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I feel slightly guilty as I leave him, face downcast, at the ski school, but it’s such a beautiful day that I soon forget about it. I’ve decided to tackle a couple of red runs today, not because I enjoy them, but because I need to be able to write about them. There’s just me and another man in the ski lift as we start our ascent. I glance at him briefly. He’s middle-aged, with dark, greasy-looking hair, and he has the distinct beginnings of a paunch. As the lift begins to climb, I turn my attention to the view. A fresh layer of snow has fallen overnight and it’s glistening in the sunlight. The sky is bright blue and the air is clear and fresh.
“English?” The voice rudely interrupts my reverie. Reluctantly, I abandon the view and face my companion.
“I’m sorry, were you speaking to me?” I ask, desperately hoping that the answer is no. I have a horrible suspicion I know where this is going.
“Yes. You are English, yes?” His accent indicates that he’s Italian. I notice that his hair is suspiciously evenly coloured, without a fleck of grey. I suspect the colour comes out of a bottle.
“I am Aldo,” he continues. “What is your name? Are you here on your own?”
I sigh and summon up my most dismissive expression.
“I am English and no, I’m not here on my own. My boyfriend is at the ski school,” I tell him. Of course that’s not true but, after Toby’s antics on the plane, I don’t think he’s in a position to object to me using him to get rid of Aldo.
“Ah, he is not a skier. But you, you ski well? You must come and ski with me, I will show you the best places. Your breath will be taken away.”
“I don’t think so. Thank you, but I’d rather ski alone.”
“Are you sure?” He’s looking me up and down with a lascivious leer on his face, “You and me, we could have fun, you know? Your boyfriend, he doesn’t need to know. I could make you very happy.”
He’s so cheesy it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud at him. Instead, I reach into my pocket and bring out my phone, pretending to take a call.
“Hello? Right, yes, I see. I’ll ask him.”
I lower the phone and look at Aldo. “It’s some bloke from a 1970s porno movie. He says you’ve stolen his chat-up line and he’d quite like it back. Apparently, he needs it for some woman whose washing machine he’s just fixed, because she doesn’t have any money to pay him with. What shall I tell him?”
Aldo’s expression turns thunderous. Thankfully, further conversation is impossible as we’ve arrived at the top. I deliberately hold back so I can see which way he goes and stay away from him. He turns and calls out to me as he sets off. The breeze takes most of it, but I can still make out the words “frigid bitch”.
“It was lovely to meet you too!” I yell after him as I set off down the slope. What an arsehole.
