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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

‘I hope today went as well as it could have,’ Hugo says. It sounds like a line he has learned.

‘Thank you. I hope your wife is feeling better?’

He colours slightly. ‘Ria’s … a little better. She said she’d rather stay in her room this evening. But she sends her condolences I’m sure.’

I nod. ‘I appreciate that. I’m not feeling too good either. Perhaps there’s a bug going round.’

There is an awkward silence which Matt fills by asking Simon about his day. Thankfully he launches into a long and boring story about exactly which pistes he skied and a punch-up he witnessed in a lift queue, so there is no need for me to say anything.

We have dinner. There seem to be endless courses. I take a sip of the cold amuse bouche soup, a spoonful or two of the soufflé starter, then a mouthful of magret de canard and dauphinoise potatoes. Lunch was enormous and I’m struggling to force anything down. I’m sure the wine is excellent (both red and white, a different one with each course) but I can’t even finish a glass. The pre-dessert mint sorbet is the only dish I manage to eat in its entirety – it’s refreshing and soothing. I don’t even touch dessert, a sickly-looking, oozing slab of something chocolatey. Then there are petits-fours – I ask for a mint tea instead of coffee and refuse a digestif.

Dinner starts out as a fairly subdued affair; I’m guessing in deference to my situation. But as more wine is drunk, tongues and inhibitions loosen and now the room feels rowdy. Simon’s voice booms above all the others and he and Cameron are unashamedly trying to outdo each other with tales of extravagance, showing off about how much money each of them has. Hugo chips in occasionally. Cass (not Cath, I remember now) and her nanny chat quietly between themselves. I don’t have the energy to say anything but nod and smile when someone makes a comment which seems to be aimed at me.

Millie is clearing away the dirty dishes and suggesting we move to the lounge area. I push my chair back and force myself to my feet.

Cass touches my arm. ‘Adam? Are you OK? You look really pale.’

My head is spinning. I can barely see straight.

‘I’m not feeling too good,’ I mumble thickly. ‘I think I’ll head for bed, if you’ll excuse me.’

Behind me as I stumble up the stairs as I hear the others mumbling things along the lines of ‘poor bugger’ and ‘must have been a hard day’.

I fling open the door of my room, stagger into my bathroom, and vomit up my entire dinner.

58

December 1998, La Madière, France

Adam