She looked down at the pipe as Beau dropped in, his body looking supremely relaxed as he took flight. From what Clover could see, he had been getting better and better all day, growing in confidence as he put down tricks of increasing technicality.

‘Hear that?’ she murmured as he stomped the last jump, the onlookers cheering him madly; someone called him ‘homie’.

‘They love him,’ Johnny agreed. ‘But then he’s one of them. They can feel it.’

His point was clear – unlike Kit.

To her immense irritation, Tipper McKenzie had been right; Kit was on fire today too, though not for the reasons he’d assumed. She remembered the girl with black hair and the nose ring. Kit hadn’t had a bad night. He’d had a great night, and now he was riding with an energy that she hadn’t seen before. He didn’t have the poetic fluidity of some of the other boarders, didn’t have a gymnastic flexibility that made the crowd gasp; but he had power and a sharp technical sense, making whiplash turns that pivoted on a sixpence. A few times he’d put a hand down as he landed a jump but almost every one was rock solid. He was balanced and focused, showing the crowd, finally, what he could do.

But the low-level buzz of resistance against him remained. Clover could see it in the muted response to his tricks. He might be grudgingly earning respect, but he wasn’t loved; not in the way his brother was. Clover was no expert in the sport but it seemed to her that Beau edged his brother for flair – and sheer joy.

‘Coffee?’ Clover asked Johnny.

‘No, thanks. I’m already buzzing . . . But don’t you want to watch Kit? He’s next again after this guy.’

‘Nope,’ she said tersely. She could scarcely bear having to look at him. ‘You’re the one with the camera.’ She got up, clicked into her skis and poled off. It was only a couple hundred metres down to the Ice Bar, beside the chairlift, but it felt good to move her legs.

There was a short queue for the coffees and she took her place in turn, feeling in no rush. She turned around to look back up the slope – this position afforded an almost level-on view straight up the pipe – but she could see nothing as a spray of snow showered her suddenly, the furious froth of a board burning to a stop just inches from her. The snowboarder stared back at her, his chest heaving. With his helmet and visor on, for a second she couldn’t tell . . .

‘Mikey?’

He pushed his goggles up. His ski tan had deepened just throughout today, his freckles bolder and bigger across his cheeks. ‘Thought it was you.’

It had been an aggressive stop. ‘. . . Hey,’ she faltered. ‘Where’ve you been all day? I was looking for you.’

‘Yeah?’