“Why? Are you scared about tomorrow?”

It worked on me before and it works on her now. She tosses her head and holds out her arm. I link my arm through hers and we continue along the street. I check over my shoulder to make sure Julien isn’t following. He’s still lying there, wheezing.

Snowflakes drift down silently around us.

Saskia peers up at the sky. “It’ll be heavier farther up.”

“I hope they groom the pipe.”

“They’ll have to.”

Our feet—mine in Nikes, hers in cute fur-lined boots—slip out from under us. Black ice. We giggle and cling to each other for balance.

“That’s all I need,” she says. “Break my ankle before the Brits.”

It’s clear the Brits is all either of us can think about.

“I hope it’s not snowing tomorrow,” I say. “I don’t fancy trying a Crippler in a whiteout.”

I’m a rubbish liar—my brother always told me that—but Saskia gives me a sharp look and I sense her uncertainty.

I steer her across the road. “Here we are.” I stick my key in the lock and sweep my apartment door open, feeling sheepish.

She steps inside. “Oh.”

I laugh. “That was my reaction, too, when I saw it.”

Sixteen square meters, with a double bed that pulls out from the wall. The kitchen—tiny fridge and electric hob with two ancient rings—is in the corner by the door, and you can only access the bathroom if the fridge door is shut. It was all I could find that late in the season.

We sit on the bed since I forgot to pack it into the wall earlier. I can still smell burnt rice from last night’s dinner.

Saskia’s looking at me like she’s wondering why I brought her to this dump.

I search for something to say. I’ve never been any good at this female-bonding thing. Then again, I suspect Saskia isn’t either. We’re more at home competing with each other than being nice to each other.

I spot the silver-and-blue chain around her wrist. I’ve seen her wearing it a few times now. “I love your bracelet.”

She gives it a disinterested glance. “Odette gave it to me. You can have it.”

“No, it’s okay.”

But she takes it off. “It’s yours. I don’t like it anymore.”

And I sense the bracelet isn’t all she’s talking about. I watch, helpless, as she puts it on my bedside table.

Her eyes light on one of Brent’s Burton T-shirts scrunched on the pillow and she turns to me with a naughty smile. “Do tell. Is he good in bed?”

“Is Odette?” I counter immediately, because I’m not going to tell her anything about Brent. I shouldn’t ask about Odette either, and if anyone else were in the room, I wouldn’t.