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Back The Chalet Save as PDF
Chapters (75)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for The Chalet
  3. Dedication
  4. PART ONE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. PART TWO
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. PART THREE
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. Epilogue
  71. Acknowledgements
  72. Keep Reading …
  73. Prologue
  74. About the Author
  75. About the Publisher

After the accident, I took the coward’s way out – I left. Couldn’t bear the pain in my parents’ eyes as they desperately tried not to blame me. Couldn’t bear to be inside my own head. I’d like to say I spent my time trying to live the good life Will no doubt would have lived, but I didn’t. I’ve bummed around, taken casual jobs here and there and, for the last five years, since my parents died, lived off my inheritance, as well as what should have been Will’s. Which is the only reason I had the money to fly back so quickly when the police asked me to.

I booked a first-class ticket. I could say it’s because I was honouring Will by travelling in style. Toasting his memory with my free champagne.

But that would be a lie. I did it because I could.

In spite of my luxurious seat, Michelin chef-designed food and all the alcohol I can drink (which I take advantage of fully) the journey is hellish. We are diverted because of the snow, the likes of which they haven’t seen since, ironically, the winter Will died. We eventually land at an airport miles away from the one we were headed to, and it seems that paying thousands of pounds for a posh seat doesn’t get you on a coach any faster. Nor does it help when the roads become so blocked that you have to sleep in a school sports hall with dozens of other people, being served hot soup by kindly French ladies from the Croix Rouge.

I feel sorry for the couples and families around me – grumbling about losing time out of their precious holidays, griping about the conditions in the hall and about the lack of information while young exhausted-looking reps in colourful jackets force smiles and say again and again platitudes along the lines of: ‘I’m sorry, sir, the roads are blocked and there’s nothing more we can do. As soon as we have any more information, we’ll let you know.’ I feel a wave of nausea as I see that some of the reps are from Powder Puff, the company we travelled with on my last ski trip, the one I took with Will.

So while these families are desperate to get to their planned destinations, I’d rather be going anywhere else except the mountains. If travel wasn’t already so tricky, I’d be tempted to turn straight round and go back to the airport, back to my beach. Pretend I couldn’t get through. Say I tried, but it simply wasn’t to be.

Why am I even here? There seems very little doubt that the body they’ve found is Will. Coming here isn’t going to bring him back.

Perhaps it will help me.

Then again, perhaps it won’t.

38

January 2020, La Madière, France

Hugo