Chapter Fifteen
‘Lucy, wake up,’ said a man’s voice. She dragged herself out of a dream where she’d been waiting on the side of the road for a bus that Leo was on, but somehow he never arrived.
She’d had variations on the same dream for years – sometimes the bus drove straight past and she’d catch a tantalising glimpse of Leo through the window, and sometimes the bus stopped, but when she climbed aboard to sit with her brother, he’d disappeared.
Night after night of waiting for buses, so that she could talk to Leo about the morning that had tipped him over the edge.
To ask him why he hadn’t called her, or texted, or left a note, or done anything that might give Lucy some answers rather than this gaping, unfathomable void.
But Leo was always just out of reach, and the conversation never happened.
So she’d wait for the next bus, and maybe that would be the one.
She peeled open her crusty eyes to find Nate looming over her. ‘You need to come and look at this.’
‘What is it?’ she said sleepily, turning her head and clamping her lips together so he wouldn’t be subjected to her fetid wine breath. The loft had no windows so it was still dark, with the only light coming from the open door to the stairs and the floor below.
‘Come and see,’ he said, with the excitement of a little boy at Christmas.
She huffed and hauled herself out of a bed that was now nothing more than a synthetic membrane on the floor, scraping away the bits of hair that had stuck to her face.
She followed him stiffly down the stairs, noting that Gunther’s grey pyjamas paired with a white T-shirt really didn’t look entirely bad on him, even through a rancid hangover.
‘Look,’ he said, pulling open the curtains covering the window on the landing.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Lucy, recoiling from the dazzling glare and shielding her eyes.
It took her a moment to process what she was looking at.
She’d never seen so much snow in her life – it had entirely submerged the edge of the terrace, and the trees were groaning under the weight of it, with barely a branch visible.
It felt like some kind of extreme Narnia.
‘It’s stopped snowing,’ said Nate. ‘Hopefully that means we can get out of here today.’
‘Hope so,’ said Lucy, turning away from the sunlight scorching her eyeballs. ‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly half eight,’ said Nate. ‘I went looking for coffee, but then I saw the view and thought you’d want to see it.’
‘It’s amazing,’ said Lucy, not wanting to rain on his puppy-like enthusiasm. ‘I might go back to bed for a bit, though. My head hurts and I feel like shit.’
‘Me too,’ said Nate. ‘My tongue feels like an old blanket.’ He pulled a face, and Lucy decided she could probably trudge back up the stairs without causing offence. Mostly she was keen not to spend too much time in daylight until she’d found a mirror and assessed how terrible she looked.
‘If you find coffee, I’d definitely be interested,’ she called back. ‘Just black is fine. And also my clothes. Monica hung them in the bar to dry.’
‘OK,’ said Nate. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’
Lucy picked her way through the boxes and climbed back into bed, wishing she’d used the bathroom while she was downstairs, but not feeling desperate enough to go back down again.
She lay in the murky twilight of the loft and waited, trying to remember how she’d started the day before the advent of smartphones.
She’d been at school then, so presumably she’d slept until the very last minute.
But now she set her alarm for twenty minutes before she needed to get up, so she could ease herself into the day with her phone.
No actual news, obviously – nobody needed war and famine and politics at that time of the day.
She comfortably dozed off for a few minutes, until Nate reappeared carrying two mugs of coffee with a stack of Lucy’s dry clothes under his arm.
The loft was less murky now that the curtains downstairs were open and flooding light into the stairwell, so she was able to watch him navigate the tiny space.
He was barefoot and handsome even through crusty eyes, and she thanked the heavens that it was still dim enough up here to shadow her crumpled face.
‘You’re a legend,’ said Lucy, sitting up so she could take the mug. ‘What’s going on downstairs?’
‘Not much,’ said Nate. ‘Monica and Gunther are both up and showed me how to use the gas stove. No sign of anyone else.’
‘What’s the plan for today?’ She sipped the coffee, which was hot and strong and glorious.
‘Monica said we should all meet in the bar for breakfast at half nine, and they’ll give us a briefing. Gunther has a plan, apparently.’
‘Is it a plan for us both to be sipping wine by Lake Geneva by dinnertime, celebrating my fake birthday?’
‘I’m not sure,’ laughed Nate. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, which looked like it had survived the night and was marginally less airless than Lucy’s.
‘Other than a hangover, how are you feeling today?’ she asked, conscious that this time yesterday he’d been worrying (prophetically, as it turned out) about getting caught in an avalanche.
‘I’m OK,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It feels safe here, I guess. I’ve decided to look at it all as a big adventure. Something to tell the grandkids one day.’
‘Good decision,’ said Lucy, trying to imagine Sasha in the LUNA boardroom, feeding Nate’s baby in a mulberry silk Armani blazer. ‘They’ll probably make us do a presentation when we get back to Bristol, tell the team all about it.’
‘Yeah, might leave that to you,’ said Nate, pulling a face.
‘So there’s no breakfast until half nine?’ Lucy couldn’t tell if her stomach was rumbling from hunger, or still churning its way through a heady brew of J?germeister, red wine, cheese and ice cream.
Nate checked his watch. ‘Yeah. Forty-five minutes. I don’t think you’ll get a full English, but there’s definitely a continental option.’
‘I’m not sure I can wait that long,’ said Lucy, draining her coffee mug. ‘Do you think it would be rude to raid the kitchen for leftover cheese?’
Nate leaned over and plucked a paper bag out from under Lucy’s pile of clothes. ‘You could. Or alternatively, you may be interested in one of the pains au chocolat Monica gave me.’
‘Gimme,’ said Lucy, holding out her hand and hoping he couldn’t see how willingly she’d marry him right now.
‘Do you think we should take them downstairs?’ he teased, pulling the bag away. ‘I’m not sure eating breakfast in bed is very Swiss.’
‘Give it to me.’ Lucy flapped her hand at him. ‘It’s not like we’re sparking up a fondue.’
‘Yeah, but I’d hate to leave Gunther and Monica with mice in their attic.’
Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘Fine. I’ll put my T-shirt over my lap and sweep up the crumbs, then throw them outside later. Give it. It’s my birthday.’
‘Fine,’ laughed Nate, handing her the bag. ‘I’ll be sharing your tablecloth, if that’s OK.’
Lucy scooched up so Nate could sit halfway down her bed, unfolding her clean T-shirt and spreading it out between them like a picnic blanket.
‘Oh my God, this is heaven,’ said Lucy. It was a bit dry and clearly yesterday’s stock, but she could feel the layers of pastry soaking up her hangover, and the sweetness of the chocolate washing away the bitter taste in her mouth.
‘Mmm,’ said Nate, leaning over so all the flaky bits landed on the T-shirt.
He was close enough that she could smell the sleep on him; a warm, biscuity, comfortable smell that she’d never really encountered before.
She’d welcomed plenty of men into her bed over the years, but once the sex was over and everyone had spent an acceptable amount of time in recovery, she always slept alone.
This situation felt oddly intimate, somehow – the last man she’d sat on a bed and chatted to in a non-sexual capacity was Leo.
‘That was perfect,’ said Lucy, dabbing at the paper bag with a wet finger to get the final flakes of pastry.
‘Thank you.’ Nate brushed his hands together over the T-shirt, so Lucy could carefully gather the corners into a bundle and secure it with the hairband around her wrist. It would probably be better deployed taming her nest of hair right now, but needs must.
‘You’re welcome,’ said Nate happily. She waited for him to move, but he stayed where he was, both of them cross-legged and facing each other like they were six-year-old girls playing a hand-clapping game.
Lucy idly wondered what Sasha would think if she could see her boyfriend sitting on a bed with one of her team.
She wasn’t sure ‘we were trying not to get flaky pastry on the bedding’ would quite cut it.
‘While you were downstairs, I was wondering what people did in bed before smartphones,’ said Lucy, keen to keep the friendly conversation going before it drifted into some kind of sexual tension.
Nate raised his eyebrows and looked at her from under his floppy fringe. ‘Oh wow, Lucy – do you really not know? Do you need me to draw you a picture?’
OK, thought Lucy, that’s definitely flirting. I’m not imagining this. ‘You’re very funny,’ she said throwing him a snarky look.
‘So what’s your morning phone routine? What do you look at first?’
‘WhatsApp,’ said Lucy. ‘Usually early morning messages from my mother telling me things I mustn’t forget.’
‘Ha,’ said Nate. ‘What kind of things?’
‘The usual. Birthdays of cousins or neighbours I never see, reminders not to become a victim of the latest phishing scam.’ There was also often a late-night penis status update from Anthony, but Lucy obviously wasn’t going to mention that.
‘What else?’
‘My daily game of Wordle.’
‘Of course,’ said Nate. ‘You’re a writer. Every day?’
‘Yep. I’ve got a streak of nearly five hundred days.’ Lucy gasped and clutched her hand to her chest. ‘Shit, if we don’t get Wi-Fi back today, I’m going to lose my streak.’