‘I’m glad we’re guest-free for a few nights,’ Rebecca, ever the peacemaker, changes the subject and drops her lip gloss into her clutch bag, clicking it shut. She’s wearing a silky grey cashmere top and designer jeans. She’s also perfectly made up, with pearly-pink lips and smoky eye shadow. Everyone is looking super-glam compared to me, but I guess I have different priorities. I’m going to watch the film, not to be watched myself.
Still, maybe I should’ve made an effort with make-up, but I rarely bother these days. My skin is beautifully clear from all my time out in the fresh Swiss air and bathing in pure mountain water. I’ve never felt better. Plus I’ve got a healthy tan from spending every spare minute on the slopes.
I’ve never been a girly girl; it just isn’t me. Growing up on a croft in the Scottish Highlands in a tiny village near Drumnadrochit didn’t inspire much interest in clothes or fashion. Mum never wore make-up and would’ve come down hard on me if I’d spent precious money on anything so frivolous and selfish. As far as she was concerned vanity was a sin and, boy, didn’t I know about it! She reminded me often enough.
Instead I filled any free time I had with hiking and skiing when we had enough snow. I always dreamt of skiing in the Alps one day, maybe even competing. Skiing in Scotland wasn’t enough for me, the snow coverage far too unreliable. Moving to Verbier was a huge deal, given no one in my family has ever moved further away than a ten-mile radius of Drumnadrochit. You’d have thought I was denouncing my Scottish heritage, God and my family from the way Mum and Dad had reacted when I’d told them where I was going. Well, I say Mum and Dad, but it was Mum who did the talking, as always. Dad just gave me the silent treatment, refusing even to say goodbye to me.
They still think this is a passing fancy for me but landing this chalet-girl job was the start of living my dream.
One day I’d love to be a big-mountain skier. Not that I ever admit this to anyone. They’d probably laugh and I’ve had a lifetime of being disparaged, I can’t face anyone else trying to crush my dreams. But why shouldn’t I compete one day? I’m good, and I’ve been told I’m getting better every month. If I could find someone willing to coach me, well, who knows …
‘Earth to Lucy.’ Tash waves a hand in front of my face. ‘What are you thinking about? Or should that be ‘who’?’
‘Nothing,’ I mumble and look away, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming. ‘Can we get going now?’
Tash smirks but finally we’re out of the bunk room and I slip into my ski jacket. It‘s not stylish, but it‘s the warmest coat I own. The walk back to the chalet will be a cold one, resort temperatures plummet rapidly once darkness falls. You forget your gloves at your peril. I‘d rather be warm than look pretty on the offchance of meeting someone interesting.
‘No Matt? I thought he was coming too?’ Beth asks as she steps into her Ugg boots.
‘He‘s got some work to do.’ Amelia slips a stylish, no doubt expensive faux-fur-lined wrap over her shoulders. ‘We need all the freelance web-design work he can pick up, given we‘ve got a wedding to pay for.’
Tash rolls her eyes; something she‘s taken to doing whenever Amelia mentions her wedding. To be fair, it happens a lot. Tash said we should start a swear jar going but instead of putting money in when she swears Amelia should be made to add a Swiss franc every time she mentions her wedding. For some reason, Amelia wasn‘t amused by the idea. Let‘s just say that the relationship between the two of them is as frosty as the icicles hanging down from Chalet Repos‘ roof.
As we troop out of the warmth of the chalet into crisp, fresh snow there are thick snowflakes swirling silently overhead. They land on our hoods and hair, brushing our eyelashes and cooling our warm cheeks. After the stifling atmosphere of the dorm room it‘s a relief to be out in the snow.
We head en masse to the car park in town, where a number of large white marquees have been erected for the film festival. I fish the tickets out of my jacket pocket as we merge with the crowd hurrying out of the cold and into the warmth of the main heated tent. We‘re cutting it fine. I crane my neck to see if there‘s a group of empty seats together. No such luck.
There is one empty seat at the front. I gaze at it longingly.
‘Go on, go sit at the front. You can take that chair in the front row’ Tash gives me a none-too-gentle push. ‘We‘ll meet you afterwards. You‘re the one who‘s really into this, after all.’
I don‘t need any more urging. I rush forward before any of the other late-comers can get to it. I‘ll get a fantastic view of the screen from the front row. Once seated I‘m twitchy, eyes directly ahead on the screen, waiting for the film to start and hoping to God none of my neighbours try to make small talk.
You‘d think, given how much I love the mountains and winter sports, I‘d have loads in common with my fellow seasonnaires, right?
Wrong.
As far as I can tell, most seasonnaires are here for the après ski, with a bit of skiing thrown in. Any illusions I had of meeting a serious boyfriend here in Switzerland took a flying leap off a mountain and crashed on the rocks below long ago. It should‘ve been obvious, if I‘d thought it through properly. Seasonnaire. The very name of the type of job we do suggests a temporary arrangement – only for a season. Most of the relationships that spring up in resorts, if they last beyond a one-night stand, span only a few weeks, not even the whole season. I keep telling myself it isn‘t a big deal. After all, it‘s not the main reason I came to Verbier. But still. I had hoped …
My skin prickles to attention, my sixth sense telling me I‘m being watched. I cross my arms and stare rigidly ahead. Thankfully the screen finally flickers into life, showing a holding page, a photograph of an alpine ridge. The general hubbub dies down to the odd cough. One of Sebastien Laroche‘s sponsors from a popular outdoor clothing company comes to the front and lists some of Sebastien‘s previous triumphs by way of introduction – three times European Boardercross champion and a place on the French Winter Games team last year, only narrowly missing out on a medal.
Of course I admire him. He‘s achieved things I can only dream about. Okay, he happens to be easy on the eye too. Maybe I have just a teensy wee crush.
When the introduction is over the holding screen disappears and the screen is filled with the image of a helicopter in flight. The camera pans to the open side door. Inside is Sebastien Laroche, a huge grin lighting up his charismatic face. He has wild black curls and his face is as craggy as the mountaintops he loves. His skin is tanned, with that weather-beaten look truly outdoorsy people get, and there‘s a jagged scar on his chin. Maybe he‘s not conventionally handsome, but when he smiles, like he‘s smiling now, his face glows with a fierce, dancing light.
He‘s utterly mesmerising.
Okay, so it might be more than a wee crush.
‘Snowboarding is my life, my reason to live.’ On screen, Sebastien‘s eyes shine with anticipation of the jump, lit with pure joy.
I shift forward in my chair, my gaze trained on Sebastien as he jumps down from the helicopter onto a metre-wide snowy ridge. The camera pans out and down to show a two-thousand-metre drop to the valley below, broken only by sheer, razor-sharp rocks.
The crowd gasp, united in their incredulity at the precariousness of Sebastien‘s position.
‘Il est fou,’ a woman behind me mutters. With difficulty I resist the temptation to turn around and give her my death glare. How can she dismiss his bravery as madness?
Although, when I see the line he takes down the mountain, sliding on virtually vertical stretches of scree and accelerating when he hits patches of ice, the breath catches in my chest. A small part of me reluctantly agrees. But where do we draw the line between madness and bravery? And who gets to decide where it lies?
Perhaps he‘s both mad and brave, essential characteristics for a pioneer, someone capable of transcending the ordinary