I packed the snow back over the drinks, pleased that there was at least some warmth left on the mountain, and headed inside. The chalet was a single room that had a strange, tilted feeling – like being off-balance on a ship – due to the incline of the roof. This uneasy feeling was compensated for by the panoramic view: it was the first part of the trip that had been ‘as advertised’. I’m not too proud to pat my aunt on the back here and say it was breathtaking. Especially with the last fingers of sunlight curling over the ridge, and the long shadow of the peak stretching across the slope.

The roof was over three metres high on the window side, framed with a wooden-beam ribcage, before gradually tapering across the chalet, over a lounge, television, an abundance of rugs, and a cast-iron fireplace. The roof must have only reached snow level and not the ground, because I was surprised to discover a back wall; it was lined with cupboards stocked with hotel kitchen appliances, and a cubic alcove for a bathroom where practicality had again bit the bullet: stooped showers were another concession for the views. A third of the way across the room, a ladder led to a bedroom loft. The staff had pre-set the heating – the fireplace must have been ornamental as it wasn’t on – and my skin prickled as I adjusted from the outdoor temperature. The damp odour of the main hotel was replaced by an oaky, ashen smell, likely from a candle labelled ‘rustic fireplace’.

I left my wheelie bag in the middle of the floor and was tucking the sports bag into one of the cupboards when the phone next to the television rang. My phone had a little number 4 on it. There was no keypad for outside numbers, just a column of speed-dial buttons and mini lights, labelled with the chalet numbers, as well as one labelled ‘Concierge’. Currently number 5 was lit up. It was Marcelo.

‘Audrey’s not feeling well.’ He said ‘Audrey’, not ‘your mother’. ‘We’ll get room service tonight and see you in the morning.’

Skipping a family dinner suited me fine; lunch had already used up most of the tolerance I’d budgeted for the whole weekend. I got a lukewarm bottle of water from the fridge – which did suck, Sofia was right – and necked it, because I’d read somewhere that spending a day in the snow can dehydrate you more than one at the beach. Then I foraged for one of the buried beer cans, reclined on the couch, and before I knew it, I’d dozed off.

I woke to a hammering at my door. Of course I did. You’ve read these kinds of books before.