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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

‘Not too often, thankfully – it’s not something I’ve ever had personal experience of – but you do hear about it now and again, in the press or from other reps. Terrible thing. But people come on holiday, drink too much, and feel invincible. The mountains can be dangerous, and you have to respect them.’

The room falls silent. Matt gives himself a shake and says, ‘Anyway. Enough lecturing from me. I assume everyone is present and correct here?’

I look up from my paper, which I can’t understand anyway as it’s in French; I should have brought my iPad downstairs. ‘I haven’t seen the others yet. But I imagine they fancied a lie-in – it turned into rather a late night. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have gone out.’

‘Does anyone know if Cameron stayed in the end?’ Matt asks.

‘No idea,’ I say, turning back to the paper. I’m ashamed to find for a fleeting moment that I hope it’s Cameron who’s been found in the snow. I push the thought away. He’s a knob, but no one deserves to freeze to death like that.

‘Me neither,’ Ria adds.

Matt pauses. ‘OK. I guess I’ll give him a call later. No need to disturb him unnecessarily.’

We all continue eating breakfast in silence.

PART THREE

30

BEFORE

Mama was crying. I didn’t want to eat my dinner – it was Weetabix, like it often was when Mama was too tired to cook. I’d thrown it on the floor. I thought Mama would shout at me because I’d made a mess – but she didn’t. She sat down on one of our two rickety kitchen chairs and started crying – not just a bit, but really, really sobbing. Huge hiccupping sobs so big that she could barely catch her breath.

‘Mama?’ I said, reaching out and touching her hand, which she pulled away to swipe angrily at her eyes. ‘Mama? Don’t cry …’ But she carried on, not even saying anything, and soon I started crying too.

Suddenly she jumped up and stood in the corner of the kitchen with her hands over her ears. ‘No, no, no!’ she screamed, and then sank down to the floor, still sobbing, but more quietly now.

I got down from my chair, even though I wasn’t allowed to get down until I had finished my food, but I thought maybe Mama wouldn’t mind this time. Or maybe she would mind even more than usual. I didn’t know.

I pushed my chair over to the sink, climbed up on it and picked up a cloth. It was slimy and smelt weird. I climbed down and dabbed at the Weetabix on the floor like I’d seen Mama do when I’d thrown my food before. But it didn’t seem to make it better – it spread it out further. I hoped Mama wouldn’t shout at me.