you fancy a challenge, try Becoin on your way back. I could show you, if you like, another day?’
Clara shook her head. ‘No need, Tania knows this place like the back of her hand. You don’t want to have to waste your time nannying me about.’ She picked up one of the slices of cheese and bit a little from one end. It had a delicate flavour. ‘What’s this called?’ She turned it over in her fingers. The cheese was pale and soft, with a grey line running through the middle.
‘It’s called Morbier. It’s a locally produced cheese.’
‘What’s the grey line?’
He started to laugh.
‘What’s funny?’
‘It’s ash,’ he said.
‘It’s what?’
‘Ash. From a fire.’
She put the piece down, frowning.
‘No, don’t do that,’ he said. ‘It’s supposed to be there.’
‘Why?’
‘Way back when, if the farmer had leftover curd from the cheese-making which wasn’t enough for a whole cheese, he put it in a mould, then covered it with a layer of ash to protect it. The next day, he topped it up from the morning milking and completed the cheese. It’s the way it’s always been made. Ta-daa.’ He took a theatrical bow.
Clara nodded. ‘Impressed by your knowledge, without doubt. But why do you know that?’
‘Rather than simply having a cheese board, I thought it would be more interesting to sample a different, unusual cheese each evening. There’s a little story to go with each one. And now you know the Morbier story, you’ll have a bit of a head start on the others tonight.’
‘I feel honoured,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t spoil the surprise.’ Picking the cheese up again, she ate quietly for a while, then sat and watched as Tom deboned the chicken and rolled it with a centre filled with chopped fresh herbs and some dried fruit which he’d soaked in something. Armagnac, she thought. Very French. After a while she fetched a book and settled on one of the sofas while he set about preparing vegetables and then the dessert.
The room was completely quiet, except for the noise from the kitchen and the occasional rustle as she turned a page. Clara realised she had been avoiding quietness, that it usually brought with it a flood of memories. Reminded her too much of the quietness of that final day at home, before she found out what had happened. A quietness she’d been trying to drown out ever since, one way or another. She waited for the flood to wash her away, but it didn’t come. She glanced across at Tom, who was totally absorbed in his cooking, then tried to focus on the pages of her book.
Clara couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this level of calm. And she wasn’t sure what to do with it.
Tania was on top of the world. Literally. Coming off the resort’s oldest bubble lift at the summit of the glacier, the graffiti-covered capsules creaking on the massive wires as they turned and headed back down the hill, Tania stopped and took a 360-degree turn. Spectacular.
She pulled her phone from a pocket and took a couple of panoramic shots, followed by a few selfies. Then she stopped, frowning at herself. It had become such an ingrained habit.
After zipping the phone away and slotting her feet into her skis, Tania took a deep breath before deciding which run to take. Red or black?
The black was narrow and icy, but it twisted around the very edge of the world. By the time she’d reached the bottom, Tania had run out of superlatives to describe the experience. She had long ago decided that skiing epitomised the whole reason for being alive.
