Christmas in the Snow (20 page)

They walked through the main street, their bags bulging with ski kit behind them, both their heads turning left and right, Isobel trying to spot the best pharmacy and deals on Moncler, Allegra
looking for the correct turn-off.

Zermatt was exactly as she’d expected it to be. Unable to break with her usual habit of research, research, research, she had memorized the piste and town maps on the flight over so that
even without seeing it, she knew the river must run alongside the next block to their left, that the old town was dead ahead, the heliport was behind them to the right . . .

They walked slowly past shop windows where 20,000-Swiss-franc designer watches sat next to chocolate-rendered mini Matterhorns, and bundles of so-chic cashmere jumpers sat cheek by jowl beside
novelty marmots. Christmas lights were strung up above the streets, deep (empty) flowerboxes hung at every window, snow was piled like marshmallow toppings on every roof, and festivity hung in the
air like perfume.

The street was teeming with people as skiers trudged the pavements in their distinctive rocking gaits, the bindings on their boots clumped with snow from their last run, their skis swung over
their shoulders like rifles. She saw a group of hung-over snowboarders – their trousers worn low and antlers on their helmets – grabbing a snack lunch with hot chocolates and
crêpes on their way to the slopes; she peered in at the shoppers clustered in the coffee houses with bags at their feet and their hands round
vin chauds
. God, she loved being in the
mountains. Sometimes she felt they were the only place she was truly relaxed.

Turning right opposite the Mont Cervin Palace – impossible to miss on account of the wall of light pouring down six storeys from the balconied windows – they found themselves in a
narrow side street of rough-hewn stone buildings and Isobel redeemed herself by finding the apartment first. With cold hands, she entered the combination code they’d been given by the owner,
took the key from the deposit box and fell into the lobby to escape from the cold, carrying their bags up a narrow turning staircase.

‘I knew it!’ Isobel gasped as she unlocked the door and they saw the apartment they had found last night on their frantic internet search for somewhere to stay. With the Christmas
season officially under way and such strong early snowfall, everywhere was booked solid, and even this they only had for four nights until Thursday, changeover day.

Allegra walked through the flat, appraising it with cool interest: limed oak streaked with grey tones, a creaky knotholed floor, red nappa-leather sofa, cowhide rugs on the floors, glossy
burnt-orange units in the kitchen, solid-oak shutters with heart cut-outs, box beds in the bedrooms. It was a contemporary fusion of traditional craftsmanship and urban design, and Isobel was in
raptures. Wandsworth it wasn’t.

‘I love it! I love it, I love it and I want to live here,’ she gasped, twirling on the spot and running her hand over the twisted, warped wood walls.

‘You can – for a bit,’ Allegra called, carrying the bags through to the back. ‘Which bedroom do you want?’

‘You choose,’ Isobel insisted, running after her. ‘This is your break.’

‘Iz, you’re the one who has a tiny baby and who hasn’t slept for nearly a year.’

‘
I
am fine. It’s you who needs to catch a breath.’

‘
I
am fine,’ Allegra echoed back. ‘We are here primarily to get everything sorted for Mum, not for a spa break.’

‘So then we’re both fine.’

‘I guess we are.’

‘Fine.’ Isobel put her hands on her hips and stared across at her sister. Isobel’s eyes widened.

Allegra sighed. ‘I am
not
getting into a staring competition with you,’ she said, picking up her bag and walking into the smaller bedroom. ‘I’ll take this room.
It looks nice and dark.’

Isobel chuckled, considering that a victory, as she took her bag into the room opposite.

Allegra put her bag on the bed and unzipped it. Clothes sprung out like a jack-in-the-box and she pulled them out, refolding everything carefully in the wardrobe. From the clatter coming across
the tiny hall, she could hear Isobel doing the same, although it sounded more like she was catapulting them.

She lifted out the small wooden Advent calendar at the bottom of the bag, protectively wrapped in her pyjamas. As scathing as she’d been in the loft about the novelty of a surprise a day,
she had been amazed at how much – and how quickly – she’d come to enjoy the little ritual of peering in a drawer. It was really the only thing that varied in her day, along with
choosing her lingerie sets, but also the sprinkling of festive
objets
on her dressing table – as tiny as they were – was the closest she’d allow herself to get to
Christmas decorations. After all, what use was a wreath on her front door when it faced onto brown nylon carpets in the communal hall? A sprig of mistletoe hung in the sitting-room doorway would
only alarm the cleaner, and dragging a Christmas tree up three flights of stairs would almost certainly mean it would be bald by the time she got it there.

But this . . . It had been so early when they’d left for the airport this morning that she hadn’t thought to open today’s drawer, and she settled on the bed, wondering what
she’d find.

She opened the drawer; inside was a matryoshka nesting doll, except that it wasn’t painted in the traditional Russian style but Swiss – with hair in plaits, aproned skirt and a
cropped trimmed jacket. The outer doll wasn’t large by any means, fitting easily in the palm of her hand, and she smiled as she twisted it open to reveal the smaller one inside, and then the
smaller one inside that . . . The smallest one of all was no bigger than a dog’s tooth and she squinted in amazement at the detailed paintwork on it. Five dolls all fitting into each other,
just like her own family.
A long line of mothers
. . .

‘We’re getting changed and going straight out, yes?’ Isobel called five minutes later, having ‘spoken’ to Ferdy and Lloyd on the phone.

‘Yes,’ Allegra replied, restacking the five dolls inside each other and placing them back inside the number-14 drawer. She put the cabinet on her bedside table and undressed,
changing into her skinny black stirrup trousers and pulling on her ski socks.

She wandered over to the window as she belted her ivory Moncler jacket, her eyes falling on the brooding mountains that ringed the town like the walls of an amphitheatre, the snow clouds
stretched low between them like a false ceiling. It felt strange being in Zermatt, knowing as she did now that her grandmother had died here. It made her feel odd. She had never been to this town
before, but already she knew it by heart. She was a stranger and yet, supposedly, she was home.

They forgot to eat. Once the clouds were below them, the edges of the world were crisp, the Alpine peaks like jagged shards trying to puncture the taut billow of the blush-pink
sky, and they skied for hours, grabbing every passing chairlift to ‘just try’ another run before the light went.

They had learned to ski as children, each other’s best companion in ski school and then, in their teenage years, looking out for one another as they pushed into backcountry and the world
of off-pisting. Isobel had always been the more naturally gifted of them on skis. Moguls and ice had never bothered her and she had always teased Allegra about the time she’d come down a
treacherous red on her bottom. But things had changed since then – Allegra had long since learned that it wasn’t fear that was the most terrifying emotion – and they were well
matched, echoing each other’s moves like twins as they curled left and right in poetic silence.

‘What do you think – Chez Vrony or Findlerhof for scoff?’ Isobel asked, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright with the exhilaration that comes from the double punch of hard exercise
and unfettered freedom. She was standing beside a worn wooden post, its arrows pointing in numerous directions, the universal sign of a crossed knife and fork suddenly a beloved motif.

‘Oh God, yes, either. My thighs are on fire. I’ve been on glycogen for the past hour.’

‘Why can’t you just say you’re starving, like most normal people?’ Isobel laughed, pushing her poles into the ground and sliding gently down the narrow track that was
pointing towards the restaurants.

They stopped a couple of hundred metres later, where a confluence of skis and poles heralded a popular stopping point, and jammed theirs in the snow with them, walking carefully along a
hard-packed path that had become icy from traffic.

A tiny hamlet of dark, almost blackened huts were clustered together, and as they rounded the corner of one, they stopped in their tracks, enormous smiles growing on their faces. The number of
European languages drifting over a bleached terrace was as cosmopolitan as an ambassador’s drinks reception, as free-riding snowboarders in baggy neons shared space with euro princesses in
fur-trimmed Bogner and St Barts bobble hats. They were all starting their après-ski up the mountain now that the lifts had stopped for the day. (The run back into town was a respectable blue
back to the funicular.) And who could blame them for not wanting to leave? Sheepskin and reindeer hides blanketed the wooden chairs; deep sleigh-shaped benches lined up deck-side to overlook the
plunging valley and were softened with more throws and rugs so that they were almost like outdoor beds. From where they were standing, Allegra could only see legs outstretched from them,
heavy-booted feet resting on the veranda, lolling hands holding foamy beers and the tops of heads with hair mussed up from helmets.

‘Um . . . busy much?’ Isobel said rhetorically. All the tables were taken and a huge standing crowd had swelled at one end of the deck as music started pumping.

‘It’ll be quieter inside. Let’s try for a table in there,’ Allegra suggested sensibly.

They crossed the terrace, Isobel beaming back at every interested stare that came her way. ‘Still got it,’ she whispered delightedly under her breath to her sister, who was far more
concerned with finding somewhere to sit.

Inside was no better. Damn.

A beautiful girl in tight black ski pants and carrying some menus stopped by them in the doorway. ‘You want only drinks, yes?’ she asked, although it came across as more of an
instruction than a question.

‘No, to eat, please,’ Allegra said, her eyes still scanning the various dark nooks inside. Did anyone look like they were preparing to leave, at least?

The waitress sucked her teeth. ‘We are very full—’

‘But we haven’t had lunch,’ Isobel said quickly, as though this fact would sway whether or not the waitress would find them a table.

‘I’m sorry. The kitchens, they are open for another five minutes, but there is no room. All the tables are taken.’

Allegra sighed irritably. It looked like she was just going to have to put up with a bit more thigh burn until they could get into town.

‘They can sit with us!’

The three women looked to their left in surprise. A guy – he could only be mid-twenties – was twisted on one of the benches at the edge of the deck and leaning towards them with a
bright smile. His helmet was still on, the chin strap unclasped, his goggles pushed back on top. His accented English suggested he was either Swiss or French. ‘We got room for another
two.’

The waitress looked back at them and shrugged. ‘It’s probably the only way if you want to eat.’

Allegra wasn’t so sure.

‘Great!’ Isobel exclaimed, instantly pulling off her helmet so that her long hair billowed, and walking over.

‘Uh . . .’ Allegra looked back at the waitress. ‘Well . . .’

The waitress held out some menus. ‘You want to see?’

She shook her head with a sigh. ‘No, we’ll just take the chef’s specials each, a bottle of your best sauvignon blanc and another round of whatever it is that they’re all
drinking.’

‘Sure.’

Allegra wandered over to the table, pulling off her own helmet and gloves. Isobel was already seated, sandwiched between two boarders, and it appeared the only other space for her, on the
opposite side, was also in the middle. A gaggle of grins stared back at her. ‘Hey,’ they all nodded in chorus.

‘Hi.’ She felt tongue-tied and awkward. She didn’t want to sit with a bunch of complete strangers while she ate.

‘Take a seat,’ the guy who had called them over originally said, indicating to the empty space beside him. He had deep brown eyes and a quite beautiful smile that seemed to be
highlighted by the thick stubble surrounding it.

Allegra hesitated. ‘You’re very kind to have offered us some room on your table, but we don’t need to interrupt you. We’re more than happy to sit at the end.’

‘Are you kidding?’ he asked with a flirtatious smile. ‘You just made us the most popular guys in here. The least we can do is give you the best seats.’

Allegra arched her eyebrows at the compliment, trying to make eye contact with her sister, who, harbouring no reservations whatsoever about joining a bunch of total strangers, was studiously
avoiding her gaze. Allegra bit her lip, feeling her confidence flee and her usual social awkwardness return. If she couldn’t talk shop, she had very little to offer – the downside of
spending nineteen hours a day in the office.

‘What is your name?’ the guy asked as she delicately stepped over the bench seat and sat down. ‘I am Maxime. Max.’

‘Allegra.’

‘Allegra,’ the guys all echoed approvingly, imbuing the word with melodic overtones that came so naturally to the Continental languages but was flattened in the English tongue.

‘Eeess-o-bel and Aaaa-leg-raa,’ Max echoed as though committing them to memory. ‘This is Brice’ – the strawberry-blond guy with green eyes sitting on Isobel’s
left grinned – ‘Fabien’ – the olive-skinned guy in an orange jacket on Isobel’s right nodded – ‘and Jacques.’ The man to her left with wind-burnt
cheeks smiled.

‘It gets crazy here, no?’ Jacques said, just as the waitress came over with everyone’s fresh drinks.

The men looked momentarily puzzled as the beers were set down before them.