Chapter Twenty-One
When Lucy trudged back upstairs and turned on her phone, she found a message from Willem so she had his number, along with dozens of messages from, in order of volume, Jonno, her mum, Sasha, Anthony and Marco, then a handful of colleagues and a couple of old friends she hadn’t heard from in years, the ghouls.
All expressed varying levels of concern and disbelief about her predicament, and urged her to get in touch.
Lucy smiled at Anthony’s message, which just said Heard you were stuck on a mountain.
Need me to rescue you? and included a picture of him holding a chunky rubber torch instead of his penis.
How far had Alex’s videos spread for him to realise that Lucy was part of the drama?
Or had hers and Nate’s predicament been on the local news?
Her mind boggled at the thought of what had been going on while she and Nate had been obliviously having sex this morning.
Lucy cut and pasted the same I’m fine, back in hotel and home tomorrow to everyone, then left her phone charging and lay on the bed.
She wondered for the twentieth time in the past hour what Nate was doing now, but all thoughts eventually drifted to memories of him naked and horizontal and driving her wild with those beautiful hands that might not be able to play the piano, but had composed a symphony that had spanned the length of her body.
The confusion she felt manifested as a dull ache that was definitely not going to dissipate in this lonely hotel room.
She shivered, even though the room didn’t feel cold, and pulled the cuffs of her sweatshirt down over her fists.
Except it was Nate’s sweatshirt, not hers – she hadn’t had a chance to give it back in the rush of his departure.
She held the sleeve up to her face and breathed in the smell of him, wishing she could time-travel back to last night and the peace and contentment she’d felt falling asleep in his arms. Thoughts of what he’d said earlier about Leo kept creeping in, casting a dark shadow over the memories.
I need to get out of this place, she thought, focusing her mind on how to make that happen.
Jonno would be on a plane, Sasha was on her way to the airport with Nate and Alex, and there were no more flights back to Bristol today.
But there was three hours of Switzerland between her and the airport, and absolutely no reason why she needed to spend the evening in this oppressive room.
Kristoff, thought Lucy, grabbing her laptop from the desk by the window and finding a work email from him that included his mobile number. She copied it into her phone before she changed her mind, then pressed the call button.
‘Kristoff Berg,’ he said. She could hear classical music playing in the background, and the clatter of a spoon. She imagined him in an enormous kitchen, all glossy cabinets and chrome fittings, like a Swiss operating theatre.
‘Hey, it’s Lucy. From LUNA. Sorry to bother you.’
‘Lucy!’ he exclaimed. ‘So great to hear from you. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Back in the village.’
‘Sasha told me you were on your way. One hell of an adventure, right?’
Lucy gave a hollow laugh. ‘It was definitely an experience.’
‘And all that shit today with Nate and the viral videos, that’s been totally wild.’
‘Mmm,’ she said vaguely. Definitely not a conversation she wanted to get into right now.
‘You looking for Jonno and Sasha? They both left Geneva earlier. I’m here for a couple more days, then heading to New York.’
‘Yeah, I know they’ve gone. I can’t get a flight back until tomorrow.’
‘OK,’ said Kristoff. ‘What’s your plan?’
‘Actually, I was ringing to ask for your help. I kind of need to . . . not be in Zermatt right now.’
‘Totally get that,’ he said, and Lucy heard the air hiss of a fridge being opened. ‘PTSD is real.’
‘No, I’m fine,’ said Lucy, not wanting Kristoff thinking he needed to stage an intervention. ‘I’m just on my own here, and it’s . . .’
‘Yup, yup, got it,’ he said. ‘I’m going to organise a car now to bring you to Geneva.’
‘Please don’t go to any trouble,’ said Lucy quickly. ‘I can sort out transport myself, I just wanted to get your recommendation for a hotel.’
‘Totally, totally. Let me get my people onto it. There’s a local transfer firm we use, if you get the shuttle bus to T?sch now there’ll be a car waiting for you.’
Lucy paused, wondering if it was cheeky to ask for an extra half an hour so she could have a shower, then decided it could wait a bit longer. ‘OK, thank you,’ she said. ‘Any hotel is fine, please don’t go to any trouble. I really appreciate it.’
‘Get going,’ said Kristoff. ‘You’ll get a message with the details of the car. See you soon, Lucy.’
‘OK, thanks,’ said Lucy, as Kristoff ended the call.
She dropped Willem a message to say that she was leaving Zermatt but would stay in touch, then started sweeping all her belongings into her weekend bag.
A worry nagged at the corner of her brain, that maybe Kristoff was going to have her delivered to his house and she’d have to spend the evening being serious and professional, rather than falling asleep in a heap of bones and skin and swirling emotions.
But she rationalised that she could politely refuse his hospitality and find a hotel for herself – he was hardly going to take her hostage.
True to his word, when Lucy got to T?sch there was a car waiting for her; a glossy black Range Rover driven by a swarthy man with a beard, who took her bag and opened the door with nothing more than a nod.
That was fine with Lucy; the last thing she needed was three hours of inane conversation.
She briefly wondered how much Kristoff was paying to have her taken to Geneva in this executive drug dealer wagon, but decided he could probably afford it.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked as they pulled onto the main road down the mountain.
She asked first in English, and then when he shrugged helplessly, she took a moment to work out a version in French.
‘Où allons-nous?’ Probably terrible grammar, but he’d get the gist. German was entirely beyond her.
‘Genève,’ he said gruffly.
‘Où à Genève?’ she asked, crossing her fingers that his response wouldn’t be Chez Kristoff.
‘Les Armures,’ said the driver. ‘Un bel h?tel.’
Thank you, Kristoff, thought Lucy, frantically tapping Les Armures into her phone.
It looked like a gorgeous boutique hotel in Geneva’s Old Town, housed in a seventeenth-century building with bags of charm.
Google Maps said the journey time was three hours and the car was toasty warm, so she pulled off her coat, folded it into a pillow, and fell asleep.
‘Mr Berg has left a message for you,’ said the receptionist, handing Lucy a small envelope and her room key, along with a look that suggested she was questioning why a man like Kristoff Berg was leaving messages for a woman who looked like she’d slept in a bin.
‘Can I get someone to take your bag?’ Lucy shook her head and muttered a thank you, then hurried up the plushly carpeted stairs to her room.
She couldn’t help but gasp as she opened the door – it was a stunning haven of wood panelling and exposed brickwork and a huge bed with a rolltop bath at the end of it.
It smelled of expensive room spray and luxury bedding; exactly the kind of place that she’d book for a luxury night away.
She looked down at the envelope still in her hand, then kicked off her boots and sat on the end of the bed to read Kristoff’s note, which had clearly been pasted from an email and printed by the receptionist. Dear Lucy, he’d written.
I hope you like Les Armures, it’s my favourite hotel in Geneva.
The room service is great, so order whatever you want – it’s on Titan.
If you’d like to meet for a drink in the bar later, I’m still in town, but totally understand if you need some time out.
I’ve also taken the liberty of organising a car to take you to the airport tomorrow – it will pick you up at 1 p.m., you don’t need to check out before then. Best wishes, KB.
Lucy flopped back on the bed, feeling like she might cry with relief.
She’d order room service, have a bath, get up to date on everything that was going on in the world – including what was happening with Nate; there was no point pretending she wasn’t interested – then sleep for at least ten hours in this incredible cloud of a bed.
She could already feel herself drifting, so she pulled her phone out and tapped out a message to Kristoff. Am at Les Armures, it’s beautiful – thank you so much. Am going to crash this evening, but really appreciate all you’ve done.
He replied immediately with It’s my pleasure, safe travels tomorrow.
Right, down to business, thought Lucy, picking up the room service menu.
She called reception and ordered a goat’s cheese salad and a glass of wine for an hour’s time, then ran the bath with hot, foamy water.
It felt blissful to finally ditch the clothes she’d been wearing since Friday; even though they’d been handwashed twice in that time, they didn’t feel clean enough.
Just before she sank into the bath up to her chin, she called Jonno and put her phone on speaker on the side of the bath.
‘Lucy?’ he asked.
‘Hey, you,’ she replied with a smile, relieved as ever to hear his voice.
‘Ah, there you are. You still alive?’
‘I am. My mountain adventure is over.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘I’m in a fancy hotel in Geneva, in the bath, with Kristoff picking up the tab.’
Jonno laughed. ‘Wait, are you naked?’
Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘Very.’
‘Is Kristoff also in the bath?’
‘You’re so incredibly funny.’
‘Is he on his way over for pre-seduction martinis?’
‘No. He offered to meet me for a drink, but made it clear it wasn’t mandatory if I needed time out.’
‘Good man,’ said Jonno. ‘Where’s French Exit?’