Snowballs! Winter Fun on the Slopes, page 3
‘Mate, this place is awesome.’ Angus tossed his bag on his larger-than-average single bed as Max happily claimed the other one, closer to the small-but-chic en-suite shower room.
‘What’s awesome, my friend, is that rather cute little chalet girl – Izzy, was it? Tell you what, she has already got my alpine horn tooting.’ Max peered into the shower room as he spoke, checking out the state-of-the-art fixtures, and then turned back to smirk at Angus.
‘Ha, yeah.’ Angus raised a corner of his mouth into a half-smile and nodded at his friend, who was already heading for the door and raising his hand to his mouth in a ‘let’s go drinking’ action.
4
Casper’s Alpine bar was bustling with the usual crowd. Long picnic tables out on the terrace were piled with discarded goggles, hats and gloves, while chilled hands warmed up around glasses of vin chaud and half-pints of beer were quickly chucked down the throats of the après-skiers. A stream trickled alongside the terrace and a rickety-looking wooden bridge led back onto the road, where a mix of little beat-up Peugeots and Renaults were parked alongside mammoth 4×4s and quad bikes.
Jenna looked around her and smiled at the ski resort stereotypes: gap-year seasonnaires with their boards, beanies and cute plaits; trendy types masking their home counties accents with estuary English that came from too many nights trying to be cool in Hoxton; the braying types more used to the Admiral Cod in Chelsea and here to seriously party; plus the Scandinavians, the elite skiers, there for the kickers, the jumps, the adrenalin … Jenna, nearing thirty and feeling less and less the need for speed, or to be thought of as cool like those ‘gap-yah dudes’, mused on her own personal style: pearl earrings, nice hair, sensible shoes – not exactly a la mode. Some of her friends had trust funds brimming with cash and others were all arty and looked awfully cool in hand-made, market-bought clothes, but even though she didn’t have the credit limit available to splash out on designer gear she still couldn’t quite get her head around the thrift-store stuff. It was something she’d laughed about with Max once – how very Hackney they were not, he with his Church’s brogues and she with her Kate Middleton-esque nude LK Bennetts – and she looked across at him, standing at the bar, a small wrinkle appearing at the corner of his eye as he grinned at something the barman said. Dragging her eyes away from Max, Jenna caught sight of the other kind of ski resort client – especially here in the beautiful village of Val d’Argent, a place with more Michelin stars than Paris, it seemed: the über-rich. It hadn’t taken Bertie long to notice them either. A few very beautiful women together with a dour-looking man – definitely Slavic, or most probably Russian – his lips curled into a cruel smile as he poured Cristal champagne into the waiting flute of a slight but seriously pretty brunette next to him. Jenna noticed a lot more hair tossing and lip pouting from Bertie, who had also spotted the wealthy Russians and was looking longingly at their table, which seemed to be dripping in Bollinger Grande Année as well as the Cristal among other tipples. ‘Champagne super-nouveux riche,’ Jenna said as much to herself as anyone as Max came back from the bar with a round of drinks.
‘Right, three half-size “lady beers” and three proper man beers.’
Max was greeted with general approval by all except Bertie.
‘Beer it is, I guess, but Maxie, darling, I thought we were going to be upping the stakes …?’
‘Bolly all the way, you mean?’ replied Max, having followed her stare over to the neighbouring table, and, in a hushed tone to only her, ‘Later, babe – think I’d waste my money buying bubbles for these, shall we say, less sophisticated palates?’
Whether he meant it or not, Bertie giggled and tossed her golden locks again. She had organised this whole ski trip with the sole intention of getting together – for real this time – with Max. She knew he still had her in his little black book as Dirty Bertie – some girls might be affronted by that, but not her. If it’s hot and dirty sex that will win him over, that’s what he’ll get, she thought to herself. As she flooffed her hair again and tried to take an elegant sip from the half-pint of lager in front of her she wondered why Jenna kept insisting on calling it a ‘lady beer’: there was nothing lady-like about drinking lager, full stop. Navigating the thin foam on top of the glass, trying not to get it on her perfectly applied lipstick, she thought back to her and Max’s off-and-on relationships. Back at uni they’d courted throughout the final year, though that might be too chivalrous a term for the bonk-fest that was their coupling. She remembered their sheer bloody chemistry when they used to romp in the haystacks back at her parents’ farm in Suffolk during weekends away from college – ‘Anatomy 101’, wasn’t that how Max had apparently described it to Hugo when talking about their ‘study breaks’? Ugh, Hugo.
She could even put up with Max being best mates with someone she really had no time for, if it meant being with Max – hence inviting Hugo and simpering Sally on this bloody holiday. And she could tolerate his fondness of Jenna – even if she was prone to the odd unexplained weep on nights out and couldn’t carry off a Hermes Birkin, let alone afford to carry one at all. As for his old school friend, Angus, well at least he was halfway presentable, if only he’d stop insisting on growing that terrible beard and actually design something iconic rather than just talking about bloody architraves and columns the whole bloody time. It was funny how, even after she’d inherited a share in her grandfather’s fortune, and gone from being Pony Club to private members’ club, and could really probably score any London socialite she wanted, she still wanted the Max package, even if that included his friends.
Shuffling, slipping, giggling and overspilling with laughter, the gang wove their way through the streets of Val d’Argent in breathy, beery happiness. The tang of diesel hung in the air as a chill wind swept snow off the roofs and onto the street below. Hugo had his big arms around Jenna and Sally, singing his old school song heartily and loudly.
‘Come on, girls, join in the chorus.’ An overexcited Hugo pushed on, his booming voice echoing down the street, the warm air from his mouth turning to dragon’s breath as he galumphed on.
Bertie, not one to let her glossed-up lips utter such a trifle, lurked at the back of the group with Max, and before he could join in with the chorus one more time, she stroked her manicured hand over his denim-clad butt. He turned to face her, reading the look of lust in her eyes as clearly as she meant it. Calling out to the others that he was just going to pop back to the ski hire shop with Bertie to ‘adjust her poles’, he took her hand in his and pulled her off the main road into a small alley, lined either side with exquisite designer shops.
‘Far more my sort of place than conjuring up the memory of some crap minor public school,’ purred Bertie, looking into the window of a high-class fashion boutique, the display showing an elegantly posed mannequin, stylishly naked except for a fur-rim of a hat and a tiny white thong.
‘I thought you wouldn’t mind taking the opportunity to see what other pole might be on offer, Berts – I fear the ones we got you loaded up with earlier aren’t really rigid enough for you.’ Encircling Bertie’s tiny waist with his hands, he leaned down and kissed her neck, sending a ripple of pleasure down her alert – and pert – body.
‘A more rigid pole, hmm, yes,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t tell you how much I want something hard and powerful right now …’
Max, more than happy to give her something of his that was incredibly hard, moved his lips to meet hers and crushed her mouth to his in a deep kiss. One of his hands, already seeking the warmth of her skin, slid under her tight, white T-shirt and caressed her back, working its way to where he thought he’d find some sort of lingerie. But no, he realised as a small groan of pleasure escaped from the back of Bertie’s throat, there was no bra to be found.
As much as Bertie was desperate to have Max and fulfil his notion of her being Dirty Bertie, sex in an alley way wasn’t exactly her idea of a high-class venture. She’d wanted to subtly turn his mind to naughty thoughts and harvest her rewards under the goose down later, not have her back shoved up against a cold glass door while he pawed at her and shamelessly fucked her in an alleyway. No, a poke in the doorway of Pucci was not her thing.
Pushing him slightly away from her, Bertie looked Max in the eye, a long, lingering, eyelash-fluttering gaze that turned the tables from quick shag to something much more powerful. With her back still against the door of the shop, she used its icy glassiness to slide down it, stroking her hands down past Max’s hips and the length of his strong thighs as she lowered herself. Giving blow jobs in doorways wasn’t technically her ‘thing’, but Bertie knew how to play the long game, and if she was a saint in the kitchen (or at least, if her private chef was) then she sure as hell had to make sure Max knew she could be a sinner in the bedroom, or alleyway or wherever, if she was finally going to snag him for the long haul.
Despite the chill in the air, Bertie was delighted by Max’s hardness and started Operation Maximum Max with a few deft moves of her tongue.
Sunday
5
Sunlight streamed through a chink in the curtains, illuminating Jenna and Bertie’s bedroom in an ethereal, hazy light. Although Bertie’s rather dubious friend Dominic, literally nicknamed Dubious Dominic, had lent them his chic shack for the week, it still gnawed at Jenna that she would be sharing all week with Bertie. And yes, their room was certainly a step up from the usual tongue-and-groove-clad horror with door-less shower cubicle and cardboard towels. And yes, the generous-sized twin beds and luxury en suite with all sorts of tricks in the shower – side jets and what not – was totally amazing. And yes, it was an exemplar of style, but anyone walking in now could have mistaken the place for the aftermath of the first day of the Harrods sale. The polished wood floor was hidden under strewn lingerie, designer skiwear, and the odd telltale nail-polish-red sole of a Louboutin shoe. Slinky silk dresses were draped over a plush armchair and the Louis Vuitton trunk was all but pillaged of its contents, as if fashion terrorists had exploded it all over the room. Jenna’s smaller – positively tiny by comparison – suitcase was sitting neatly by the side of her bed, occupying the only tranche of land clear of knickers and hair straighteners. But the light, in all its hazy glory, started to do its inevitable work and Jenna blinked into consciousness.
Next to her, Bertie slept on, unaware of the daylight thanks to a pink sateen eye mask, embroidered with the words fabulous fuck buddy, that ruffled up her Jemima Goldsmith-glorious hair. Jenna reached up from the comfort of the Egyptian cotton sheets and felt her own mop. Last night came back to her slowly as she remembered the boisterous Hugo scooping her up on the way home and dropping her into an all-too-welcoming snowdrift. Of course, Hugo hadn’t realised that the snowdrift was less a smooshy cloud of powder than a few inches of snow over a particularly hard bit of concrete. Her arse now really hurt and she hadn’t even got near a red run yet. Angus had been the one to help her up, but not before a victorious Hugo had seen fit to shake the tree above the ‘snow drift’, covering her totally in ice-cold snow. Her squeals soon turned into fits of drunken giggles, especially when moments later Sally was perfunctorily dumped in next to her by her doting fiancé.
What had happened to Max and Bertie, though, wondered Jenna as she tested the water of wakefulness. After a less-than-gallant Hugo – and a slightly more gentlemanly Angus – had helped the girls out of the drift-come-concrete lump (with Sally getting an exaggerated ‘helping to dust you down’ groping from Hugo added in as a special treat), they’d all weaved their way home, ready to raid the fridge – no doubt to the despair of Izzy, who still hadn’t quite lost her initial frostiness at having her rather cushy winter job disturbed. Seeing a six-foot rugger bugger being told in no uncertain terms to leave the pâté de fois gras right where he found it by someone who only a few months ago was languishing in the dorms of Cheltenham Ladies College had been a sight to behold. Afterwards, Hugo was heard to mumble something about how he preferred the Benenden lot anyway as Cheltenham were always ‘bitches on the pitch’ with nothing ladylike about them whatsoever – especially once when his little sister got knocked unconscious in a particularly nasty lacrosse U15s final. At some point during the midnight feasting (or lack of) Max had sauntered in, winked at Izzy – which had turned permafrost into glowing smiles, Jenna remembered bitterly – and sprawled himself across the calfskin leather sofa in the vaulted-ceilinged sitting room of the chalet. Pausing only to crack open a beer, he’d slipped his arm around Jenna (less bitterly remembered) and rested his still-cold-from-the-outdoors cheek on her shoulder (oh joy!). Jenna thought back to their conversation, nuzzling her pillow as she remembered what he’d said to her last night.
‘What’s important, Jenksy,’ he’d turned to her, a look of mischief in his deep brown eyes as he deflected a question on Bertie’s whereabouts, ‘isn’t where Bertie is right now, but how you’re going to escape from the French love dungeon your bound-to-be-super-hot ski instructor will have you enslaved in in no time …’
‘At least in a love dungeon I’ll be on solid ground, and not making a complete arse of myself in front of some arrogant French ski bum. Anyway, you’d come and rescue me, right?’
‘Jenna, I would see it as my duty and would happily face any red room of pain to help you out of a pickle.’ Max winked at her, while pulling his arm back from around her shoulders.
Jenna had forgotten whatever banter had followed, thinking at the time that she was more worried that whoever had the lousy job of teaching her would realise it was more than a refresher course she needed, especially if she was going to keep up with the rest of her friends. Sally was a regular on the slopes and, as to Hugo’s capabilities … well, she knew he was just one to throw his not insubstantial weight downhill and hope no small children got in the way. Bertie was more about the slinkiness of the salopettes than the severity of the slalom. In fact, it was doubtful if Bertie – who had slipped in just after Max had been teasing Jenna over her instructor – would ever actually see any on-piste action the whole holiday. She had declared last night to a very drunk Jenna that she was ‘quite literally fucked if I’m going out in that cold again’.
Memory assessment complete, Jenna swept her messy hair into a quick ponytail, slipped a hoody over her PJs and crept out of the room. ‘Let a sleeping Bertie lie’ was definitely her motto, plus Jenna didn’t think her throbbing head could take any decibel higher than ‘warble’ and Bertie tended to operate on ‘screech’ quite a lot. In the corridor, she heard voices from Sally and Hugo’s room, and found herself slightly disappointed to see that Max and Angus’s door was closed. She shuffled in her overly long PJ bums down the wide, glossily wooden stairs straight into the sitting room, where they’d all chatted and drunk far too much last night, and then into the open-plan dining area. Angus was already down there, sitting at the long refectory table where, if Jenna remembered rightly, they’d tried to play ping-pong with Mini Babybels at 1 a.m. He was fully kitted out, ready to ski (bar the goggles, although even those were being worn as some sort of ocular arm band) and eating a hearty breakfast on his own.
‘Morning, Gus,’ croaked Jenna.
‘Suffering? What will Jean-Paul say?’ replied Angus, looking up from his foot-long baguette filled with cheese and ham, the remains of two boiled eggs evident on his plate.
‘I don’t know how you manage it, Angus. How can you look so, well, healthy this morning? I’m sure I saw you neck at least five beers once we were back last night.’
‘Credit must go to the strong constitution of the Linklaters,’ Angus replied. ‘My great-grandfather was renowned for holding the Western Front on a sturdy diet of moonshine and Fry’s chocolate.’
‘Eew! Don’t mention food – or drink – I don’t know how you can bear it. Plus, you’ve put Izzy to work this morning – how much have you troughed already?’
‘All essential fuel for the system, Jenna … and I made it all myself, actually.’ Angus looked back down at his plate.
‘Where’s Izzy, then? I thought she was our handmaiden on tap for all our foodie and bed-making needs? Don’t tell me she took offence to Hugo so much last night she’s done a runner, via the Headmistresses’ Conference?’
‘Perhaps,’ nodded Angus, starting to colour.
‘Angus, you’re blushing,’ said Jenna as she slipped onto the bench seat next to him, flicking off a suspect piece of squished red wax as she did do. ‘What is it?’
Angus, feeling like a total tool, clammed up. Finally, he came up with, ‘No, I’m just overheating. I’m wearing three climate-controlled T-shirts, plus a very manly pair of long johns.’ He recovered himself – making Jenna chuckle at the thought of Angus dressed like Compo from Last of the Summer Wine. And with that ghastly beard to match, too, she thought to herself rather uncharitably. Remembering that Angus had agreed last night to walk her to her lesson, she felt chastened and hastily piped up, ‘Sorry, I’ll go and get ready straight away – if I can find a pathway through Bertie’s debris in our room, that is. Would you wait for me? I’m a bit nervous about looking like a prat waiting for Jean-Paul with all the French three-year-olds taking ze peese out of me.’
‘Of course, Jenna, get your kit on and, if you’re really lucky, I’ll even carry your skis for you.’ Jenna smiled at him and turned back towards the stairs. Her smile faded, though, when she noticed the sofa cushions all awry and a couple of blankets scrunched up in the corner of the ‘L’ shape. She frowned as she recognised Angus’s watch on the side table and turned back in the direction of the dining table to question him. He wasn’t there, though, and Jenna caught sight of the door down to the boot room swinging slightly on its hinge. Left alone then with her theories as to why Angus might have kipped on the sofa, she turned back towards to the stairs and was halfway up them when she was greeted by a very dishevelled Izzy, naked as the day she was born – though, by the looks of things, now considerably less innocent.
