Chapter 10
10
I’m in my apartment, in my bedroom nook, and it looks like there has been a small explosion in my wardrobe, because it’s currently empty and every item of clothing that I own is everywhere . Jumpers are draped over the chair, jeans are strewn across the bed, and I don’t know how I managed to tangle so many bras together but I’m the proud owner of a ball of them apparently. It looks like I’m preparing for an Arctic expedition, but in reality, I’m trying to pack for a forced trip to a ski resort in France. Oh, and when I say it looks like I’m preparing for an Arctic expedition, make no mistake about it, I mean because I’m taking so much stuff, not that I’m remotely prepared for winter.
I have my Jon Snow coat, which is warm, but the fur isn’t really practical. My Ugg boots, which keep my feet toasty and are fashionable, but aren’t really for doing anything physical in. And I’ve packed various pairs of jeans and big jumpers, but I’m realising that I’m not exactly equipped for actual winter weather. I have cosy clothes, sure, but practical winter gear? Nope. I mean, I’ve got enough fluffy socks to open a shop, but no thermal layers. No waterproof gloves. Nothing that would hold up in a blizzard. I suppose I could always stuff my clothes with socks, to try to keep warm, because that will work. Not.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I mutter to myself, tossing another pair of socks into my suitcase.
The rest of my clothes are going to stay exactly where they are until I get back. I’ll just sleep on top of them tonight, if I have to. Tidying up can wait. It’s not like I’m going to have visitors before I go, while I’m away, or when I get back, is it?
Future Amber won’t thank me for it, she’ll be annoyed, but Amber right now can’t be arsed. It was hard enough dragging it all out.
My phone rings, and it’s a FaceTime call from Tom, so I grab my laptop to answer it on there, rather than balance my phone against a pile of clothes – not that I don’t have enough piles on offer to do it.
‘Hey, sis,’ he greets me, his face filling the screen. ‘Are you all ready for your trip?’
‘Oh, who wouldn’t enjoy being forced to fly to France right before Christmas to write a book they don’t want to write, staying with people who don’t really like them?’ I reply sarcastically, folding a scarf and shoving it into the corner of my suitcase.
‘You’re not flying to France, Amber. You’re flying to Switzerland,’ Tom points out.
I roll my eyes at him, staring into the camera above my laptop screen.
‘You know what I mean,’ I reply. ‘Anyway, you said you’d call me to tell me all about ski resorts, not to be a sarcastic arse. Come on, what am I getting myself into?’
Obviously I’ve looked up photos of the resort – and it does look beautiful – but I need the lowdown on these sorts of places from someone who has been (even if said person has only been a couple of times).
Tom leans back, thinking.
‘I actually think you’ll really like the place,’ he tells me. ‘Ski resorts are like these cute little villages, tucked away in the mountains, with cosy wooden chalets, snow-covered roofs, fairy lights everywhere, hot chocolate, plenty of alcohol – sort of like a Christmas card.’
‘I mean, plenty of alcohol just sounds like Christmas,’ I joke. ‘Tell me about skiing, because seeing as though you’ve been twice – and that’s two more times than I have – you’re technically the family expert.’
‘There are different slopes, ranging from beginner to expert,’ he explains. ‘Green slopes are for people who’ve never seen snow before, blue is for intermediates, red is for advanced skiers, and black is for the people who think they’re invincible.’
‘So I should stick to…?’
‘The lodge,’ Tom says with a laugh. ‘I don’t think skiing is going to be your cup of tea. But besides the slopes, there are the ski lifts and gondolas that take you up the mountain. They can be a bit intimidating if you’re not used to dangling from a cable high above the ground, but that could be how you thrill-seek. Better still, and definitely more your cup of tea, there’s the après-ski scene. It’s basically what everyone does after skiing. Sitting by the fire, live music, people drinking and laughing, and lots of socialising. Some places even have night skiing, where the slopes are lit up and you can ski under the stars. But don’t do that either. Absolutely no skiing at all, promise me?’
‘Why not?’ I ask, genuinely curious.
‘Because,’ Tom says with a smirk, ‘you’re not exactly known for your coordination. You’re the queen of hurting yourself on thin air.’
‘Name three occasions,’ I challenge him, half-smiling.
Tom takes a theatrical deep breath.
‘You closed the fridge on your hand, kicked your own shoe, and fell up the stairs running to the bathroom – and all of these happened last night, at Mum and Dad’s,’ he reminds me.
Yep, he’s got me there.
I laugh, shaking my head.
‘Fine, point taken. Maybe I’ll just stick to the lodge and the hot chocolate,’ I give in.
‘It’s for the best,’ Tom agrees. ‘But seriously, Amber, even without the skiing, it’s going to be great. Just soak in the atmosphere, relax, and maybe take some inspiration for your book.’
‘I’ll try,’ I promise. ‘Speaking of our parents, how are things?’
Tom’s smile fades a bit.
‘How can you leave me to deal with their post-pre-divorce announcement fallout on my own?’ he replies, half-joking, I’m sure.
‘Oh, I would love to be there if I could,’ I joke.
‘I was there for dinner earlier, and it’s not great,’ Tom admits, serious for a moment. ‘They’re sniping at each other, finding fault in everything the other person does. I actually get why they’re divorcing, if this is what it’s like. I couldn’t live like that.’
‘It’s sad, accepting it,’ I reply. ‘You think your parents will be together forever. Do you think they’re serious?’
‘I seriously think they will kill each other if they stay together much longer,’ Tom claps back.
‘I still think something must have happened,’ I muse. ‘They were ticking along just fine before. I’m not giving up hope yet.’
‘Easy for you to say when you’re pissing off to France to write porn,’ Tom retorts with a grin.
I laugh.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, and we’ll get through Christmas together,’ I reassure him.
‘Jokes aside, try to get your work done, and try to enjoy yourself,’ Tom says, his tone softening. ‘And keep in touch. But if you need more books reading for inspiration, ask someone else.’
I laugh again.
‘Will do. See you soon, Tom.’
‘Fly safe,’ he replies.
With my case finally packed, I flop into bed, to try to get some sleep so I’m not totally knackered when I get up in the morning. Tomorrow, I’m heading to France. Well, Switzerland first – I’m flying to Geneva – but then I’m heading to France, to the resort.
Lying in my bed, I can’t help but think about how ridiculous this whole situation is. I’m being shipped off to a ski resort to write a book I have zero interest in, surrounded by people who I’m sure would rather I wasn’t there with them, despite what Jen says.
And as though everything isn’t messy enough, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Caleb has got under my skin. I can’t seem to stop thinking about him – well, about his offer, more specifically. I googled it earlier and people with his level of followers can get tens of thousands of pounds per post, depending on what it’s for. Sure, I wouldn’t have made enough to retire on, but it could have paid my bills while I figured this book out. Then again, in publishing it’s all about momentum, and if I took time off then not only would I have probably never got back into it, but my readers would have forgotten all about me while I was taking my extended break.
Turning him down was the right thing to do – I think – not that I formally turned him down, more that I just ran away. I do feel sorry for him, though, and perhaps I would have helped him out, if I didn’t have to put myself first.
Nothing is ever easy, is it? Nothing can ever just be straightforward.
I close my eyes and try to shut off my brain. Sleep is something that has never really come easy to me. My mum always used to say that it was my creative brain, struggling to shut off. That’s a nice thought. Perhaps that’s why I relive arguments I had years ago, editing them as I go, thinking about how they could have gone better, or imagining future scenarios, and what I could do, what I could say – knowing full well I’ll never do what I ‘plan’ though. I’m all ideas and no action, not in real life anyway.
Okay, time to get this over with. I just need to get to sleep, and then get tomorrow over with, and then sleep again, and then just do that a few more times until eventually it’s time to come home for Christmas. When you look at it like that, it’s not so bad.
Somehow I don’t think it will go all that quickly, though, do you?