The bar was just below the snowpark, a fifteen-minute walk back uphill . . . Coming into sight any second, surely . . .? Where was it? She glanced up, scanning down the mountain for it. It had been easy to spot from the chairlift, in the sunshine, but now, in the flat light, with the wind skimming a crust off the snow . . .

Right, left, right, left . . . The pitch became steep, the snow softer . . . All she could see was the image of Mikey swerving away from her, saluting her. Cocky, charming, sexy as hell . . .

. . . Not dead. No way.

‘Clover!’

The voice was so far away, a voice in her own head telling her to keep going. She had to get to Johnny.

‘Clover, stop!’

She heard the sound of snow being cut, sliced, thrown into the air – and then she was tumbling. Rolling and rolling . . . She felt one of her skis release. Snow was flying in her face, into her mouth, against her eyes, in her hair—

‘Fuck!’

The word tore her from her own head as she came to a stop. She was face-down in the snow, panting and sobbing, her body sprawled like she’d been dropped from a height. She opened her eyes and froze – a few metres downhill of where she lay was Kit. He was sitting back with his legs bent in front of him, with one arm hooked, at the wrist, around a sapling fir. He looked frozen into position, his body bracing with tension.

She stared at him in bewilderment. What . . .? She could see his legs shaking, the ground beneath him shorn of snow to reveal yellow grass from where he’d pushed his board as a brake.

Slowly, her gaze sharpened and she saw the sheer drop in front of him. He was on a rock outcrop. Her eyes lifted to the view and she saw the escarpment of the mountain opposite . . . This was not the plateau of the glacier. She gave a whimper of fright. Where the hell was she?

He looked back up at her. He was paler than she had ever seen him. For several moments, he didn’t seem capable of talking. He had been inches from going over that drop.

She couldn’t speak either. She couldn’t understand how they were suddenly here. What had happened . . .? She lifted her head and looked back up the slope. It was steep, an unholy mess – her parallel tracks cut through by the blade of his board as he’d chased after her.

She’d missed a turn? Come off the piste? But where? When?

Moving slowly, his arm still wrapped round the tree, he lifted his legs into him and unclipped his boots from the board. His movements were jerky and clumsy, partly from the adrenaline, partly the awkward position, and the board slipped from his feet before he could grab it, toppling over the edge and disappearing into a whistling silence.

Still they didn’t speak.