They moved back inside their room and closed the French windows. Cassandra pulled her robe tighter around her body and hurried back up the stairs to the warmth of her room, knowing exactly what they were talking about.
Christmas Day passed quietly. Lunch was subdued after which Emma retreated to her room. By Boxing Day morning, she was desperate to get out of the chalet. Christmas had turned into a nightmare. Gstaad was still Gstaad of course, super-chic and chocolate-box pretty, but with all this pressure, Emma couldn’t even enjoy the view. She was aching to get up onto the slopes where she could be alone and clear her head. When she came down into the living room, she found Tom watching the television in track-suit bottoms, his feet clad in massive fluffy slippers, a Christmas gift from Cassandra which he suspected was a dig at his layabout status.
‘I’m going up to Les Diablerets,’ said Emma. ‘Do you want to come?’
‘Nah,’ he shook his head, sending crumbs from the croissant he was eating showering onto his sweater. ‘It’s Boxing Day, Em. A holiday – you’ve got to take these things seriously.’
‘This is a holiday for me – getting away from it all. And everyone.’
Tom pulled a sympathetic face.
‘Well, don’t wear yourself out too much. I’m taking you down to Greengos or Hush tonight. Your treat.’
Emma giggled. ‘Why not? Maybe I can bag myself a Eurotrash prince.’
The drive to Les Diablerets only took twenty minutes. The roads had been salted so there was no need for chains on the tyres. Emma loved being out in snow, and as she left the car and headed for the lifts, the air was so crisp the inside of her nose tingled. Les Diablerets wasn’t as smart or chic as Gstaad. There were no Hermès boutiques or world-class hotels, no tourists in fur coats and moon boots. She could never understand the snobbery and posturing attached to ski resorts: skiing was all about surrounding yourself with natural beauty and pitting your own body against the elements; it was not about the social scene. Consequently, Emma loved skiing on her own, going deep into the powder off-piste, feeling the wind in her hair, spray on her goggles, her thighs like pistons aching to stop. It was the same well-hidden streak in Emma that made her love cave-diving, a recklessness tempered by reason: she would take herself to the edge of her abilities, no more. This was why Emma had arranged for a guide to show her the best skiing, but steer her away from the real dangers.
Johann was tall and lithe, a proud German-speaking Swiss mountain guide who knew every run, slope and crevasse in a thirty-mile radius. He was also devilishly handsome, observed Emma, taking in his chiselled, if wind-chapped, features.
‘There is some fresh powder today,’ said Johann. ‘Avalanches are a possibility.’
Emma nodded; she had already seen the reports. Avalanche alert was on level 3 today: a threat but not dangerously so. Wasting no time on small talk, they stamped into their skis and Johann took off, Emma hard on his heels. Immediately, Emma’s world shrank to the stretch of snow directly in front of her skis. The roar of air in her ears, the exhilaration of the speed, the concentration as Johann led her in a series of sharp turns, it all blew everything else from her head. At first Johann skied at a fair pace, occasionally glancing behind to gauge her ability, but within minutes he was carving through the snow at full speed, confident Emma could handle everything he threw at her. She was grinning as he scythed to a halt at the edge of a cliff. In front of them across a gorge, Emma could see the jagged edges of even higher mountains, white velvet slopes broken with grey exposed walls of sheer rock. The air felt crystal clear and Emma felt her body and mind respond: she felt sharp and clear, unburdened by business worries or petty feuds.
‘You ski well,’ said Johann.
‘Thanks,’ said Emma, feeling her cheeks blush. ‘I’ve got a good guide.’
She stood drinking in the fabulous view for a moment more, trying not to notice Johann’s blue eyes fixed on her. The fitted white salopettes and bright blue jacket may have covered Emma’s slim, athletic body, but not even the fleece headband covering her ears and the large goggles could hide the striking angles of her face.
‘It’s quiet today,’ she said to fill the silence.
‘Holiday time. People come less for skiing and more for drinking,’ he smiled, then flipped his goggles down and plunged down the slope. Emma shot down straight after him, adrenalin rushing around her body. She felt free. This was when she felt truly alive, not staring at a spreadsheet or hammering out deals, but here, barrelling down a sheer face at 100 kilometres an hour. She was a natural skier, having learnt on these very slopes at Saul’s invitation throughout her childhood, and every time she took to the snow, she wished she could spend her whole life out here, surrounded by crisp white nothingness. Out here, she felt at home.
All too soon, the sun began to sink, the light was fading fast and the ink-blue sky was slashed with ribbons of gold and pink. Johann brought them back round to their starting point. As she stepped out of her skis, Emma considered it a day very well spent. The conditions and scenery had been perfect, plus Johann had made her feel good – capable and attractive. She pulled her goggles off and hung them over her arm.
‘Can I tempt you to a glass of Gluhwein?’ asked Johann.
Emma pointed to the car. ‘Driving, I’m afraid.’
‘Then perhaps a chocolat chaud?’
She almost licked her lips at the thought of it, imagining Johann’s strong hands wrapped around the mug.
‘I’m afraid my family have plans for supper,’ she shrugged.
‘Perhaps you will come up to Les Diablerets tomorrow, then? Here is my telephone number,’ he said, handing her a card. ‘Any time, day or night.’
‘I might just do that,’ she smiled.
‘Auf wiedersehen.’
She attached her skis to the roof of the car and took off her thick padded jacket to drive more comfortably. She pulled out and Johann lifted a hand to wave. Why am I such an idiot? she thought angrily. Why am I running back to a family who are trying to pull me down, when I could have …
‘Damn,’ she cursed herself. Maybe Rob Holland was right, maybe she didn’t know how to relax and have fun. She grimaced. That thought only reminded her of the day at the recording studios and her foot pressed down on the accelerator angrily. There were a few farms and chalets along the side of the road and although Boxing Day was a popular day for tourists flying in to the French Alps for the run up to New Year, there was hardly any traffic and once she was out of Les Diablerets it was almost pitch black. Emma thought of the folklore that Saul had once told her about the area. How the name Les Diablerets means ‘abode of the devil’ and how legend had it that lost souls drifted around the mountainsides at night carrying their lanterns. Slowly she became aware of headlights closing in behind her. The snow had started to fall again, so Emma hung back, waiting for the vehicle to overtake her. Instead, it came closer and closer until she could no longer see its lights. Then she jolted forward as the car behind touched her bumper.
‘What the hell?’ whispered Emma, tightening her grip on the steering wheel.
The vehicle behind bumped her again, this time with more force. As her mind searched for a rational explanation, she glanced down to check her headlights were on: maybe he hasn’t seen me here. Suddenly Emma’s head whipped forward as her car was slammed from behind. Her heart lurched; there was no mistaking the stranger’s intent, and in front of her the snow was coming down quite heavily now. She looked into the mirror, trying to make out the driver, but there was another shuddering crash and her car veered dangerously onto the gravel siding, as her bumper glanced off the crash barriers.