‘I want to.’

  Will is actually good at blowing up balloons. The first one is up before I’ve even got mine out of the packet.

  ‘Wow, so who was it that was full of hot air?’

  ‘Watch it, lady, or I’ll have to sort you out.’

  ‘Oh yeah? You and whose army?’

  ‘I’ve always been able to sort out girls without an army.’

  ‘But you’ve never met a girl like me.’

  ‘Now isn’t that the truth?’

  ‘Reckon you’re up to the job? Men make poor losers.’

  ‘I don’t lose.’ He grins. ‘Reckon you’re up to being the underdog?’ He’s meeting my eye, and it’s me who looks away first. This jokey Will is hard to deal with. Especially when he’s looking at me so intently.

  Being the underdog actually sounds pretty damned tempting. Tempting enough to dry my mouth out. This is wrong. Will is not tempting. Will is just trying to be nice, to show me he’s not the infuriating stick-in-the-mud inflexible jerk Ed accused him of being.

  He’s holding his hand out. Is this some strange Canadian thing I don’t know about?

  Do I grab it? In front of children?

  ‘Balloon.’

  ‘Wha?’

  ‘Pass me another balloon. First to ten and I’ll give you a handicap of three.’

  ‘Nobody is handicapping me, mate.’

  Okay, I might have cheated. I may, just may (not admitting to anything here) have given him a balloon that I suspect might (just might) have been pierced with one of the drawing pins we’d used to put the decorations up.

  Well, he was six up, and all is fair in love and war, as they say.

  Chapter 19

  After all the excitement of yesterday, things feel kind of flat. An anti-climax. Everywhere is decorated, the tree a chaos of bright colours and the blow-up Santa looks like a bondage extra at the front of reception. Apparently, the wind can get up and Ed decided it was better to be safe than sorry. Well, that was his story, I think he’s done it on purpose.

  Poor Santa has his wrists and ankles shackled and appears (from a distance) to have a gag. Ed said he didn’t want him to start headbanging if there was a breeze, which I agree is inappropriate, but he certainly won’t be up to saying ho ho ho this year.

  The smell of holly, cinnamon and pine cones drifts through every room and candles shimmer in all the dark corners, sending a warm glow around the walls. And outside the snow is glistening. The cabin roofs have a dusting that’s more perfect than any icing on a gingerbread house, and when the moon and stars sparkle in the dark night sky the place truly does look magical.

  It looks perfect; I should be happy, and on the outside I am. I’m excited, and yet a tiny bit inside of me feels like a festive wasteland. Because it’s as amazing as it was when I first set eyes on the place, all those years ago. When the happiest of Christmases ended in a nightmare I could never have imagined.

  It has suddenly hit me, hard, that I’m almost back where I was then. I’m older and wiser, but inside I’m still a little girl who hurts. Blocking things out has been my coping mechanism, but right now I can’t.

  The place is also deserted, so there are no distractions. Everybody, it seems, has gone out. Will has gone to pick up food, and Ed is out on the slopes supervising.

  They’re all working up an appetite for Christmas and I feel a bit deflated. Flat. Everything is ready. Even the vegetables have been prepped for tonight, and a lot of the staff have been given time off to go and do Christmas shopping.

  All the cabins have a good supply of logs, the papier mâché snowballs have been appropriately stuffed (with alcoholic miniatures for the adults and chocolate for the children), the crackers are made and the presents are under the trees. Except I haven’t got any to put there, nobody to share with. Which could be what brought on the dull weight in my chest.

  There’s nothing left that needs doing.

  I am redundant.

  My spreadsheet has served its purpose, and I should be feeling triumphant. People are happy. Even Will and Ed seem to have made a temporary truce, and all threats of court action have been put on hold.

  But the flurry of messages that arrived an hour ago from Aunt Lynn made me realise just how much I miss her. That’s the trouble out here; my phone seems to give up trying to receive messages, then there’s a glut. Some of these were sent two days ago.

  Looking at all the brightly packaged presents didn’t help either.

  Christmas has always been about me and Lynn, about family and friends.

  On the last Friday before Christmas, we’d normally shut up the travel agency at lunchtime, go out for a boozy lunch with Sam, and then do some last-minute shopping, because you can never have enough baubles, and silly little gifts, and bows and ribbons to wrap them up in.

  Then we’d settle in for the evening with a bottle of bubbly, peel sprouts and wrap bacon around tiny sausages. We’d be laughing. Having fun.

  It is then, on cue, that the phone rings.

  ‘Happy Christmas, darling!’

  ‘But it’s not—’

  ‘We’re having it early, isn’t that fab? We’re just about to make breakfast then open the presents! We’re off in Ralph’s camper van for a few days on a trip down memory lane, and I’m not sure if the phone reception will be any good, and there’s no room for a tree or presents because of the dogs and the barbecue. What was that Ralph, darling? Oh yes, and my wine, lots of wine! So we’re having my proper English Christmas Day today, and then doing the Australian beach version on Monday. Isn’t that lovely? We’ve got a tree and everything. Have you got a tree? Oh, of course you have. They grow them there, don’t they? Are you enjoying yourself?’

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I am quite glad I can’t get a word in.

  ‘Have you opened your presents? Have you found the one I sneaked into your bag?’

  ‘I haven’t opened anything, Aunt Lynn; it’s only Friday and Christmas Day isn’t until Monday!’

  ‘I know it’s very early, but it’s definitely Saturday, love. You must be having a very good time if you’re confused! It’s Saturday, not Friday, and we always do things the weekend before Christmas, don’t we? It’s the same day everywhere, you noddle.’

  ‘Except that in Australia you’re hours ahead of us here. It’s still Friday.’

  ‘Is it? Are you sure? Oh. What was that?’

  ‘I told you, you daft bat.’ I can hear a voice in the background. Presumably Ralph.

  ‘What day did you say it was, Sarah?’

  ‘It’s Friday, and it’s only . . .’ I check my watch, even though I know what time it is. Today has passed in super slow slow-motion. ‘Two o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘Really? Ralph’s right then, we’re sixteen hours ahead of you! Would you credit it?’

  For a woman who has made a living out of travelling to different countries, Aunt Lynn can be a bit odd at times.

  ‘Well, anyway, we’re off on a little road trip and it might be hard to call you, so I thought I’d ring now. You’re so hard to get hold of. I’ve sent umpteen messages, haven’t I, Ralph? I thought, what with our dodgy internet, and you gallivanting about and enjoying yourself, we might not get a chance on Monday, which will be Sunday where you are anyway! I mean which day do I say Happy Christmas on?’

  ‘I’ve not been gallivanting. I just didn’t get your messages until an hour ago. The reception here’s terrible. They all came through at once and I was just reading them.’

  ‘Oh well, never mind, dear. But I did want to check you were okay.’

  ‘I’m good; I’ve done exactly what I needed to and the place looks brilliant. You’d be impressed!’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I would, darling, but not surprised. You always do a good job of whatever you set your mind on. Send me photos – I’d love to see if it’s how I remember it. I’m going to take the present from you with me, but did you find mine?’

  ‘What present? We’ve already swapped presents?’

  ‘Just a little something, dear. I put it in that pocket on the end of your bag, inside the zipped up bit where I put your fizzy tablets.’

  ‘Fizzy tablets?’

  ‘For the hangover on Boxing Day. I was sure that way you’d find it! Oh well, I better go. You will ring, won’t you, and wish me a Happy Christmas properly? I mean, you might not be able to get hold of me, but Christmas won’t be Christmas if we can’t at least say Happy Christmas, will it?’

  ‘It won’t. Of course I’ll call. I’ll try on Christmas Eve, before I go to bed, because it’ll be Christmas Day there.’

  ‘Lovely. That’s all I want, Sarah. Bye for now then, darling.’

  ‘Have a lovely day.’

  ‘We will, dear.’

  I don’t ask how Ralph is, because he’s obviously there, listening. And if you’re dying you don’t want to listen to people talking about it, do you? Especially on your pretend Christmas Day, when you’ve been reunited with your long-lost love. At least, I think that is what Lynn is.

  ‘Has everything worked out okay there, darling?’

  There’s a question in her voice. I can tell she’d been undecided about asking, then couldn’t help herself.

  ‘It’s great. I mean, Will is a bit of a grump, but quite nice underneath when you get to know him. And his brother Ed is a real womaniser – you’d love him, he’s cute, too.’

  She laughs that lovely throaty laugh that I’ve missed.

  ‘And you’re all right? I’m sure it’s been a bit strange, you wouldn’t be human if . . .’

  ‘Of course, I’m all right! I told you, it’s perfect here now; we’ll soon get people flooding back and loving the place.’

  ‘Sarah.’ Her voice is soft. ‘I’m asking about you, not the resort.’

  ‘I’m fine. Honest.’ It comes out slightly too bright, but luckily she doesn’t comment.

  ‘Well, good. You can always call me, you know.’

  ‘I know. I will.’

  ‘And do send me some photos, won’t you? I’d love to see what the place looks like now. Is Bear Cabin just the same?’

  ‘Not quite.’ I haven’t told her about the kennels yet. ‘But the rest of the place is – I don’t think some of it has been changed at all since the seventies!’

  ‘Oh, how wonderful! Well, I better say bye for now, darling, have fun tonight, don’t do anything I wouldn’t!’

  ‘Miss you.’

  ‘Miss you too.’

  So this is it. My first Christmas without Aunt Lynn, and she’s started without me.

  The place is looking much more like I remember it now, cosy and inviting. Beautifully festive. So it makes it even more strange that I’ll be spending the day on my own. Well, not on my own. Tina and her family are lovely, and Ed is funny, and Will seems to have lightened up.

  But I need to get out. Just for a little while. I need to be able to see this as a new beginning. I’ve not exactly gone back in time, but it’s all a bit déjà vu and it’s up to me to make sure that when I leave this time, I do it my way.

  Aunt Lynn was right, she always is. I need to face up to the past before I can draw a line under it, not just block it out as I have been doing.

  Except I’m not quite sure how to do that, I’m not sure I can ever find peace with one particular part of my past. I’m not sure I want to.

  I grab my snow-boots. I have a job to do. Aunt Lynn wants photographs and she’s going to get some. I’m going to make new, sparkly, happy memories. My way.

  Chapter 20

  ‘What do you think, Rosie?’ Rosie licks my hand. We’re mates, she understands the unspoken words. If I knew how to harness the dogs and sled up and had somebody to hold them until I was ready, and knew they wouldn’t charge off without me, and could remember which order to put them in, and how to stop and start them, then a ride would be perfect.

  I know none of that, though. I wasn’t concentrating when Will did it. And I’m pretty sure that if I try I’ll either end up strangling a dog, being dragged off up the track on my bum or suffering a nasty death by garrotte. Not a pretty sight for any late-afternoon skiers who might find me.

  I glance over towards the shed. The one that houses the snowmobile.

  It twinkles at me in the sunlight. Offering an invitation. Come and have fun, I’m your friend!

  Ed let me drive when we went out the other day. The man is a bit of an adrenalin junkie, which suits me fine. On a snowmobile I can cope; it’s a bit like a motorbike, but more fun. On a snowmobile I feel a bit like I do when I’m surfing, totally free and unencumbered. Which is definitely not how I feel on skis or a snowboard.

  It’s what I need right now. To go fast. To head down a path of my own making. And taking a few photo’s here is one thing, but I think I’ve exhausted the cute cabins and snowdrift theme, and I want to take shots inside this evening when all the candles and fires are lit, and there’s a hot chocolate at hand.

  I raid the shed for boots, snowmobile suit and helmet, and leave my mobile on the side. The reception is pretty crap round here anyway.

  I pat my pocket, check that the small package is in there. It’s the present from Lynn, and I really want to open it today, on my own, not when I’m sitting around a Christmas tree with friends I’ve only just met. That way I’ll feel like I’m sharing her early Christmas Day with her.

  Rosie barks as I start up the engine, then puts her head on one side and whines.

  ‘I won’t be long. Promise.’ She paws at the ground, then lies down, her gaze never leaving me. ‘Shh, don’t tell anybody.’

  I set off up the track slowly, not wanting to disturb the peace, and wanting to take in my surroundings properly. Let the breathtaking scenery work its magic on me. The trees are heavy with snow, the air clean and crisp, and as I head up higher the layer of sadness starts to lift. It would have been nice to share this place with Aunt Lynn, though. She’d love it.

  I draw to a halt. The heavy snowfall finished some time ago, leaving the ground new and untouched. All around is a beautiful blanket of untouched, sparkly whiteness that takes my breath away, even though I am feeling down.

  Living in a place like this must be incredible. I can understand Will’s frustration that all this splendour isn’t enough for the people that come here. That they want entertaining. But it’s all about expectations, isn’t it? Sometimes we can’t see the beauty in the things we haven’t asked for, we only look for what we expect, what we thought we were promised. And our disappointment at the little niggles clouds over the wonderful parts of life until we can’t see them.

  Where do I go now? Ed took me to the Halfway Cabin when we were out, a place where they stored some gear in case of emergencies, when they were taking more experienced snowboarders and skiers further up the mountain. It wasn’t too far, and I know roughly the direction, so it will be easy to find. There were blankets there, and I know that’s where I’ve been heading, even if I didn’t admit it to myself. I can sit and get my head together and get myself in a festive mood. Then it will all be splendid when I come back and join in the Christmas celebrations. I’ll have blown away the storm clouds and will be able to appreciate the glimmers of sunshine.

  One thing with this place, it’s dead easy to get your bearings. There are landmarks of the lake, certain mountain ridges, copses of trees. So I know exactly where I’m heading.

  When I came with Ed, I started out at a potter, feeling my way, until I could speed up, pushing myself to the limit, whooping as we carved a new track through the snow, letting the adrenalin course through my body. But today I feel the haunting beauty of the empty space, a nothingness that reflects what I feel in some little bit of me, deep inside. I hate the feeling and being sorry for myself. It’s stupid, it’s a waste of energy, a waste of life, but sometimes it creeps up on me, settles in my gut, and I don’t want it to. I want to escape. Find a way of leaving it behind. Which is why I’ve always tried to fill my life with work, friends, happiness.

  The feeling’s still niggling in my gut, but I’m leaving the resort behind as I climb the slopes, the snowmobile carrying me effortlessly until I slow right down to a stop and catch my breath, gazing down at what I’ve left behind.

  The Shooting Star Mountain Resort nestles below. I can pick out the kennels, the cabins – my cabin – and the place has a weird pull on me. I like it. I didn’t expect to feel like this when I came back; I expected to feel sad, or angry, but I don’t. The place itself is beautiful. It’s just me that isn’t.

  I’m the one who wasn’t good enough and was left behind. The one who doesn’t belong even now. Would my parents love the grown-up Sarah more, if they came back now? Would they be proud, like Aunt Lynn is?

  Maybe I just need to believe they would; maybe I’m heading to the Halfway Cabin because it doesn’t hold those old memories. Mum and Dad never visited there. Maybe it’s the place I can face up to what happened and make a fresh start. Maybe Will and I have more in common than I’ve realised, both working hard to paper over the hurt rather than facing up to it. When I see him backing away from me, it hurts, but maybe that’s what I’ve been doing. Avoiding any kind of relationship that might hurt me, where I might get rejected.

  And Will saying no hasn’t finished me off.

  Maybe, just maybe, being here on my own has made me realise that being me is enough.

  So many maybes.

  I turn back and start up the vehicle again. Except I don’t. Or rather, it doesn’t. It splutters and dies. Then ignores me when I try again. It ignores me even when I jump up and down and kick it.

  If I had one of Ed’s tea trays I could just sale down the slope, ha ha, except I don’t want to anyway. I want to go to the tiny Halfway Cabin.

  It’s where I have to be. It’s my new start.

  I am not going to let this place beat me. Jumping off the snowmobile doesn’t go as well as I’d hoped, though, I’m swallowed up by a snowdrift nearly to my knees.

  Oh, my God, this stuff is deep! I’ll be swimming in it soon. Actually, a bit of front crawl might be the way forward, except somebody might see and that would be a bit embarrassing.

 

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