15
Rory pulls the car into a space by some tall fir trees, and I hesitate before I start to get out.
‘You good? It’s just a little walk through the trees, but I can’t drive any closer because the snow gets pretty thick this time of year.’
Thick enough to bury a body in, says the voice in my head, worrying again that I’ve been led to the middle of nowhere with no details to text my friends to help them find me other than ‘somewhere high up, lots of snow’.
I should’ve spent less time karaokeing to Bublé and more time memorising road signs.
‘Squirrel House.’
‘Hm?’ I murmur, not sure if I heard him right as I try to ignore my escalating panic.
‘Squirrel House, Fernley Road. That’s where we are so you can let your friends know. We’re at my house.’
‘Oh,’ I say, immediately relieved but also embarrassed that I’d let myself think he was a secret serial killer. Rory the Ripper does have a ring to it though.
I take my phone out of my penguin coat pocket and open my text thread with Tilly.
PSA that I’m not at the chalet right now. Yes, I got you more
biscuits. Address is Squirrel House, Fernley Road.
Three dots start to bounce before I turn my screen off.
Hang on, who are you with? Is that some kind of après club?
I go to type out my response, picturing the way she’ll freak out when she reads it, but the dots reappear and she beats me to it.
NO SHIT, Kevin heard me ask what the fuck Squirrel House is and
please tell me it’s true and you’re at RORY’S HOUSE?!
I can’t type anything because a series of messages ping through at such a rapid rate I can’t keep up.
This is amazing.
Hold on, are you going to shag?
What’s it like, send pics?
OF THE HOUSE, not of you shagging!!!
Meghan says remember to use protection.
I say remember to do that trick I taught you, the one where you put
both hands on
Her message ends halfway, and there’s a short pause before anything else comes through.
This is Kevin saying he’s confiscated your friend’s phone until she’s
made it to the bottom of the slope in one piece. P.S. tell Rory I said I
told you so.
I scroll back through the messages giving them a proper read, unsure what to think about Kevin’s parting words. My car door opens and Rory’s there, waiting for me to step out. I’m glad I put on my Moon Boots when my feet hit the ground and I sink into several inches of snow.
‘I’ve been told to let you know Kevin says I told you so,’ I say as he locks the car and starts to lead me through a gap in the trees. ‘Care to fill me in on that one?’
He lifts an arm to scratch the back of his neck whilst muttering something that contains the word ‘traitor’ and doesn’t meet my gaze, settling on the view of the trees ahead instead.
‘I may have mentioned that the reason I needed him to cover my shift today was so I could check up on someone. I said I’d probably be back within the hour, I just needed to make sure they were okay and that their injury wasn’t anything serious.’
‘And? What did he say?’
He frowns, walking a little faster as if he’s trying to get out of telling me the rest. ‘He told me that was bullshit. He guessed the person I was talking about was you, and he said that if I visited you, I’d end up being off slope all day.’
Well, I guess he was right about that, and I wonder how much Kevin knows about what happened between us.
‘And what did he think we’d be doing exactly? Buying biscuits to dethrone him as favourite instructor, then coming to your house?’
‘We’re here,’ he says, and I’m about to tell him off for avoiding the question when a house materialises in front of us. Or not house exactly, it’s a…
‘You live in a treehouse?’ I ask, staring at the two-storey construction nestled in a crescent of fir trees.
Calling it a treehouse is almost diminishing. It’s more like a fairy-tale castle version of one. Like Disney decided to build a house for Kristoff and Sven and this is what they came up with. Rugged, but cute.
‘For most of the year, yep I live in a treehouse.’
I wander forwards, taking in the outdoor staircase that spirals up to the first-floor balcony.
Above that is a second floor with another balcony, and massive windows covering the whole front of the building and facing out onto the open view.
‘You should see it when it’s dark,’ Rory says from somewhere behind me, but I’m too transfixed with trying to work out the intricacies of the structure to turn around.
A finger hooks under my chin, turning my head to focus again on that storybook staircase.
‘You see the fairy lights wrapped around the banister?’
I nod, careful not to move my head too much so his finger stays touching me.
‘They’re strung all around the edges of the balconies, so when it gets dark the whole thing lights up like a Christmas tree. You playing all those songs in the car made me think you might like it.’
His finger disappears from my chin and my chest deflates, but then his whole hand starts gripping mine instead. ‘Come on, I’ll give you the tour.’
I let myself be led slowly, my heart beating hard against my ribcage for every second his hand holds mine. I realise quickly that he’s only taken my hand to keep me steady because of my ankle, a fact I keep reminding myself of as he leads me up the stairs.
‘Wow, this is insane,’ I say once he’s opened the door, moving to where a tree trunk breaks through both the floor and then the ceiling above it. I run my hand up and down the bark, convincing myself it’s in fact real.
‘Cool, isn’t it? It was Kevin’s dad who had the idea for it. He’s an architect back in London and when I told him I wanted to build something here he jumped at the chance to work on a project outside of the city. Something meant to blend into nature, not stand apart from it.’
‘You guys must go way back,’ I say, curious to learn more about his life as I admire the rest of the house.
The kitchen takes up half of the space, every surface made from carved wood.
This whole building could’ve sprouted from the trees themselves.
The décor is minimal, but with enough homely touches to make it cosy.
Thick woollen throws are draped over a window seat that stretches all along the other half of the room, and I imagine curling up there with my sketchpad.
‘Yeah, Kevin and I went to primary school together, and before that our parents were friends when they were kids. His mum and mine met at art school.’
I freeze, and he notices how those last words caught my attention.
‘You’re an artist too? I thought you were drawing at the chalet.’
I continue staring at the blankets as I ponder how to answer, because it’s not a simple yes or no.
I think about how as a teenager that was my identity.
‘This is my friend Lottie, she’s an artist’ is how my high school friends would introduce me.
Above all else, my favourite thing to do was paint.
Give me a canvas, a palette, an assortment of colours and endless time, and I’d be content.
But then dreams gave way to practicalities.
Practicalities meant art turned from a career path into a hobby.
Painting gave way to pencil sketches, because I didn’t have the space or spare money to spend on proper equipment, and the view from my London flat of a dark alleyway people frequently stopped to piss in didn’t do much for my creativity.
‘Not any more,’ I settle on, smiling as I think back to older times, ‘but maybe once.’
I quickly change the subject by picking up one of the photo frames from the coffee table and holding it up.
‘Is this her?’ I ask, although the resemblance is so strong I know it must be his mum.
It’s quite shocking how many of the same features they share – from the colour of his hair to the sharp line of his jaw. And if not for those, the eyes would be enough of a giveaway. The same deep shade of brown, like the bark of the trees I was just admiring.
‘She’s beautiful,’ I say, seeing now where her son got his looks from.
No offence to his dad, who I can’t see in any of the photos, but his mum’s beautiful in such a carefree way.
‘She was,’ Rory says back, voice quiet as he stares at the photo too.
‘Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t…’ I try to think of something to say, but I feel like I’ve put my foot in it and it’s properly wedged in.
‘It’s fine,’ he says, finally looking away from the frame and batting his hand through the air like he’s trying to downplay it.
‘She died nearly ten years ago now, not that it’s gotten any easier, but it’s gotten more normal to be without her, I guess,’ he says, and I think I get what he means although I can’t possibly imagine how hard that must’ve been to go through.
‘Fancy a hot chocolate?’ he asks, pushing away from the countertop, and I’m thankful for the change of subject.
I wander over to the kitchen where a row of mugs hang in a line and select one which is white and covered with little paintings of skiers.
We’re both quiet while Rory boils the kettle, and I head out to the balcony where two metal chairs are positioned facing the view.
When the drinks are ready, he brings a throw from inside and the hot chocolates out to us, a swirl of whipped cream on top of both, and I thank him as I take mine.
‘Sometimes in my dreams, I imagine I did it. That I became an artist,’ I say, ready to elaborate on the short answer I gave him earlier.
I don’t normally talk about it, not even to my friends. Revisiting the reasons why I chose finance are never fun, and it always leaves me with so many ‘what ifs’, so I try not to think or speak about it. I don’t want to see it as a regret.
But Rory has shared something difficult and personal about his life, and I want to offer him a piece of mine in return.
‘So, why didn’t you go for it?’ he asks.
I take a sip from my mug, staring through the steam into the peaceful landscape beyond.
‘There were a few reasons,’ I say, deciding where to begin. ‘I guess a lot of it was because of my parents.’