Brent and Curtis touch down beside us. Am I imagining it or are the boys no happier to see her than I am?

She prowls back and forth, seeking attention like a cat that’s been shut inside all day. “God, how boring was that?”

Not boring at all, actually. I was enjoying myself, until you turned up.

“I was so bloody cold.” She pulls her glove off. “Feel.” Her icy fingers reach into my snowboard jacket to my bare neck.

I jerk away. She advances on Brent.

“Fuck off,” he says.

The snowcat toots and we pick our way across the rocks toward it. There’s a torrent of French from the driver.

“We’re the last ones to be rescued,” Curtis translates. “There’s a family farther down that he has to drive back to the village. He can only fit four passengers. Do we mind sleeping up on the glacier in the dorms so he doesn’t have to make another trip? He’ll take us up there.”

Brent whoops. “We’ll be first on the mountain in the morning.”

“I hope they have enough rooms for us all,” I say.

The driver opens the door behind the cab and we squash onto the bench seat, boards and backpacks piled across our laps. Saskia is crushed up against me, her perfume thick and cloying in the overheated cabin. Who wears perfume when they’re snowboarding anyway? Only her.

The machine claws its way up the incline, tipping us backward. Diesel fumes mingle with the perfume and my stomach tightens again.

“Did you see my last seven twenty?” Saskia says. “I nearly went down.”

Somehow her presence has brought all the tension back. It’s not just me; the boys are quiet, too—or maybe they’re just tired. She tries to get them talking about the comp, but they aren’t biting. It’s snowing now. The flakes glow orange in the headlights as they blow at the windscreen.

At the top, the Panorama building is all lit up. Curtis starts to get out, but the driver waggles his finger and gives him a long spiel—crevasses is the only word I catch—and drives us right up to the main entrance.

“I’ve never been here at night before,” Curtis says as we stomp our feet on the mat.

“Me neither,” I say.

A woman in an apron waves us down the corridor. I follow the others into the restaurant, noticing how differently they all move: Curtis upright and purposeful; Brent lazy and loose, trousers halfway down his arse; Saskia light on her feet like a dancer.

The woodsmoke stings my eyes, but the blazing fire is a welcome sight. There’s only one other group in the restaurant; it’s late already. I tug my boots off and stand before the flames, hoping nobody smells my socks.