During the afternoon, somewhat to my surprise as I was convinced he’d be on to his next assignation by now, Hot Frog texts to say how much he enjoyed last night and would I be free to meet again after the show on Saturday?. Saturday will be the last night of my holiday. I text him back: ‘Bien sur. Pourquoi pas??’
In the context of men being like buses, ergo three come along all at once, I receive a text from Eurotrash inviting me to the theatre on Saturday night. I haven’t heard from him in weeks and he's probably got to the Ws in his phone book. I leave it for a few hours before replying. I should, of course, have ignored it altogether.
Your text interrupted my champagne lunch. I’m away skiing not back til Sunday.
Let him stick that in his fire and stoke it.
Friday. CBF has had a relapse; she’s been sick again and there’s a whiteout brewing, so I forsake my skiing and stay in the hotel to look after her. Hot Frog texts to say he’s in meetings with the Club Med head honchos all day and CC has gone off to ski for England.
At lunchtime, CC texts me: Some afternoon time alone with you is tempting me off the mountain early. I am battling through a blizzard towards you. 5 mins together would be so perfect…x
Heart pumping with all this male attention, I text back: Why only 5 mins?! and go into the bathroom to change into sexier undies.
I get CBF some pasta from the lunch buffet and take it back to our room. She looks and feels like shite but I make sure she's comfortable and settle her down for her afternoon nap. A curdling combination of exhilaration, anticipation and guilt mingles inside me like guests at some sinister cocktail party. Why does doing so wrong sometimes feel so right?
I bump into some other non-skiers in the hotel bar, reject the offer of a game of Scrabble with a guy who pulled a muscle Day One and has been hobbling around forlornly ever since, and I pace around waiting for some afternoon delight to materialize out of the mist.
CC arrives freshly-showered and changed and studiously ignores me as he helps himself to cheese and biscuits and a cup of coffee. He sits and chats with the others while he eats, then gives me the soupçon of a smile and a surreptitious wink, and we sneak away separately like naughty children escaping the teachers on a school outing.
(If this screwy ski trip is part of some pre-ordained Feast Cycle, I’d better embrace it for all its worth...for when the famine returns, which it will, I’ll only have the memories to feast on).
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