Part 14 (1/2)
We all looked up: Marci was leaning over the balcony from the gallery upstairs, waving madly. She looked completely amazing but completely inappropriate in an orange velvet Lela Rose c.o.c.ktail dress with a huge silk ruffle at the neck. ”We're having the best time. Absolutely no one from New York's here,” she said. ”They're all in Antigua, poor tragic things.”
Just then Lauren strolled in, trailed by a tall, good-looking teenage boy. He was in ski pants, with the straps pushed nonchalantly off his shoulders. His matted blonde hair grew straight into his eyes, half-covering his face, which added to his cool allure. He couldn't have been more than fifteen years old.
”Have you met Henri?” said Lauren, with a wink. She was wearing faded corduroy pants and a huge cashmere sweater. She seemed extraordinarily relaxed, compared with the last time I'd seen her. ”Ooh! Gluhwein! Mmmm. Henri's going to introduce me to all the cute underage guys out here.”
”Non! I forbid it!” objected Camille.
”Maman,” huffed Henri. He poured a vin chaud for Lauren and one for himself, and stretched lazily into an armchair. From there he glared possessively at Lauren while chewing his blonde forelock.
”Sylvie, why don't you come up and see my new ski outfits,” said Marci from the balcony.
”Sure,” I said. ”Will you be OK without me for five minutes, Hunter?”
”I'll survive, but only five minutes,” he replied sweetly.
I followed Marci upstairs. When we were in the bedroom she said, ”What are you guys going to do for Hunter's birthday?”
Hunter's birthday! It was on Christmas Eve, and I had completely forgotten about it. I felt terrible. I had vaguely planned to do a surprise party back in New York, but with the last-minute Megeve trip it had completely slipped my mind.
”Well, maybe I could do a surprise party out here,” I said. ”Our chalet's perfect for a fun c.o.c.ktail.”
”It would be so cute. We'll help you,” said Marci. ”We've got three days till the twenty-fourth, which is enough time. It's going to be amazing. I've met so many new people here already.”
I was worried about Marci. Her mood was relentlessly upbeat, but it seemed forced. Surely she must be missing Christopher?
”Don't you love the off-vanilla of the ski jacket?” said Marci, showing off a piece of the gorgeous ski gear that she had bought at Jet Set in St. Moritz. Marci squished the jacket with her fingers. ”Isn't the down filling so...mmm...goodgey. Look, it has this little red star on the collar, which is very Jet Set, and the matching pants have another red star right on the s.e.xy part of your b.u.t.t-”
”Are you OK, Marci? Have you seen Christopher?”
”I am sure I saw that gorgeous Swedish Princess Victoria at Jet Set. It's the only place in the world that makes chic ski stuff. There isn't anywhere else you can get chinchilla s...o...b..ots,” continued Marci, holding up a cloud-colored fur boot. ”Aren't they to die?”
”Marci, what is happening with you and Christopher?” I said, serious.
”Sylvie, you are so sweet to be concerned, but actually, everything is...proceeding.”
”What do you mean, proceeding?” I asked.
”I've changed my mind, about becoming a divorcee. It's seeing all those pictures of movie stars shrinking into a swizzle stick when they've become single again. It's really put me off. I'm trying to gain weight now, can you imagine? Christopher's saying he wants to come back. So we're in...negotiations. Sophia's organizing the whole thing. She's been so sweet, talking to him and so on.”
”Sophia?” I hoped Marci didn't sense my lack of enthusiasm.
”Yes. She told me to get these. Look.”
With that Marci popped a pair of huge, Jackie O style sungla.s.ses on her nose. They looked even bigger than Nicole Richie's eyewear, if that's possible.
”From the Hermes store down in the Place de l'eglise. They're the only polarized Jackie sungla.s.ses in the world. You can ski in them. You can see three miles in them. Four hundred and fifty euros! But you feel so good skiing in them. I won't regret these. No.”
”Four hundred and fifty euros is a lot for a pair of sungla.s.ses.”
”I'm worth it.” Suddenly Marci took the Hermes shades off and looked at me with a mischievous smile. ”Listen, don't tell a soul this, but Sophia told me something.”
I looked at Marci, my eyebrows raised.
”She's having an affair,” she said.
”Sophia's always having an affair,” I remarked, blase.
”With a married man.” Marci put the gla.s.ses back on and turned back to the mirror, admiring herself. ”Hasn't she got the best taste?”
Who cared that I couldn't ski, I said again to myself as I regarded the Alps from the deck of the chalet the next morning. They really do look as fresh and clear as the pale blue mountains on an Evian bottle. I couldn't wait to be up there in the clear air.
”You're going to love it,” said Helene, the ski instructor Hunter had hired to teach me. She was twenty-three years old, with dark hair and intensely freckled skin. She'd appeared at 9 A.M. that morning to pick me up, wearing a bright yellow instructor's jacket, and a headscarf printed with strawberries.
”I'm excited,” I said.
We'd arranged to meet Hunter, who'd left very early that morning to ski a black run, at a mountainside restaurant, La P't.i.te Ravine, at midday for lunch.
Three hours later, a burning pain shooting into my foot, and with my right ankle wedged at a sharp right angle to my calf, I couldn't have been more desperate to get off the slopes. Why people called skiing a vacation I could no longer fathom: this wasn't a vacation, it was like being the guy who almost died in Touching the Void, I thought miserably as I tried to move. Two toddlers shot past me on mini-skis. How were they doing that, and why were they smiling? Didn't they know they were about to die? G.o.d, being married is a nightmare, I thought, feeling the agony sear up into my ankle. Suddenly, just because you're married, you have to join in a husband's life-threatening pursuits, like skiing, while they do not have to join in on your life-enhancing ones, like Pilates cla.s.ses.
”We must go up,” said Helene. ”Your husband is expecting us, and there's no way to find him now.”
”I can't,” I wailed miserably. Maybe I had fractured my ankle.
”Then we have to go back down in the car,” said Helene.
”I just...can we just stay here and...” I burst into tears.
Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. I twisted my stiff neck to find myself looking up into a man's mirrored sungla.s.ses. They belonged to Pierre, Sophia's ex-boyfriend from Paris.
”Pierre,” I groaned.
”Oh my G.o.d, are you all right?” he asked, concerned.
”She won't get up,” said Helene, with a frustrated sigh.
”Are you in pain?”
”Yes, and I promised to meet Hunter at P't.i.te Ravine. I can't even move.”
”Here,” he said, gently pulling me up with Helene's help. I managed to stand, shakily.
”You should go home. I'll go find Hunter.”
”Really?” I said gratefully.
Pierre nodded. Why Sophia had let this one go for a married man I knew not.