Page 65 of Counting Down To You

Take the time to figure out what you want from a career. Try a few temp roles, to get a sense of what you like—and don’t like.

But my CV lends itself to one thing alone—recruitment.

Yes, but you have transferable skills.

“Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, you know,” says a gruff voice behind me. I turn to see Stuart walking toward me with his subtle limp, aided by two poles. I hadn’t realized I’d been having that conversation out loud, but I can’t bring myself to feel embarrassed about it.

“What if I told you I’m not talking to myself, but to the voice inside my head?”

He sticks his poles into the snow at his feet. “I’d say we all hear that voice sometimes. If it makes you feel better to argue with yours, who am I to criticize?” It’s a surprisingly kind response, even if it’s delivered with his usual gruffness.

I smile a little. “I’m trying to figure some stuff out.”

“I heard. Shall we?” He gestures toward the forest across the other side of the meadow with one of his poles. I want to ask if he’s okay to go on the hike, but I don’t think he’ll appreciate it.

“So we’re going to keep it simple,” he says as he walks—and, even with the limp, he has enough practiced efficiency at walking through the snow that I struggle to keep up. “Forty-five minutes or so takes us on a loop to near Linga, through some meadows and forests. Not too hilly, though you get a good view of the mountain peaks. You can do it any time of year, and it’s one of the entry-level hikes, so to speak.”

I keep my attention on the deep snow in front of me, basically untouched, as we make our way from the car park where the shuttle had dropped me. “Ever see much wildlife?”

“Less so in winter, but sometimes. A few species of bird you can still see. Deer, mountain hare if you’ve got a sharp enough eye. Ibex.” He glances at me. “That’s like a wild—”

“Goat,” I say, nodding. Then I clock his raised eyebrows. “Sorry,” I say immediately. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to interrupt.

“Done your homework?”

“I may have looked some things up. I wanted to be prepared.” And I was interested in the area, in the types of hikes he might offer.

He grunts, and I can’t quite read it. For a while we’re both quiet as I get used to the rhythm of the walk in my snowshoes. As we near the outskirts of a forest, the smell of pine carried on a light breeze, Stuart speaks again.

“Want to talk about it?”

I frown. “About what?”

“Whatever it is you’re figuring out.”

“Oh. No, that’s okay.” I’m surprised he even offered, in all honesty. There is quiet for a beat. Then, because I feel a bit bad for closing off the conversation, I say, “So what did you used to do? Before you moved here and started doing the hikes, I mean?” I presume he had a life before coming here, as so many of the expats do.

“I was a management consultant.”

“Really?” I laugh before I can help it. “Sorry,” I say quickly, schooling my expression. “It’s just—I can’t quite imagine it.”

Is that a hint of a smile, crossing his lined face? “I wasn’t a very good one. I hated the treadmill of it all. Then I met Alex, and we came out here one year on holiday. That was it. We decided to pack it all in and give it a go out here. Never looked back.” I see the sadness as he says Alex’s name—a sadness I recognize, because I feel it every time I talk about Robyn. But I can hear the lightness at the memory too. I wonder if, over time, that lightness will win out.

“When did you lose him?” I ask tentatively. “I mean,” I add quickly, already backtracking, “we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’m not prying.” No, I’m babbling. “It’s just, I lost someone too, at the beginning of this year. My friend.” I swallow. “My best friend. So I’m not saying I know what it was like for you—believe me, I know everyone’s grief is different. But I do know what it’s like to lose the one person you thought would always be there. The one person you always wanted to be there.” I’m looking down at the snow as I speak, but I risk a glance at him when he doesn’t reply. His expression is distant, but he doesn’t look offended, and he’s not scowling.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually, “that you lost your person.” And that’s exactly it, because Robyn was my person. Tears well and I try to blink them back, looking out at the wild, white countryside, the mountains stretching out beyond us. The snow makes it seem vast, endless. I can almost imagine what it would have been like centuries ago, before humans settled.

“I’m sorry that you lost your person too,” I whisper.

“Eighteen months ago,” he says gruffly. “He died eighteen months ago. I keep waiting for it to get easier.”

“Me too.” My voice is quiet. But maybe easier isn’t the word. I’m learning that the grief I feel is different, and the space between grief cycles is getting bigger, giving me more space to breathe. But is that easier? I’m not sure.

“I still have his bank details saved.” He’s looking ahead, his poles setting a steady rhythm as we walk. “Such a silly thing, but it was a jolt, every time I scrolled past them when I had to pay someone. I couldn’t bring myself to delete them, though. It felt too final, even though the worst had already happened.” He glances at me. “A few days ago, I got a new bank account.”

“I get that. Robyn recorded audiobooks. I keep listening to them, over and over, just to hear her voice.” Though I haven’t done, since the challenge. But I could listen to them at any point—I’m far from ready to delete the audiobooks completely.

I sigh. “Maybe it won’t ever get easier.”