“And that will do it,” Barnes interjected. “Thank you, everyone. Enjoy the slopes.”
Nick, Freddie, and Richard shooshed swiftly away, giving off the convincing air of resuming a jovial family adventure, even though Nick had actually spent the morning popping Nurofen between sips of the darkest coffee he could make. (Our chalet—still minus Gemma, who never left Africa, to Clive’s dismay—had only even woken up forty-five minutes ago after a long night of compensating for the lack of nightclubs by inventing drinking games, like the instant classic, Take Three Sips If Anyone Does Anything. That any of us has a working liver left is a miracle of body chemistry.) But as Gaz, Cilla, Clive, and I huddled around our ski maps to figure out where to meet later—and in my case, what runs I could take without breaking my face—my mind wandered to what mood Nick would be in when he reappeared. Because the Daily Express was onto something, somehow. I knew our sneaking around was on borrowed time, but I hated that it might’ve run out when I was stuck in an enclosed space with his less-than-welcoming relatives.
“He’s with which one?” I heard Agatha hiss as she and Awful Julian tumbled inside after kicking off their skis.
“The one in that terrible sweater,” Nigel rang out.
I suddenly felt several eyes in the cabin turn to me.
“The American?” Agatha breathed, in the same tone of voice as you’d expect from someone saying, The Satanist? “I thought she was just some fancy of Clive’s, or I wouldn’t have been so kind to her at dinner.”
I nearly spat out my coffee. Agatha seemed to approach the world as if people she didn’t care to acknowledge therefore automatically did not have the privilege of hearing her.
“Her sweater looks like vomit, Mummy,” Nigel prodded. “It hurts my eyes.”
“He’s a wonderful argument for birth control,” Gaz muttered.
I looked down at my sweater. “Is it seriously that bad?” I asked. It was a thank-you gift from Joss for being her fit model for her latest fashion school project, and I was trying to be supportive.
“It is a bit…scribbly,” Cilla allowed, gesturing to the neon scrawls knitted into it.
“Nicky! Nicky! You’re not really seeing the American in the terrible sweater?” Agatha wailed.
I looked up to see Nick, Freddie, and Richard shaking snow off their boots inside the cabin. Nick and I made eye contact, but for once, his face was inscrutable to me. I plastered an expression on my face that I hoped looked confident rather than arrogant or smug. Jumping into this wouldn’t help anything, but I also wasn’t going to let them shame me into staring at the floorboards so they could add poor posture to my list of obvious faults.
“I can assure you my son is not seeing anyone seriously,” Richard said, with a pointed look at Nick. “And certainly not the American in the terrible sweater.”
“Told you it was horrible,” Nigel singsonged.
“Bit saucy, American girls, eh?” Awful Julian said, wiggling his eyebrows at Nick.
“Nick can see anyone he wants to,” Freddie insisted. “It’s not like Bex is going to topple the dynasty.”
“You will not engage me on this here,” Richard said.
“Just leave it, Freddie,” Nick hissed.
“Why should I let him be such a prick about it?” Freddie asked. “Why do you always—”
“Just leave it,” Nick said frostily.
I remember once waiting for the Tube and thinking, as its oncoming headlights gleamed brighter in the tunnel, I could just jump. Not because I wanted to die, but because sometimes your mind dangles the worst-case behavior in front of you specifically so that you can be aware that you’re choosing to resist it. They call them intrusive impulses, and mine stacked up high: throw my arms around a clearly reeling Nick; scream at Nick that Freddie was right; smack Richard upside the head and ask him why he was such a raging douchelord; take Agatha and Nigel and crack their skulls together like the Neanderthal they apparently thought I was. Instead, I casually studied my ski map as if none of this was unfolding in front of me. I just wish Clive had told me sooner that I’d been fake-reading it upside-down.
Suddenly, Gaz patted his stomach. “I’m famished,” he said loudly. “Anyone care to dive into some fondue? My treat.”
“Not likely. You’d faster see a yeti than Gaz with cash,” Cilla said.
As they bickered, Clive gently turned us all toward the door as if it were the most natural time in the world to take our leave. As the three of them swept me out of there, I heard Agatha’s voice.
“Oh, Nicky, just don’t go off and get engaged until I’ve at least introduced you to Ursula Northrop-Cumber’s daughter Ruth,” she pleaded. “She’s so aristocratic. She speaks four languages!”
“I’m not getting engaged, Agatha,” Nick said firmly, and that was the last thing I heard before the door slammed behind us.
There was something undeniably awkward about hearing him say that so staunchly, particularly after Bea’s lecture the previous night. Cilla seemed to feel like she had to distract me from it, dispatching Gaz and Clive in the direction of the ski lift and regaling me over lunch with the latest details of her on-off relationship with Tony. He had not been invited to Klosters, most likely to prevent headlines like PRINCES HIT POWDER WITH SOHO COKE HO.
“He swears it’s his business partner who’s doing it,” Cilla said, poking at her bratwurst. “I know you think it’s mental of me to still be with him. He’s just a sight better than any of the blokes ’round my sister’s village. And nannying her children takes it out of me. All I want is a bit of fun when I’m in London.”
“But there might be plenty of fun guys who don’t also potentially sell drugs,” I said.
“Is my bar that low?” she groaned. “Am I turning into Joss?”
“Just as long as you don’t start giving me sweaters,” I told her, a rueful glance down at my own. It was not the last time that my wardrobe would publicly be found wanting.
Nick caught up with Cilla and me as we were strapping on our skis for another run. He had changed into an orange ski suit with green piping, and with that and a knit cap and goggles, he looked totally anonymous.
“Irish colors?” I asked. “Interesting pick.”
“They’ll never expect it,” Nick said.
The three of us carried our skis to the enclosed gondola and rode it all the way up to the top, passing quaint mountainside cafes and looking down at skiers of every ability carving through the fluffy powder, and occasionally wiping out. In fact, we were about to disembark when a round-looking figure careened down one of the steeper runs, totally out of control, screaming as he went past.
“There goes Gaz,” Cilla observed calmly.
He rolled like a ball and then skidded to a stop, spread-eagle, in the snow.