‘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.’