Page 29 of Counting Down To You

I heave in a painful breath. It’s so beautiful out here, even through my blurred vision. Around the edges of the lake, patches of snow give way to thin ice, kept at bay from the main body of water by the constant movement. The mountains stretch out in the distance, white against blue-gray sky. I get out my phone, take a photo. I’m no photographer, but it would be impossible to take a bad shot of this place.

My fingers are barely functioning as I open up Instagram. Gloves. I need some proper gloves, rather than the flimsy non-waterproof ones I have on right now. Several friends have already WhatsApped, asking about the photo I posted of Leo last night. After this morning, I want to delete it, but it’s a little too late now, what with the number of likes it has. So, instead, I post this photo, in an attempt to drive it down my grid.

I switch off my audiobook, allowing the sounds of the forest to calm me. The rushing of the water. The rustle of an animal. A soft breeze skittering through pine needles.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I spin at the sound of a gruff voice to see a very angry-looking man, gray-haired, leaning on a stick for support. He’s dressed in waterproof trousers, a ski jacket, and funny-looking contraptions on his feet. Are those snowshoes?

His bushy eyebrows pull together as he looks at me, his face thin and lined. He repeats the question in French. But I still don’t know how to answer.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m not sure what you—”

“You’re out here alone,” he barks. “It’s not safe, especially not up that way.” He jerks his thumb toward the mountain—the way the trail would continue to take me. “Snow is coming.” Now he jerks his thumb to the sky. It doesn’t look like snow is imminent to me. “And you’re too close to the edge of the water,” he adds, still in that barking voice. “The ice is hidden under the snow, one wrong step and you’re in. It’s deeper than it looks and the water is freezing. You’d catch your death walking back.”

He tuts, glaring at me like I’m quite possibly the most stupid person on the planet.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, though I don’t know why I’m apologizing.

“And what good is that?” he snaps. “It’s only yourself you’re going to hurt, no use apologizing to me.” I don’t know why he’s so angry. And I don’t know what is happening today, why everyone is insistent on snapping at me. The pressure behind my skull builds again—soon it’ll be a full-blown tension headache.

“No one comes out here in winter,” he mutters. “It’s not safe, unless you know the area—which I’m presuming you don’t.” I frown, unsure how he could possibly know that just by looking at me, and he gestures in a way that encompasses all of me. “The way you’re dressed.”

“Right,” I say. “Well, thanks for the warning and all that, but I’ll just be on my way.” I turn my back, not really sure whether to heed his warning and head back the way I came or to keep going farther up the mountain as planned. Then I catch sight of something to my left.

A little bird takes flight, crossing my line of vision and nestling into a nearby tree. It’s almost hidden, but I can make out the white and brown of its feathers, with a tiny gray head.

“Snow finch,” grunts the man, seeing the direction of my gaze.

“Snow finch,” I repeat, watching as the bird takes flight, then lands on a different tree, a little closer to me. I used to love spotting birds on walks as a child. James and I used to take out books of native birds when we went out together, see how many we could tick off.

“Don’t come out here alone next time,” says the man. And apparently considering his job done, he turns, walking back through the forest with a bit of a limp. I resist the urge to point out that he is alone, and that he is walking with a stick. Surely if anyone’s not safe, it’s him.

Instead, I look back at the bird, which cocks its head right back at me, as if to say, Well? I take a breath. I’m not stupid. If someone says it’s not safe, maybe I should heed the warning, rather than trying to prove a point. I don’t want to get stuck out here alone if anything happened, and although Lucie’s boots seem fine so far, the snow clearly gets deeper farther up the trail. Plus, it might only be lunchtime, but it gets dark early.

So I turn back the way I came, curling my fingers into my palms for warmth. And, although it’s silly, I feel like the bird watches me as I go, like it’s guarding my back. It’s only once I reach the chapel at the start of the hike that I realize: I walked the whole way back without reaching for my audiobook.

Chapter

9

“Well, I have to say,” Mum says, taking an audible sip of what I presume is very milky tea, “it all sounds very glamorous.”

I look around the room I’m currently sitting in—the same room where Leo first proposed the idea of pretending to be together. I’m in one of the armchairs in front of the fire, angled toward the door so I can see if any of the guests come in—and make a swift exit if need be. I take in the oak-paneled walls, ornate fireplace, and paintings that probably cost more than several months of my salary. Glamorous is certainly one word for it. Even if this morning I had to deal with Betty and Louisa’s request for a helicopter ride above the Alps to do some “sightseeing” and “give their legs a rest.” And that helicopter ride had to be today. Which, apparently, was a thing the hotel—and I—can accomplish, after a solid two hours on the phone trying to work out who owed who favors.

“It’s pretty cool,” I tell Mum, sparing her the helicopter story. “I wish you could come and see it.” And I do. Even if Mum has never been skiing, I know she’d love it here.

“Oh, love, I wish I could be there too. Maybe if you end up staying a little longer Graham and I could come out and visit? He’s always said he’d like to try snowboarding.” I cannot for a second imagine Graham on a snowboard, nor have I once heard him say it’s something he’d like to do in all the time I’ve known him, but I decide not to comment.

“I’ll be back at the beginning of January, Mum.” I refrain from adding as I’ve already told you, though am relatively sure it’s evident in my tone. I know my mother is not-so-secretly hoping that I’ll have a life-changing epiphany while I’m out here and end up staying for many months for some grand adventure. Which is a bit of a change from the lecture I got from both my parents when choosing my university degree, about how Anthropology didn’t lend itself to many career options. In hindsight, that could have been mainly my dad speaking—my mum had a habit of agreeing with him, while they were together.

“And you’re definitely staying out there for Christmas?” Mum asks.

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I’m working until the end of December, and hopefully they’ll have found a replacement for me by then.” I don’t actually know what they’re doing about that. Presumably Leo is on the hunt.

“We’ll have to have a post-Christmas get-together, then. An excuse to have another Christmas dinner and more sherry.”

“Sounds great,” I say, trying to ignore the squirm of guilt at not being there for Christmas Day.