Peter James - Love You Dead

The two lovers peered out of the hotel bedroom window, smiling with glee, but each for a very different reason.

The heavy snowfall that had been forecast for almost a week had finally arrived overnight, and fat, thick flakes of the white stuff were still tumbling down this morning. A few cars, chains clanking, slithered up the narrow mountain road, and others, parked outside the hotels, were now large white mounds.

Everyone in the smart French ski resort of Courchevel 1850 was relieved — the resort managers, the hoteliers, the restaurateurs, the seasonnaires, the ski-rental shops, the lift companies, and all the others who relied on the ski season for much of their livelihood. And, most importantly of all, the winter-sporters themselves. After days of blue skies, searing sunshine and melting snow, which meant treacherous ice in the mornings and slush and exposed rocks in the afternoons, finally the skiers and snowboarders, who had paid top money for their precious annual few days on the slopes, now had great conditions to look forward to.

As Jodie Bentley and her elderly American fiancé, Walt, put on their skis outside the boot-room entrance of the Chabichou Hotel, the falling snow tickled exposed parts of their faces beneath their helmets and visors.

Although a seasoned skier and powder hound, this was the financier’s first time skiing in Europe and he had been relying all week on his much younger fiancée, who seemed to know the resort like the back of her hand, to guide him.

They skied down carefully in the poor visibility to the Biollay lift, just a couple of minutes below the hotel, went through the electronic turnstiles, and joined the short queue to the chairlift. A couple of minutes later, clutching their ski poles, the wide chair scooped them up and forward.

Walt pulled down the safety bar, then they settled back, snug in their cosy outfits, for the seven minutes it took for the lift to carry them to the top. As they alighted, the wind was blowing fiercely, and without hanging around, Jodie led the way down an easy red then blue run to the Croisette, the central lift station for the resort.

They removed their skis, and Walt, despite suffering from a prolapsed disc, insisted on carrying Jodie’s skis as well as his own up the ramp to the lift. As a red eight-seater gondola came slowly round, he jammed their skis into two of the outside holders, then followed Jodie in. They sat down and pushed up their visors. They were followed by another couple and, moments later, just before the doors closed, a short man in his fifties clambered in after them, wearing a smart Spyder ski outfit and a flashy leather helmet with a mirrored visor.

‘ Bonjour! ’ he said in a bad French accent. Then added, ‘Hope you don’t mind my joining you?’ He settled down opposite them as the gondola lurched forward.

‘Not at all,’ Walt said.

Jodie smiled politely. The other two strangers, both busy texting on their phones, said nothing.

‘ Ah bien, vous parlez Anglais! ’ The stranger unclipped his helmet and removed it for an instant to scratch the top of his bald head. ‘American?’ he said, pulling off his gloves, then removing a tissue from his pocket and starting to wipe his glasses.

‘I’m from California, but my fiancée’s a Brit,’ Walt said, amicably.

‘Jolly good! Beastly weather but the powder at the top should be to die for,’ the man said.

Jodie smiled politely again. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

‘The south — Brighton,’ the stranger replied.

‘Good lord, what a coincidence! So am I!’ Jodie said.

‘Small world,’ he muttered, and suddenly looked uncomfortable.

‘So what line of business are you in?’ Walt asked him.

‘Oh, in the medical world. Just recently retired and moved to France. And yourselves?’

‘I have a group of investment trusts,’ the American replied.

‘I was a legal secretary,’ Jodie said.

As the small gondola climbed, rocked by the wind, the snow was turning into a blizzard and the visibility deteriorating by the minute. Walt put his arm round Jodie and hugged her. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t go too high this morning, hon, it’s going to be very windy at the top,’ he said.

‘The powder’s going to be awesome up there,’ she replied, ‘and there won’t be too many people this early. There are some really fabulous runs, trust me!’

‘Well, OK,’ he said, peering dubiously through the misted-up windows.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ the Englishman said. ‘Trust your beautiful young lady — and the forecast is improving!’ As the gondola reached the first stage, he waited politely for them to alight first. ‘Nice meeting you,’ he said. ‘Bye for now.’

The other couple, still texting, remained on the gondola.

With Walt again insisting on carrying Jodie’s skis, they trudged the short distance to the cable car. Normally jam-packed with skiers squashed together like sardines, this morning the huge cabin was three-quarters empty. Along with themselves there were just a few die-hards. Several boarders in their baggy outfits, two rugged-looking, bearded men in bobble hats, wearing rucksacks, who were sharing swigs from a hip flask, and a small assortment of other skiers, one wearing a GoPro camera on his helmet. Walt raised his visor and smiled at Jodie. She raised hers and smiled back.

He removed a glove, jamming it between his skis, produced a chocolate bar from his breast pocket and offered it to Jodie.

‘I’m fine, thanks, still stuffed from breakfast!’

‘You hardly ate anything!’ He broke a piece off, put the bar back in his pocket and zipped it shut, then chewed, peering out anxiously. The cable car rocked in the wind, then swayed alarmingly, causing everyone to shriek, some out of fear, others for fun. He put an arm round Jodie again and she snuggled up against him. ‘Maybe we should get a coffee at the top and wait to see if the visibility improves?’ he said.

‘Let’s do a couple of runs first, my love,’ she replied. ‘We’ll find some fresh powder before it gets ruined by other skiers.’

He shrugged. ‘OK.’ But he didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic. He stared at her for some moments. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you’re incredible. Not many people can look beautiful in a helmet and visor, but you do.’

‘And you look every inch my handsome prince!’ she replied.

He tried to kiss her but the top of his helmet bashed against her visor. She giggled, then leaned closer to him and whispered, ‘Too bad there’s other people on here,’ running her gloved hand down his crotch.

He squirmed. ‘Jeez, you’re making me horny!’

‘You make me horny all the time.’

He grinned. Then he looked serious again, and a tad nervous. He peered through a window into the blizzard, and the car yawed in the wind, then swung, almost throwing him off balance. ‘You have your cell with you, hon?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You know — just in case we lose each other in this white-out.’

‘We won’t,’ she said, confidently.

He patted his chest and frowned. Patted it again, then tugged open another zipper. ‘Jeez,’ he said, and began to pat all over the front of his stylish black Bogner ski jacket. ‘I can’t believe it, how stupid. I must have left mine back in the room.’