‘Babes. That’s the least active activity you can do. It’s the antithesis of activity.’

At the kiosk for the ski-school, I present the email on my phone and the young lad in uniform with a man-bun asks my age.

‘You joking?’ I ask, not understanding. And – for fuck’s sake – blushing.

‘You said it’s a lesson for you, yeah?’

I nod and look to Beth, who sports her most impatient frown.

The young lad swallows; scratches his head. ‘It’s valid for age twelve to sixteen years,’ he says.

‘She’s sixteen,’ Beth says, but the lad laughs. ‘We both are.’ He stops laughing. She’s giving him that glare, the one that makes anybody do anything she bloody well wants. It’s a rare talent that I’ve tried – and failed – to mimic over the years.

I’m handed a plastic ticket and told to gear up.

‘Your instructor’ll meet you by that vending machine in fifteen minutes.’

‘Perfect,’ Beth smiles, and it’s the young lad’s turn to blush now.

‘Can I just ask,’ I interrupt, ‘it’s a private lesson, yeah?’

‘Erm, no. There’s eight of you altogether,’ I’m told, to which he adds, ‘all between the ages of twelve and sixteen.’

I turn around to see kids strap their feet into huge boots, giving their parents shitloads of stuff to hold in the process. Booking the wrong lesson must have been a simple mistake, but this is so far from anything I could ever imagine myself doing with Jack. What was he thinking?

‘Listen babes,’ Beth says, ‘forget the lesson—’

‘No! I’m here and this is what Jack wanted. Just because you don’t wanna—’

‘Eh! Calm the fuck down. I was gonna say – forget the lesson and ski with me. I’ll teach you.’

‘You will? You can do that?’

‘I’m a queen on the slopes, babes. I can do anything.’

Good God, to have her confidence.

Beth leads the way to get us kitted out. She sorts me with boots and skis, telling another young lad (also with a man-bun) behind the counter my sizes and experience. She lies and says I’m not a beginner. I nudge her. She says, ‘Trust me.’

I’ve never put my foot into a ski boot before and oh, fuck me, it’s weird. It’s like one of those dreams where your limbs are dead weights, except the weight is cemented to my feet. Plus, when I try to walk, I look like I’ve shat myself. We change into the salopettes and jackets, put on our gloves. Somehow – somehow – Beth looks good, rocking the whole Alpine-meets-Chav look that can only be achieved with hired skiwear.

‘How did Jack ever think this would be a good idea?’ I say, as the escalators take us up to the slope. I’m panicking about stepping off the moving stairs in these boots.