Five Ladies Go Skiing: A feel-good novel of friendship and love. Karen Aldous

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      Ginny got a woolly hat from her wardrobe that matched her sweater and peered across the landing and then mouthed back to us. ‘She’s on the phone.’

      Ten minutes later, parched but reluctant to open more wine and tummies rumbling for food, we climbed the icy path up to the road and along and towards the square we needed to cross to La Poste, the restaurant I ate at last night. Ginny walked beside me whilst the others followed.

      Ginny looked up at the navy sky. ‘So pretty here, isn’t it? Look, a full moon. Lots of stars. And over there, the long shadows of the tall trees on the snow.’

      I craned my neck to see, following the moonlight then immediately above us saw the hundreds of tiny twinkling stars.

      ‘Kim, look there, what are those lights? They’re moving,’ she said, pointing to the middle of the mountains.

      ‘Oh yes, they are moving. No idea. Mountain ghosts?’ It came out of my mouth before my brain engaged.

      Ginny pursed her lips. ‘Hmm. You never know. Maybe it’s Mike driving up and down furious that I’m skiing.’

      ‘No. What – social animal Mike? Don’t be silly. He’d want you to be out enjoying life. Wouldn’t you, if it was the other way around?’

      Ginny twisted her mouth, pausing the conversation. ‘Of course I would. Maybe he’s having a bad day up there.’

      We sniggered but I could see Ginny’s eyes glistening. I patted her arm. ‘Sorry, Gin, I hope it’s not upsetting you.’

      She sniffed. ‘No, not at all, not upset, it’s just I get little bursts of sadness that well me up suddenly. It happens now and again.’

      We were here to cheer her up, but it was good she was opening up. Since she had stayed with me in Australia, where she had space and a chance to let out her grief and tears, she hadn’t given much emotion away over the telephone. ‘Do you still get angry or emotional – that it happened to you and Mike, I mean?’

      I watched her as she stared down at the frosty pavement. ‘I curse him all the time for leaving me on my own. Things – just simple things we used to do – like walks in the park, through the trees, driving down to the coast for lunch, jumping on a train to London to the theatre. I miss them. I was thinking the other day, when I was Christmas shopping. He used to love picking out the kiddie presents. He had a knack for knowing what they’d like.’

      I put my arm around her, squeezing her into my chest as we walked. ‘Oh, my beautiful friend, my amazing Pommie flower, you don’t know how much I’d love to be around to help you. I would be angry too.’

      I wanted to cry. How I yearned to be able to help her through all this. She had changed my life for the better and I wanted so much to repay her.

      Ginny kissed my cheek. ‘I’m going to be fine, really. It’s just that sixty-one was way too young for him to go. I was bitter because he was a healthy, fit man with children and grandchildren and he did nothing particularly indulgent like smoking, taking drugs or even drinking that much. Beer with the boys a few days a week. A beer before dinner and wine with dinner. Not excessive, is it? I know he wasn’t an angel, but he didn’t deserve cancer.’

      I threaded my arm through hers. ‘I know, chook, such a waste. So unfair, isn’t it?’

      ‘It is. I miss him terribly,’ Ginny said softly, then she straightened her back and lifted her chin. ‘But I’ll get there. I am getting there. Especially with you lovely Flowers spoiling me. Mike would appreciate the support you’ve all given me too. And how much you all care. As I do.’

      ‘He was awesome,’ I said, leaning against her, and snuggling close. Ginny was right, he would be demonstrably thankful. He loved nothing better than to rally everyone together in or out of crisis. Mike was the golden boy. Good-looking, athletic, clever, and one of those people who could strike up a conversation with anyone and win their respect. He reminded me of Don Johnson playing ‘Sonny’ in Miami Vice – particularly in the summer months when his skin browned and the sun splashed his hair with honey tones. I could understand why my younger sister Paula had a crush on him. After all, we probably all had a crush on him really. But he only ever had eyes for Ginny.

      When he was sixteen – and Ginny, Lou, Cathy and I were fourteen – I remember Paula, barely pubescent, just twelve, blabbering because Mike had asked Ginny out on a date. Infatuation was putting it mildly. She would hang around outside Mitcham’s, our local youth club, a couple of nights a week, then monthly at one of the school discos we all went to, usually with her friend Lorna. The pair of them resembled clowns, made up in frosted powder blue eye shadow, clumpy mascara, slapped-on rouge, in their mini-skirts, like a pair of groupies stalking a rock god. It was highly embarrassing. I wanted to disown her as much then as I do now.

      I found myself repeatedly apologising to Mike and Ginny. Fortunately for me, they tolerated my silly sister. But even when Mike, along with most of us, told her she was wasting her time, our words fell on deaf ears. She didn’t understand humiliation. Getting his attention was enough for her. He was very patient, considering. As was Ginny.

      * * *

      As soon as Ginny and I walked into the restaurant, we were greeted by a wave from Stefano, the owner who must have recognised me.

      ‘Bonsoir, Stefano.’ I waved back and looked around the room. It was heaving. The waiters rushing back and forth.

      Ginny shrugged beside me. ‘Will we get a table here?’ she asked, reading my thoughts. ‘Such a lovely place.’ Her gaze circled the room. ‘It’s just how I imagined an Alpine restaurant.’

      Ginny was right: it had a traditional authenticity that brought a warmth and charm to its big exterior structure. Wood everywhere with cottage-style windows, which although double-glazed, blended in as you would imagine the originals had done. They were dressed in tied-back red check curtains and café nets. On the sills were modern pewter figurines of climbers or skiers, whilst gracing the walls were framed photographs of bygone years, as well as of visitors to the restaurant and Stefano’s expeditions. And the silky worn flagstone floor added to its history and solidity, bearing the weight of built-in wooden benches and long banquet tables now filled with Savoyard delights for its hungry diners.

      ‘Bonsoir, ladies.’ Stefano came towards us. ‘I have table in ten minutes.’ He pointed to the only circular table, which nestled comfortably in the front corner. ‘Come.’ He raised his arm as if he was going for a swim, beckoning us to follow. As we reached one side of the bar, he called to his barman who promptly supplied him with a bottle of red wine and Stefano took a corkscrew from his pocket, popped the bottle open and placed it on a very small table close to the bar. ‘On the house. I get glasses,’ he said, racing back to the bar and at the same time giving a friendly wave to a group leaving a side entrance.

      ‘Oh, shit,’ Lou said suddenly, scuffling to stand on the other side of me and ducking to make her taller frame smaller.

      Stefano brushed between us with five small wineglasses clutched between his fingers and, twisting his hand, he placed them steadily on the table. ‘Enjoy the Gamay. I call you soon,’ he said, dashing off.

      ‘What is it?’ I asked Lou, curious.

      She squinted her eyes and moved her head side to side. ‘Oh, I’m not sure, no. I thought it was someone … don’t worry, СКАЧАТЬ