“What should I do?” I ask. I’m no chef. I try to eat healthily, but it’s mostly raw foods, just so I don’t have to cook.

Heather hands me a wooden spoon and gestures to the casserole. “Stand here and stir that.”

She’s a flurry of movement, twirling about and opening cupboards at random. How can she move like that in those heels? The last time I wore heels I was seven or eight, playing dress-up. I sprained my ankle, couldn’t compete in my gymnastics tournament, and vowed never to wear them again.

I’m desperate to eat something. I peer over her shoulder, looking for a snack, but the cupboards are bare except for a few staples. The commercial fridge, too. It makes sense. They’ll stock up next month, ahead of the ski area opening.

“So what do you do for work these days?” I try to keep my tone casual.

“We’re sports agents, me and Dale,” she says. “I got my law degree and we set up our own agency after we got married.”

“Wow. That’s really impressive.”

Conversation grinds to a halt. I never knew what to say to her. She hardly snowboarded and I had far more in common with Dale. Women like Heather make me feel insecure. The hair, the makeup, the effort to look good at all times. She’s exactly how a woman is supposed to be, at least by conventional standards.

And I’m not. I’m like some tomboy who has never really grown up. Still. And for all I pretend I don’t care about how I look, deep down, I do care. I worry about it. I worry it turns guys off that I’m not girly and feminine enough. That that’s why I’m still single.

Heather rattles about in the fridge. There’s never going to be a good time to ask her if she cheated on Dale, so here goes. “I’m trying to figure out who wrote that stuff in the Icebreaker. And I was wondering about you and Brent.”

Heather straightens, lettuce in one hand, cucumber in the other. She checks the corridor and turns to me. “What exactly are you wondering?” Her tone is icy.

“Did you sleep with him?”

Her eyes flash. “Did you sleep with Dale?”

“Of course not.” I kissed him, though. But I hope that never comes up, because I’m not proud of it. “Well?”

“No.” She struggles to hold my gaze.

“I don’t believe you,” I say.

The guys must have gotten the fire going, because the woodsmoke smells stronger now.

“Believe what you want.” Heather opens an overhead cupboard and brings down five plates.

“Never mind,” I say. “I’ll ask Brent.”