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‘It’s a surprise,’ Toby replies, grasping my hand as he does so. ‘All Madison here knows is that it’s skiing.’
‘That’s so romantic,’ the woman says, with a sigh. Thankfully, her attention is momentarily drawn to some activity outside the window, and I have the opportunity to pull my hand back.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I hiss in his ear.
‘Getting into character!’ he replies. ‘It just seemed like a golden opportunity to test out how convincing we could be before it really matters.’
He grins at me conspiratorially, and my annoyance evaporates. I smile back at him.
‘Are you going to be this much trouble for the next six days?’ I ask, just as the woman turns back and starts looking at us again.
‘I reckon you’ll go the distance, you two,’ she observes. ‘I’ve got a nose for these things.’
I have to look away and hold my nose to prevent myself from snorting with laughter, but thankfully she doesn’t notice, as Toby is replying to her.
‘Well, it’s early days,’ he tells her, ‘but we’re hopeful.’
7
JANUARY
It’s a little after two in the afternoon when the transfer minibus drops us outside the Mirabelle. Thankfully, Toby seems to have got the mischief out of his system on the plane and has reverted to his usual, slightly reserved, self.
‘Golden rule number one,’ I say to him. ‘Don’t let the porter take your bag. If they do then you have to tip them, and tips aren’t reimbursable through expenses.’
He digests this information as we walk up to the main entrance of the hotel. Just as we’re about to go through the door, he stops and turns to me.
‘Just a thought,’ he says, ‘but if we’re supposed to be tourists we might blend in better if we did let them take the bags. How much is the tip – ten euros?’
‘That sounds about right. Five would seem stingy, wouldn’t it? But across three hotels that’s thirty euros of our own money. I do need to make a living, you know.’
There’s a pause while he ponders the options, and I try not to be impatient.
‘OK, no porters,’ he replies eventually.
‘I like your thinking though,’ I tell him. ‘That wouldn’t have occurred to me.’
In the end the discussion turns out to be moot, at least as far as the Mirabelle is concerned. The receptionist informs us most apologetically that our room isn’t quite ready so, once we’ve completed the check-in process, she takes our bags to store them. The hotel is very traditional, from what I can tell by studying the lobby. There’s lots of wood panelling and soft classical mood music is emanating from hidden speakers. The lobby itself is large and contains several little seating areas, most of which are empty at this time of day. The ones that are occupied indicate that the primary target market is middle-aged and older.
‘Come on,’ I say to Toby. ‘Let’s go and sort out the ski hire, have an explore, and then I’ll treat you to a glass ofvin chaud.’
When we return a few hours later, the lobby is much busier. There is a gentle hum of chat and most of the seating areas are now occupied by couples and small groups enjoying a drink and catch up at the end of the day’s skiing. Although there are some younger people like us, most of the guests are much older, and there are very few children. The same receptionist greets us, hands over our room cards, and informs us that our bags have been taken up to our room already.
‘Nice touch,’ I say to Toby as we make our way to the lift.
As would be expected in a five-star hotel, our room is spacious, with a superking-size double bed, a comfortable-looking sofa and armchair, and a huge flatscreen TV. There’s no overhead light, but a soft glow emanates from a couple of standard lamps in the seating area, added to by the slightly brighter bedside lights. The effect is obviously supposed to be soothing, but to me it’s verging on being too dim. Most of the people I saw in the lobby would be unable to sit in the armchair and read a book without extra light. There are sliding doors out to the balcony, and another door that leads into a surprisingly small marble bathroom with a shower and bath. I eye the bed with relief; I’ve had a couple of bad dreams on the run-up to this trip where Toby and I ended up jammed into a single bed.
‘I normally sleep on the left-hand side of the bed. Is that OK with you?’ I ask him.
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’m currently sleeping in a single bed at home, so it doesn’t make a lot of difference to me either way.’
There’s an awkward atmosphere as the reality of sharing a room and a bed dawns on us. I still hardly know him, and unpacking my case in front of him feels uncomfortably intimate. I wait until he’s looking the other way before hastily transferring my underwear to ‘my’ drawer, and I’m reminded of boarding school as I place my pyjamas on the pillow on my side of the bed. Normally I just sleep in a long T-shirt and knickers, but that didn’t seem appropriate so I’ve splashed out on some cotton PJs from M&S. Toby is obviously feeling uncomfortable too, so I curb my natural curiosity and avert my eyes while he unpacks.
‘I might have a shower,’ I announce, to break the silence. ‘I always feel a bit grimy after travelling, and I need to change for dinner tonight anyway.’
‘Good idea,’ Toby agrees. ‘I’ll iron my shirt and trousers while you’re in there and have a quick shower after you.’
I grab my dress, some clean underwear and my make-up bag, and retreat to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. There’s a hook on the back of the door, on which I hang the dress. After I’ve stepped out of my travel clothes, I sit on the loo, feeling very aware that Toby can probably hear me weeing. Now that it’s a reality, this pretending to be a couple suddenly seems like a really bad idea. It’s not that I don’t like Toby, I do. I’m just not sure I can stomach a week of us behaving like shy teenagers around each other. I stand up, flush the loo and stare at my face in the mirror.
