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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 shrug. ‘Dunno,’ I say, tugging the pillows from Hugo’s side of the bed so I can sit myself up straighter as I start to feel sick again. Hugo is flinging open cupboards and drawers, taking off his clothes and pulling out others. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

‘Getting changed! Simon and I are going skiing. We’ve wasted enough of the day already.’

I glance out the window, where the snow is blowing almost horizontally across the glass. ‘Skiing? In this weather? Rather you than me.’

‘It’ll be great! Fresh snow! Can’t come all this way and not ski because of a bit of bad weather. Plus, Simon is hardly going to be impressed if I wuss out of skiing because there are a few snowflakes blowing around, is he?’

I shrug. ‘Up to you. I hope you both know what you’re doing.’

Hugo hauls on his salopettes, leaps off the bed and kisses me full on the mouth. ‘It’ll be fine – Simon has booked a guide, so we can do some proper off-piste. You get a couple of hours’ rest and we’ll do some baby-making later, OK? That app told me it’s your most fertile day today.’

I cringe – I hate the way he follows my cycle – it makes me feel like a prize cow. I should have never let him download the app. But I can’t be bothered to start a row so instead I smile weakly and say, ‘Yeah. I’ll be here. See you later. Have fun.’

10

December 1998, La Madière, France

I head back to the lift, but the lift operator wags a finger at me. ‘Trop de vent,’ he says. Too windy. I feel like I’m going to explode. This is it. No more looking for the clients. If Andy hasn’t found them, we have to do something. We can’t put it off any longer – we probably shouldn’t have left it as long as we have. I wonder about asking the lift guy if I can borrow his radio to try to speak to Andy, but that would mean going public with this as almost anyone can listen in. And what’s the point of ruining our reputation if the clients are already safely stuffing their mouths with cake in their chalet?

Part of me knows the good, responsible thing to do would be to alert rescue, just in case, but what are they going to do anyway? You can’t get a helicopter out in this weather, and it’s going to get dark soon. This could barely be worse.

‘It’s fine,’ I mutter to myself. ‘It’s fine. Andy will have got hold of them. They’ll be in a bar somewhere, showing off to their mates about skiing the couloir in these conditions. It’s all fine. Fine.’