‘Well,that’snot going to happen,’ he’d said, fixing his hair for the tenth time, checking his teeth on the screen, not enjoying the feeling of lying to his sister, not sure why he was. He was fully prepped for a long night.
‘Murs. Just go, will you!’
‘Since when did you get so assertive?’ he’d said, pulling on his second-favourite winter coat, a chic darkest blue Moncler, pointedly ignoring the camel cashmere on the next hanger, which had been a ‘moving in’ gift from Andreas Favre. The sight of it made him want to pull it over his head and curl up in the bottom of his wardrobe, hibernating until Kurt left Scotland in a few weeks, but he hadn’t confessed any of that to his sister, though she must have picked up on his mood shifting.
‘He’s not here, you know?’ she said.
‘Who?’ They both knew he was faking nonchalance. Ally let it slide for the sake of her brother’s dignity. ‘He hasn’t set foot in the building for weeks. I daren’t ask, I’m just the tech intern, but I reckon he’s relocated to the California hub.’
Murray had wanted all this time to ask if Andreas had enquired after him. Wasn’t the guy even a little bit curious about how he was doing? Was there any guilt on his part? Any regrets? But now Ally was telling him he’s not even in the country?
‘Your office is still empty,’ his sister went on. ‘They haven’t readvertised your job. I’m sure if you talk to Barbara?—’
He cut her off. ‘I’m not asking for my job back. I’m happy here, honestly. And I’m still needed at the repair shop.’
Ally let that lie slide too. ‘Promise me you’ll think about it?’
‘Better go.’ He kept his voice soft, knowing his sister would love nothing more than having him there with her in Switzerland on her big year-long adventure. ‘Love you.’
She’d tutted, teasingly, but conceded she loved her brother too before leaving the call, the screen turning blank.
* * *
Murray wished himself back in his room now that Kurt was hauling open the door to the club. He braced himself for a lot of noise and dry ice clouds.
‘Oh!’ Kurt had stepped inside then jolted to a stop. ‘It isnota club night?’
Murray looked around. This was not promising at all. The place was darkened, as usual, with its strings of colour-changing LEDs lining the ceilings, and the lasers were slowly searching the gloom, spinning on their motors up amongst the shadowy pipework of the rafters, but there was no DJ, no shots station, and no crowds of boozed-up winter sports enthusiasts letting loose after a day on the slopes. Everything was… chill.
‘We can go…?’ Murray was saying, a little relieved at the possibility this date was over before it began.
Kurt, however, was scanning the room, taking in the low sofas that lined the slope viewing point, one vast wall of glass, the floodlights illuminating the snowy pistes beyond it.
Tealight candles twinkled on every table in the place, and laid-back couples in cosy clothing curled up together, the low drone of their conversations mixing with the jangly spa music coming over the speakers.
‘Yoo hoo!’ the bar man called to them. ‘Hot glogi? Whisky toddy? Fondue?’
Murray knew this guy, of course. They’d gone to school together. He followed in Kurt’s wake, approaching the bar.
‘What’s all this, Hamish?’ Murray indicated his old friend’s Scandi jumper and folksy hat. He usually worked in rolled black shirtsleeves.
‘We’re trying something new. Chilled-out northern lights viewing parties, with a Scandi twist. For the tourists.’
‘Iloveit!’ declared Kurt, looking with unsuppressed glee at the special menu on the bar. ‘We should have the fondue, definitely.’
‘I guess we’re doing fondue for two,’ Murray told Hamish. ‘But I’ll just have a beer. No hot glogg or whatever you said.’
‘Two beers,’ Kurt grinned, while for Murray, the reality of a cosy evening’s conversation and aurora-gazing sank in.
* * *
‘Back home my family make gouda fondue with mustard, but I am sure the Scottish way will be just as good! So long as we’re not dipping Mars bar!’
‘Hey!’ Murray acted offended. ‘That’s a stereotype, I’ll have you know.’
They’d found vacant sofas right in front of the floor-to-ceiling slope-view window, clinked their beer bottles together and Kurt had said ‘proost!’ then Murray taught him ‘slàinte mhath’ and joked how it was probably the only Scottish Gaelic he knew.
They’d spoken about Murray picking up a smattering of German and French while working in Switzerland (that was all he’d given away about his time there), and Kurt told him he was fluent in English, could read German reasonably well, and of course spoke his native Dutch at home, and this had made Murray feel significantly less impressive than he usually felt when discussing these types of things.
