‘Jesus!’
‘You know I’m right.’
‘Are we going to drive back?’
He looked at the overhanging wheel. ‘No. I reckon we check this out in the morning, when the snow has stopped and we can see what we’re looking at. We didn’t get far. We could be back at the hotel in twenty minutes. Half an hour tops. ’
She didn’t argue. He switched off the engine got out and opened the back of the car. They stuffed a few essentials into a small bag and abandoned the rest before walking back in the direction of the hotel.
‘Some holiday this is turning out to be,’ Jake said.
‘Some holiday.’
‘I can just about see my hand in front of my face. No, that’s not true. I can see your face. It’s glowing.’
‘Believe it or not I’m sweating.’
And she could see his face, too, gleaming dimly in the falling snow and the grey, darkening mist; as if his skin were illuminated from behind. His skin was like parchment in this light, she decided, holy parchment, and his glittering blue eyes and his nut-brown eyebrows and the hint of crimson of his lips were like a monk’s illustrations on a sacred manuscript.
‘What you looking at?’
‘You. I love you.’
He laughed. ‘How can you think of that at a time like this? I married a loon who drags me into avalanches.’
‘This situation is loony, and all I can see is your lovely face, and I’m glad I can see it. I’m really, really glad.’
‘Come on. Hold my hand. Let’s get back to that hotel.’
3
There was a display board on the wall near the hotel recep tion, offering day trips, toboggan events, sleigh rides and fondue evenings. There were also contact numbers for all the holiday companies represented at the resort. Thumbtacked to the board was also a list of doctors, vets, pharmacies and all the emergency services associated with Saint-Bernard. Jake snatched the list from the board. They went back up to their room with the list and Jake began calling.
There was a good, clear, throaty dialling tone on the line. He called each of the holiday companies in turn, and in each case no one picked up. He dialled the local police station, from where they’d taken the car. No joy. He dialled the national emergency number. In none of these cases did anyone pick up the phone.
‘Phone someone in England,’ Zoe said. ‘Phone your mother.’
Zoe’s parents were both dead. Her mother had died long before Jake and Zoe had even met, though he had known her dad, Archie, for a couple of years before he too had died. Jake’s elderly father, meanwhile, had died some time after divorcing his mother, the only remaining parent. She was an over-fussy but kind woman with a bad blue rinse who had moved up to Scotland shortly after an unpleasant divorce conducted while Jake was at boarding school. His mother—emotionally as well as geographically remote—had thankfully thought very highly of Zoe because she was ‘musical’. Jake figured that his mother might at least contact someone in a position of authority and let them know that the pair had been left behind after the evacuation.
‘She’ll freak out,’ Jake said, dialling the number. ‘You know what she’s like.’
‘Phone her anyway.’
After he got no reply, Jake put the phone down. ‘It’s her Whist night. She always goes to Whist at the church on a Friday.’
‘Lovely. I hope she gets nine tricks or whatever while we’re here about to be eaten alive on the side of the mountain.’
‘I’m going to call Simon.’
Simon was Jake’s old friend from college. He was a housing officer for the local authority, and he’d been best man at their wedding; and even when Simon had tried to seduce Zoe one time somehow that relationship had survived. Jake called Simon on his mobile phone, but the signal faltered. So he called him on his landline, but that too rang off.
‘What time is it? He’s probably gone straight down the Jolly Miller after work. Who else can we call?’
It was a short list. They were on good terms with their neighbours at home but they were elderly and very frail. They decided against calling them. Zoe tried calling two close friends but no one picked up.
‘No one is answering anywhere. They can’t all be throwing back pints at the Jolly Miller! Let’s switch the TV on, see if we can get some local news.’
Zoe opened the mahogany TV cabinet doors and switched on the set. She flashed through the channels but all she could get was an electrical snowstorm of a picture and the sound of static interference. Jake got up and grabbed the remote control from her, as if his pressing the buttons might produce better results. It didn’t. The TV was also programmed for radio reception, but nothing was coming through on any of the channels. Just static. White noise.
‘Look,’ Zoe said, ‘I’m not thinking straight. We’re here for the night. We need to eat something.’
‘We’ll have to cook it ourselves.’
‘No hardship. Let’s see what they’ve got in the kitchen.’
They went down to the restaurant and slipped through to the kitchens, where they’d been earlier. Everything was still the way they’d found it on their first visit. Lean cuts of red meat lay on the work counter, ready for cooking, as did a neat array of chopped vegetables. They decided to leave the stuff that had been out all day. In the chiller cabinet they found fresh fillet steaks.
Zoe poured olive oil into a huge pan while Jake popped the gas burners. He found a pristine white chef’s toque and put it on. He was living it large. ‘Everything’s runnin’. Gas. Light. Me. We may be about to die under an avalanche but I’m in the kitchen and we’re sizzling a steak.’
He served it medium rare with onions and mushrooms. Zoe meanwhile dished up green beans and butter. She had also raided the wine store and popped open a bottle of red.
‘What’s this, you cheapskate? Get back and fetch us a bottle of real wine, will ya?’
Zoe shook her head. ‘Take that hat off. You look like a twat. We’ll get billed for all this, you know.
‘I don’t care. If this is my last bottle of wine I want something good.’
He got up. When he came back she’d lit a candle at the table. He was still wearing his toque, and was carrying a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. She wanted to look at the wine list to see what his choice might have cost them, but he grabbed it off her and skimmed it across the empty restaurant, telling her to just pour it. She in turn snatched the toque from his head and tossed it the way of the wine list.
‘We’ll get thrown out of here,’ he said, clinking glasses.
‘Survivors,’ she said.
‘Survivors.’
‘This is surreal.’
‘But it’s not a dream.’
‘When I think of all the places we’ve had dinner together. Meals at home. Dinners out. Fancy restaurants. Cheap cafés. Picnics. This is the one I’ll remember above any of them. It’s like we’re the last people in the world.’
‘And the snow outside is still falling. If you were with the right person you might even find this romantic.’
The candlelight wavered slightly, and she saw the catch-light flicker in his bloodshot eyes, and she remembered that they had come on this holiday with a job to do. There was something they had to sort out. Something they were meant to discuss. But she knew that right now was the wrong moment. She let it go.
‘How’s your steak?’
‘Perfect. You know,’ he said, ‘I think I’ve always been secretly afraid of the avalanche. This is what, almost my twentieth skiing break? And right from when I was a beginner I’ve always known it was there. Like something in your dreams, crouched, waiting behind you, waiting to snatch it all away from you.’