Will touches my arm. ‘OK? I know it’s busy here, but don’t worry – we’re going to head over there where there’s a nice quiet slope with a gentle drag lift which is tucked away from the main thoroughfare – it’ll be perfect for helping you find your feet.’ He points off to the left a little down the hill, where I can indeed see a slope where people do seem to be skiing more slowly (again, mainly children, though bigger than the ones on the magic carpet and, what I now see was a tiny weeny slope at the bottom).
I nod. ‘OK. But how do we get there?’
‘Um … we ski?’ A hint of tetchiness there. Although I can understand why he’s getting annoyed. I’m not usually so wet; as a rule, I’m up for anything. Magic mushrooms someone found in the forest? Why not? Naked cycling along the Cherwell towpath at midnight? Bring it on! But this is different. Skiing is scary and totally not fun.
Will puts my skis down on the snow right next to me, one by each foot, and then holds out his hand. ‘You remember how to clip yourself in? Get your skis on and then we’ll go down to the bottom of the drag lift.’
I feel tears forming. ‘But there are so many people!’ My voice is high and whiny and I hate myself. ‘I’m scared they’re going to go into me! I’m so slow and they’re all so fast!’
He smiles semi-sympathetically and rubs my arm. ‘It’ll be fine. I’ll stay right by you, above you on the hill so no one can mow you down, and it will be much quieter and calmer when we get over there. Look – you don’t even have to turn to get there – you go in a straight line, snowploughing all the way so you can control your speed. No one will go into you.’
How do you know? a voice inside me wails, but I force myself to nod and force out a strangled ‘OK.’ Again, it seems to take forever to get my skis on but, once I’m in, Will clips his on in literally five seconds.
‘OK? So remember, tips together, knees bent, look ahead – we’re aiming for the bottom of that drag lift, OK? On y va!’
‘What?’ I ask, flustered, trying to remember all the things he said. Tips together, what else?
‘Never mind. I just said, “Let’s go!” It’s French.’
He moves away and I feel a stab of anger – he said he would stay with me! I push with my poles and arrange my skis in a pizza-wedge shape to follow, very slowly.
‘Yay! See? You’re doing it!’ he cries as I slide behind him. I continue in my hunched position, head down, bum stuck out in spite of what Will said, following the sound of his voice until he stops. We’ve somehow made it to the lift.
But this is unlike any lift I’ve ever seen. There’s a queue of people waiting patiently; I watch as each one takes it in turn to grab hold of a big metal bar which is hanging above them, position it so a disc sits between their legs and then let the thing pull them up the mountain. It’s even worse than the bubble.
Will looks at me expectantly. I stare back in horror. ‘You’re not seriously expecting me to go up on that?’
His face falls. ‘Louisa, it will be fine! Look, there are tiny children doing it. All you have to do is keep your skis straight and remember not to try to sit down on the button, just lean on it.’
One of the men in red takes a pole and positions a particularly small child in front of one of his legs, before there is a gentle clang and they start sliding serenely up the hill.
‘Can’t I go up like that with you?’ I ask, attempting to inject a touch of lightness into the situation which I certainly don’t feel.
He laughs. I realize it’s the first time either of us has laughed all day. ‘You’ll be fine. You’ll see.’
I am not fine. The first time I try, I simply drop the pulley thing. The second time, I manage to jam it between my legs, but it pulls with a jerk I wasn’t expecting and I fall over before I’ve even moved, and then it takes about five humiliating minutes for Will and the lift operator to get me back on my feet and in position to have another go. The next time I go a few metres, but I forget what Will said about not sitting and crash down onto my arse.
It is painful and embarrassing. Everyone can do this apart from me. I feel hot tears threatening and it’s clear Will’s patience is wearing thin.
And then, just as I am about to throw my poles down on the ground and say I can’t do this any more, I finally make it all the way to the top.
But by this time I’m exhausted, so I persuade Will that we should stop for lunch before I attempt any more skiing. Fortunately, there’s a café right opposite the little slope we’re on.
We leave the skis outside – Will insists on splitting them apart and pairing one of mine with one of his to avoid them being stolen – and we take a table on the terrace. I secretly hope that the skis are indeed stolen so that I don’t have to do any more of this. I don’t even care if I have to pay for them, they can go on the credit card that I don’t know how I’m going to pay off, along with everything else. It would be worth it, not to have to do this any more.
But then, sitting in the sun and looking out over the wooden balustrade, my spirits begin to lift. The sun is out and it is undeniably beautiful here.
Will reaches over the table and squeezes my hand. ‘You did really well this morning,’ he says.
I smile back. ‘That’s sweet of you to say, but we both know it’s not true.’ I pause. ‘I’m not sure I’m cut out for skiing.’
He squeezes my hand tighter and lets it fall so that he can sit back in his chair. He sighs.
It’s only then that I realize he no doubt had a vision of this holiday too. He probably imagined us whooshing down the slopes like everyone else seems to be, kissing on chair lifts, kicking our skis off in a few seconds to run into a bar for a quick beer or vin chaud or whatever, before effortlessly clicking them back on and whizzing off again. He didn’t sign up for tears and tantrums.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Maybe it will be better this afternoon. I’ll try harder.’
He tips his head backwards and stretches luxuriantly, then rights himself and returns my gaze. His face seems more relaxed and I feel a wave of relief.
‘Don’t be silly. I know you’re doing your best. Besides, all I care about is being here with you.’
23
December 1998, La Madière, France
Will
That was a total lie.
I love Louisa, I really do. I haven’t told her yet. I thought this trip might be the right time. But fucking hell, she’s getting on my tits today.
I get that skiing isn’t that easy when you start out. But honestly, I was only four when my parents put me on the slopes, and I managed, so why is she being such a drama queen about it?
Why did I say I’d teach her? Worst idea ever. So far, I’ve skied two nursery slopes, and that’s it. At this rate, I’m not going to get in any actual skiing this week at all.
To be fair, Louisa perked up over lunch at least. A couple of beers, some wine, steak frites and an hour sitting in the sun and she was back to her usual self, gushing about the weather and the scenery, even making some saucy promises about what we can get up to later.
I’m looking forward to that, of course, but I was also hoping to do some skiing.