Confessions of a Chalet Girl
Lorraine Wilson
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Contents
For the Minxes of Romance, Jackie Ashenden, Charlotte Phillips and Heidi Rice - without your encouragement to keep writing this book wouldn't exist. Thank you!
‘Get it off!’
Shouts and wolf whistles filled the packed bar. Embarrassment prickled at Holly Buchanan's skin. Chalet girl initiation huh? Why not just throw her to the lions and have done with it?
Swallowing hard, she scanned the crowd. Could she pull this off? They looked inebriated enough to have their designer wool scarves pulled over their eyes.
Bras of all colours and sizes dangled from the wooden beams of the bar's ceiling, resembling pastel-coloured Christmas decorations. 'The Wonderbar', the venue for her first night out in Verbier was, despite appearances, not a seedy strip joint but a favourite haunt of savvy seasonnaires. Not to mention the occasional billionaire.
She heard it grew pretty steamy in the small hours. Not that she was planning on sticking around to see. No way was she dancing on a table.
A throbbing tension headache pulsated against her temples.
What the frick am I doing here?
Enduring ritual humiliation in return for the ten free shots her team would get if she whipped off her bra was hardly her idea of a good night out.
‘Off, off, off.’
Her heart performed a neat back flip down to the soles of her boots.
Come on Holly, work it! You can do it.
‘Off, off, off.’
She took a deep breath and stepped forward. It wasn't as if she even wanted the blasted drinks but failure was not an option. Fitting in was going to be difficult. Her wavy auburn hair contrasted with the straight, identikit caramel locks of the other chalet girls and a glimpse in the mirror confirmed she was paler than an anemic ghost beside their healthy tans. She'd packed for winter, not clubbing, and her cheap cashmere sweater clashed with the other chalet girls' strappy, sparkly tops that defied the sub-zero temperatures outside.
‘Off, off, off,’ the chanting grew louder and more impatient.
I hate, hate, hate this…
She slid one hand up underneath her jumper, giving silent thanks to veteran chalet girl Sophie who'd warned her about the initiation. It’d given her time to come up with a miraculous idea. An idea that had to work because no way was she doing this for real.
‘Off … Off … Off…’
‘Okay, okay. Give me a sec.’ She hoped she sounded breezy, fun …
Fun.
If she heard that word once more she swore she'd walk out into the snow and pray for an avalanche.
‘It's a girl's prerogative to take her time,’ she said her line, attempting a false flirty smile while she pretended to be fiddling with her bra straps. Face burning with embarrassment, she pulled out the second bra she’d secreted inside the sweater before she left the chalet. A barman then snatched it out of her hands and hooked the strap over a nail on the beam. Raucous cheers were mixed with muttered complaints she hadn't flashed the crowd.
As if!
Sophie emerged from the scrum at the bar, her tanned face lit up with an enormous grin. She handed a shot glass to Holly. ‘A toast to you Holly. You're officially one of us.’
Holly smiled and took the glass, even though she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stomach it. At least the ordeal was over. The alcohol burned her throat and comforting warmth spread through her chest as she gazed around the bar at the spectators she hadn’t dared to make eye contact with so far.
The bar was packed with seasonnaires - chalet girls and ski or snowboard instructors starting the winter season as they meant to continue. Holly wished for the umpteenth time, with a gut-churning wrench, that her flatmate Pippa were here. This job had been all her idea when last winter's dreary London drizzle had seemed unending. She'd chosen the resort because an online review had voted it ‘best resort for anyone looking to marry rich’. Pippa's eyes lit up as she read aloud to Holly tales of £5,000-a-pop cocktails and the celebs and royalty who graced the resort, landing at the nearby airfield in their private jets.
How ironic that Pippa had fallen in love with penniless mechanic Steve, fallen pregnant and moved him into their rented flat in Wimbledon, leaving Holly with the option of taking the Verbier job as planned or going back home. At this very moment her room in the flat was being converted into a nursery.
Going back home was not an option. Getting a peek into the world of the rich and famous seemed an enticing prospect, like stepping into the pages of a magazine. Not that she could spot anyone famous tonight. Although…
Her eyes came to an abrupt halt as they met the interested gaze of a man with broad, rugby player shoulders and the confident stance of someone completely at ease with himself. He stood head and shoulders above some of the young ski instructors at his side. He was easily handsome enough to be an actor but his dark hair was too mussed and his face too weathered for someone who cared overly about his looks.
Minor royalty perhaps? Or maybe a Russian oligarch? He certainly had the arrogance of one. He stared at her unashamedly, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. Looking up at the latest addition to the bras swinging from the beam overhead he raised an eyebrow.
‘Not yours,’ he mouthed, a crinkle of a smile stretching across a tanned face shadowed by evening stubble.
Oh really? Who did this smart-alec think he was? He might act like a prince but most likely he was just a ski-slob instructor looking to make her another notch on his ski pole.
Emboldened by adrenaline from her 'initiation' and the heady warmth radiating though her body from the Schnapps, she negotiated the crowded bar to get