Authors: Richard Blanchard
“Not a chance,” I spit back at him.
“He has to get laid!” Max supports him. Robert stares fervently at every pair of male eyes for approval. The round bar table is deathly quiet. They are all so weak; no one wants to show dissent, even though they may privately find it appalling.
“There is no way he is going to a prostitute. He would be mortified and Sophia said⦔
“Sophia has got nothing to do with this. This is a man thing.” Robert deliberately abuses the silence of these men, excluding me and condemning Dan. I find myself without a talking ally so look to mitigate the disaster.
“Won't there be a lap dancing place you could all go to?”
“You leave this one up to us boys. If it is a lap dance he is getting one so dirty that he will cream in his pants.” The five men chuckle dirtily.
“You don't have to be there unless you want to join in? You could show him everything for old-times sake!” Robert tempers his resolve but tests mine not to hit him.
“Is that it then, a meal out and some saggy tits? I wanted to get him off-piste down the Vallée Blanche glacier. That will be something he will never forget!” says Robert
“That sounds daft.” Chris expects nothing but bullshit from Robert.
“It's this easy off-piste run that you take from underneath Mont Blanc up there and down into the village. It's awesome but easy!” Robert points out of the window to the highest mountain profile set against the full grey sky.
“Off-piste, isn't that risky?” Johnny enquires.
“Not if you are with me it's not!”
“We would have to get a guide, surely,” insists Johnny.
“I've done it three times now, it's only about fifteen miles long. It's easy, don't you trust me?” Robert knows no one will openly voice a lack of trust.
“But still we should be careful, I am not sure if we can all ski that well!” I interject another voice of reason. This hadn't gone the way Robert had hoped.
“Okay we will get a flaming guide. Let's book it tomorrow so we don't miss out.” Max holds Robert's idea up, revealing their collusion. A roar of approval engulfs the bar, some ball has been kicked in some field somewhere.
“Can we ask Dan about this one?” I make a final effort to thwart them.
Men end arguments by giving no response. With such shrugging simplicity the weekend's agenda has been laid out. Great dictators have probably been allowed to flourish by this method: men shrugging their shoulders at the prospect of gas chambers and mass genocide just because they wont step out of the pack. Chris and Johnny may be on my side of reason but they are silent partners now. All of them worry me.
“He's coming back in!” Dan's phone is back in his pocket and he is looking querulously at our huddle. He rubs his hands frantically to revive their warmth. Everyone re-adjusts with the air of conspiracy lifted. No one agrees with all that has been agreed.
“What were you guys talking about?” Dan worriedly asks as he sips flat-headed beer.
“Nothing you need worry yourself about,” Steve sneers at him.
“Listen. You want this to be a weekend to remember don't you? We want to take you to see some sights, are you up for it?” Robert asks Dan.
“Sure, whatever you guys want.” More silence allows Robert to reclaim the agenda. He pats Dan on the back to seal his fate.
Dan can't settle, shuffling feet reveal his tension. He is deep inside his own thoughts, represented by the frown taking over his forehead. At last he is a man. He was a boy with me and it is great to see. However, he is gulping down beer as fast as he can and even after all these years I know what he is going to say next.
“Listen guys, I'm going to get an early night. There's a lot to do tomorrow before ski school. Anyway I can't stand the music in here and as for the football⦔ He tails off.
“Anyone want to go back with me?” Dan gestures for me or any other to go back to the hotel with him.
Now I understand the depth of his impending discomfort.
“Sign O' Times” by Prince plays in the bar, competing with the TV. I know he loves this but he is missing out on more than just that. Whatever is paining him now will be the least of his worries in the next few days.
The house on the hill waits impatiently for the return of its owner; it is aching to be brought back to life by the presence of Daniel and his family. Slopes of lush green grass tumble improbably away from each external wall. Sited on such a severe hillcrest it has no neighbour.
Daniel strides out the last mile to his home. A series of undulating hills are all that part them. His legs go loose as the gradient takes him downhill, his momentum producing a semi-run. Then his thighs burn as he pushes his hand onto his knee to aid the upward climb.
Mounting the crest of the first hill he counts the shape of at least three more before him and his home. He lets his legs go loose again as he starts to clamber down, knees locking at every stride. He feels a rise in resentment as his brown linen suit is scuffed from a small fall at the valley floor. This is not right. Rising up another hill top his lungs rasp.
The house is now framed in black cloud, which pushes a wild warm wind to swarm around his face. He questions why he is wearing a jumper and suit to go home. Bepe appears on his right hand side; he had been following him all along. Robert waits in the next valley floor; Bepe runs down the hill and reaches him. Robert is carrying an old-fashioned pail, made of gnarled oak with leather straps. All three stand to look at each other. Robert coolly pours the water from his pail onto Daniel's leather brogues. Water splashes off at first but starts to soak his socks and trouser legs. Daniel stares silently at Robert before carrying on up the next hill.
Another hillcrest, the house seems no nearer but surely there are only two to go before he reaches home. One foot squelches forward, accompanied by the singular splat of the first fall of rain. The warm wet wind blows the sopping wet trousers onto his calf. Another singular splat before the noises bunch up.
Daniel raises his face skyward and enjoys the warm rain mixing with the salt-water sweat on his face. He tastes it and moves on. His footing varies, one grassy step is held by sodden leather, whilst the next shoots backwards as it fails to grip.
Robert is at the next valley floor with a full metal bucket of rainwater. He throws this over Dan's feet again. Dan feels his trousers completely wrap around his shins and moves on.
A thunder crack triggers the hairs on the back of Daniel's neck. He sees glistening green ahead of him, with black clouds at the crest. The grass begins to shift; each footstep pulls the carpet of grass further behind him. Bepe is falling behind but Daniel offers no help.
Up and over the next crest, surely only one more hill left to reach the house. The rain is a consistent sheet of shimmering power. It is a body of water as much as any river. Daniel slides onto his bottom from half way down and reaches the cold pool of the valley floor. Bepe tumbles forward onto his chest and flips over, arms flailing without fear. Sitting in seven inches of rain, Robert appears again with a garden hose that weakly trickles water onto Dan's shoes. Bepe is coughing ingested rainwater, struggling to catch his breath, lips trembling blue with cold and fear.
Dan gets up one more time, but the hill rises ahead as a sheet of brownblack mud. The grass carpet has slid away to the valley floor. Dan starts his first footsteps up the hill. The hill gets closer and closer to his face. Bepe gets up and places his first steps on the hillside; somehow he has strength beyond his few years. Daniel is sandwiched between the sheet rain and the mud wall in front of him. His linen jacket is dissolving with the rain; a sleeve falls off his arm.
Then as if he had let go of life himself he knows Bepe has gone. His grip on the hill was poor, falling backward, arms and legs reaching upward towards his dad. Daniel watches him fall forever, never seeing him reach the torrent of water below. Bepe's face is covered in the innocent expectation that he will be saved.
My head hits the wooden bed head, stinging on the edge of a carved flower design. I am sweltering from the combination of a feather-down duvet, what must be the maximum setting on the radiator and my exasperating dream. A snoring Chris brings me back to Chamonix. I cannot tell if the sharp pain has produced a cut. A shaft of light is gloriously released in between the curtains, highlighting leaden socks cast carelessly on the floor. The thump of blood in my head reminds me of the healing gouge. Why would I just plough on regardless of Bepe? I curl my knees into my chest, hoping to relieve the renewed ache of yesterday. I would never let him out of my sight now; I would drown in my own blood before he would be left to walk alone.
My God, I am skiing today, why oh why did I agree to this? I make a naked journey to the toilet, picking up my iPhone from our junkstrewn cabinet top. The sweat on my body dries patchily as I sit astride the toilet. I fight back the only way I have at the moment.
I sit on the toilet and search for another track for Bepe.
“What are you doing in there? Are you crapping yourself about today? Let me in for a piss eh.” Chris intervenes after a minute with a clunking fist on the toilet door.
“Just making some work notes.” Brother, there's too many of us lying.
“Bollocks to that, it's your flaming stag do. Let's get out into the mountains.” Why did I lie to him?
I am blinded by the low direct sunlight as I emerge from the ski shop, my head filled with a potpourri of hot wax and sunscreen. The body shapes of my tribe cast black shadows onto the fresh snow in front of me. This soaring fresh new day can't easily lift the heaviness in my soul as I prepare to rediscover fear.
I stumble a little in my new ski boots; the unbound clips tinkle their disapproval as I try to remember how to balance in them again. My skis slide against each other face to face, blade edges catching and scratching. I clasp them together to use them as an expensive walking stick. Ungainly and unnatural acts played out in nature's playground. I stare at the wave logo of O'Neill on my jacket sleeve as a means of mental distraction and focus. What authentic brand heritage, I dare to dream of the campaigns that I could work up for them. I slip on my shades and everything takes on a bronzed but focused life again.
“Have you got everything, Danny Boy?” Robert's smirk means that I don't have everything. He tosses my gloves into my face; he must have swiped them in the ski shop.
“Max and I are going to hit it from the top of Brevent now.” He is pointing to the highest peak in view. I see Robert has taken Max under his wing. They are a well suited but dangerous liaison. The rest of us are reluctantly booked into ski school.
“Maybe we can meet later if you want, say one o'clock back here?” All agree to meet up at the restaurant alongside the ski shop with a nod.
“Twenty-five minutes till ski school, what say we grab a drink?” Johnny unites those left behind around a hot beverage. We clatter over to the outdoor Snac Shack bar, needing some warmth and solace for our impending ski-off trial.
“When did you last ski, Juliet?” I ask as we wait for service.
“Two years ago with Scott and Ethan actually, I'm okay, but could do with the lessons.”
“Monsieur, une tasse du thé, s'il vous plait.”
The barman looks painfully at me as I strain for my CSE French. He plonks a glass cup of hot water on the counter; the tea bag spins but releases no tea.
“Au lait?” I create further disdain by requesting milk; this must be the easiest method for a Frenchman to reveal a Brit. I hand over a five Euro note. My waving hand indicates he should take it all. He has seen them all through here before, from the cocky new skier to the outright scared. He looks happy to be tipped two Euros for nothing in particular. We all sit awkwardly on a wooden bench atop packed ice and gathered snow. Steam mills frantically around the top of my glass.
“So what happens at ski school then?” Chris enquires.
“See where those poles are up on the slope. They will get you to ski down to see what ability group you should go into,” Juliet informs him.
“What, we ski down that big slope there?” I can see Chris imagining the ten-degree slope as one of the final stages of a slalom race. Any ski gradient intimidates at first, but with a little ability and confidence they can quickly befriend you.
“There are some real hotties round here!” pronounces Steve. He is self consciously trying to keep the lad quotient up now the two alpha males have left. Juliet's presence is dampening this behaviour but not eradicating it.
The line of skiing novices forms early, a colourful patchwork of Europeans in a union of varying ski ability. Europe seems at its most united here at La Flegere.
“It's time to show these foreigners how to ski.” Steve stands as we finish our drinks. Chris looks the most obviously disconcerted, although we all look tentative apart from Juliet.
Boot clasps clack into place, zippers are zipped and skis cracked onto feet. I step precisely up the slope ahead of a young girl. Her ponytail sways from under the back of her woolly hat; she has pure unquestioning anticipation on her face. The three ski instructors confer at the head of the small slope, smoking and ignoring the group gathering beside them.
“I am Jean-Paul your instructor. You ski down. We have three groups. Aldo will tell you group at bottom.” He stands ten feet below us, skis in a V facing up the hill. Aldo skis down on one ski in a graceful curve, stopping as if he had never started.
After five faltering skiers complete their trial, Juliet is the first of our crew to ski off. She glides in good style, but her lack of weight means she doesn't pick up speed. Aldo waves his pole to his right and she stands alone.