And by the time I do that, they’ve both disappeared.
2
January 2020, La Madière, France
Ria
‘Champagne?’ says the devastatingly pretty girl in a discreetly logoed polo shirt, holding out a tray of silver flutes. I smile and take one.
‘Thank you.’
‘How was your trip?’ she chirrups, and then surprises me by actually waiting for an answer.
‘Oh. It was fine. Thank you.’
‘I’m Millie. I’m your chalet girl for the week, and if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable or enjoyable, you only need to ask.’
There’s a whoosh of cold air as Hugo comes through the door and puts a proprietorial hand on my waist. I flinch.
‘Champagne, sir?’ the girl asks, proffering the tray. ‘I’m Millie. I’m here to make your stay as comfortable as possible,’ she repeats.
‘Lovely stuff,’ he says.
‘Would you like to take a seat by the fire while Matt brings your things in?’ Millie continues. ‘And I’ll bring you some canapés. The others are due in the next hour or so, so I thought we’d wait for them before we start dinner?’ With a small nod, she turns and disappears through a wooden door into what I assume must be the kitchen.
Hugo and I sit down on one of the two huge sofas by the roaring fire. I take a swig of my champagne as Hugo slowly sips his. ‘It’s quite a place, huh?’ he says.
It is. An entire side of the building is plate glass – it’s dark now, but even so the view of twinkling lights across the valley is amazing – I bet it’s even more impressive during the day. The ceiling is double-height, the walls are made of stone, there’s a large granite dining table and expensive-looking fur throws everywhere. Real flambeaux were burning outside when we arrived. ‘It’s quite a place,’ I agree. Before I met Hugo, I’d never been anywhere like this.
‘It was a good idea of yours, coming here,’ he says.
‘I knew you’d like it,’ I say, blandly.
‘I’m sure Simon will love it too,’ he adds. ‘Very … suitable.’
‘Suitable?’ I say, trying and failing to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. ‘Really?’ He looks momentarily hurt, and for a split second, I feel bad. Hugo can be annoying, but he means well. And this week is important to him, I know that. ‘What is he, royalty or something?’
‘Well, maybe “suitable” was the wrong word,’ he mumbles. ‘But if Simon has a good week, I’ve got a much better chance of him buying into the company. You know how these things go.’
I nod, wondering if I’m imagining a subtext of ‘so make sure you behave yourself then and don’t do anything to embarrass me’.
He takes my hand. ‘Are you glad you came along too now?’
I turn to him and smile. ‘Yes,’ I lie.
Simon arrives around an hour later and is exactly as I expected him to be – overweight, red-faced, and with a booming voice. His comb-over looks distinctly Grecian 2000-ed. Conversely, his wife Cass isn’t what I expected at all – she’s about twenty years younger than the rest of us – easily young enough to be Simon’s daughter – with immaculate blond hair and, most surprisingly, a tiny baby in her arms. Hugo didn’t mention that. They are trailed by another young woman, in her very early twenties like Cass, who I guess must be the child’s nanny.
After a round of shoulder-slapping and mild insults (Hugo and Simon) and air-kisses and fussing over the baby (Cass and I – totally insincere on my part), the nanny, Sarah, whisks baby Inigo away and we all sit down for dinner around an enormous table.
Dinner is exquisite. More champagne and dainty amuse-bouches are followed by an incredibly light soufflé, then quail with dauphinoise potatoes, and a platter of desserts. And lots of wine, of course.
I thought it was traditional for chalet girls to eat with their guests, but it turns out this isn’t that kind of chalet. I should have guessed. In fact, I should have known, being the one who booked it. Millie moves efficiently between the table and the kitchen, bringing dishes, clearing plates, pouring more wine and water, so no one’s glass ever runs dry. Simon is booming away about something – I’m not really listening – and every now and then Hugo laughs or agrees sycophantically. I feel a stab of hatred for him, and then feel guilty. I knew what I was getting into when I married him. It isn’t his fault.
Cass and I make polite conversation during dinner. She is sweet but dull. I ask her about the baby even though there is probably no one in the world less interested in babies than me, and she answers politely but somewhat uninterestedly. Before Inigo’s birth she worked in catering; she hasn’t decided if she’s going back to work yet but probably not; Simon is keen she stays at home. She’s not very forthcoming. I talk a bit about my work and mine and Hugo’s wedding and she smiles and nods, her eyes glazing.
I’m beginning to wish I had tried harder to persuade Hugo I didn’t need to come along this week.
Millie returns with a tray of coffees and herbal teas and places it gently on the table. ‘Unless you need anything else, I’ll say goodnight?’ she says, tactfully phrasing it as a question. She must be desperate to leave by now. ‘I’ll see you all in the morning. What time would you like breakfast?’
‘Eight o’clock please!’ Simon says, without as much as catching anyone else’s eye for agreement. ‘We want to be out on the first lift tomorrow, don’t we, Hugo?’
‘Absolutely!’ he agrees, as I knew he would. Whatever Simon says goes this week.
‘Ladies?’ Simon adds. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of booking you an instructor – I hope you don’t mind.’
I open my mouth to object – I don’t want to get up at eight o’clock and nor do I want a ski lesson. But Hugo shoots me a look and I close my mouth again, silently fuming.
‘Sounds great,’ says Hugo.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to go to bed,’ I say, yawning theatrically and picking up a mug of herbal tea. ‘I’m going to have this in our room.’
‘Be there in a minute, darling,’ Hugo calls. My skin prickles, and I pretend I haven’t heard.
Our room is almost as impressive as the living room. The enormous bed has crisp white linen enclosing an incredibly puffy duvet which is practically obscured by various furry throws and rugs. I stroke one of the throws. Real fur.
There are exposed stone walls and wood panelling everywhere, like downstairs. A huge sliding door rolls back to reveal a freestanding bath for two in the enormous bathroom and there’s also a massive marble tile-lined shower. I kick my boots off to feel the heated floors which can be controlled by a touch panel on the wall.
The room is immaculate because all our things from our matching Mulberry luggage (a wedding present from Hugo’s mother) have already been unpacked and put away. That’s one of those services that these kind of places always offer which I hate – I don’t want other people touching my things. I check that my purse and iPad are still in place in my handbag, not that I suppose for one moment they would have been stolen.