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‘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 hold up one finger to pause him while 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 seventies porno movie. He says you’ve stolen his chat-up line and he’d quite like it back. Apparently, he needs it for this 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.
10
JANUARY
Toby appears to be in much better spirits when I arrive at the ski school to meet him.
‘I think you were right,’ he tells me, as we head off in search of lunch. ‘I still fell over, but not as often, and I managed a couple of runs where I didn’t fall at all. The instructor says we’ll start looking at turns tomorrow.’
‘Who are you, and what have you done with the miserable bastard I left here earlier?’
‘Ha ha. How was your morning?’
‘Well, the skiing was good, but some slimeball calling himself Aldo tried to come on to me. Even when I told him I had a boyfriend already, he still tried it on. Revolting.’
‘I thought you said you were single?’ Toby looks genuinely confused.
‘I am. I took your name in vain. You owe me after your antics with that woman on the plane. Anyway, it’s no big deal. I’ve come across his type plenty of times before. Deficient men compensating for their unattractiveness by showing off, whether with a flash car, ridiculous clothes or, in Aldo’s case, alleged ski and sexual prowess.’
‘Wow, that’s harsh!’
‘It’s true, though. There’s a type of man that thinks women are going to find them completely irresistible just because they’ve got a Ferrari, or a Rolex, or whatever it is. Most women I know don’t give a shit about any of that stuff. If you’re severely challenged in the looks department and you don’t have the personality to compensate for it, no ridiculous car or fancy watch is going to save you. A private jet might soften me a little,’ I add, with a smile, ‘but I still don’t think it would be enough to make me want to put up with some fat, sweaty, bald old man grunting away on top of me.’
‘OK, that’s an image I didn’t need, particularly just before lunch,’ Toby laughs.
‘Don’t get me wrong. I like nice stuff, but not when it’s waved around as some kind of status symbol or expected to act as a fanny magnet that we poor women are supposed be completely unable to resist. Total turn-off.’
After lunch, we head back to the Mirabelle to retrieve our bags and then walk to our next hotel, La Residence. The drop from five to three stars is immediately apparent in the lobby, which is small and very spartan compared to the luxury of the Mirabelle. It’s bright and clean though, which bodes well.
‘I don’t understand whyVoyages Luxesis sending us to a three-star hotel,’ Toby whispers, after we’ve rung the bell at the deserted reception desk. ‘It seems off brand to me.’
‘Yes, but this is Courchevel, so even staying here costs much more than the average three star. I guess they wanted to show different options. It’s hardly a hostel, is it?’
Our discussions are interrupted by the arrival of the receptionist, who takes our details and, after a bit of tapping on the computer, informs us that our room is ready and hands over the key cards. I double-check our dinner reservation with her, and we head over to the lifts.
The room, on first impression, follows the same theme as the lobby. It is smaller and more spartan than the room at the Mirabelle, but it’s much more modern and the window lets in lots of natural light. The bed is a standard double and the sheets look clean and crisp. Once again there is no desk, but there are two low-backed chairs by the window. We drop our bags on the floor and Toby wanders over to the window to look at the view. I turn slowly, taking in the rest of the room, and that’s when I spot it.
