Sarah Pearse - The Sanatorium

She’d felt something strange, an unfamiliar mix of excitement and envy, a sense of having missed out on something indefinable, something she wasn’t even aware that she wanted.

In contrast, Will had been openly effusive, raving about the architecture, the design. He’d scoured the pages, then gone straight online to read more.

Over lamb Madras that night, he’d quoted details at her about the interior design: Influenced by Joseph Dirand . . . A new kind of minimalism, echoing the building’s history . . . Creating a narrative.

She’s always been amazed by Will’s capacity for absorbing this kind of intricate detail and fact. It makes her feel safe, somehow, secure that he has all the answers.

“Miss Warner? Mr. Riley?”

Elin turns. A tall, wiry man is striding toward them. He’s wearing a gray fleece embossed with the same silver lettering.

Le Sommet .

“That’s us.” Will smiles. There’s an awkward fumble as the man reaches for Elin’s suitcase at the same time as Will, before Will extracts himself.

“Trip okay?” the driver asks. “Where have you come from?” Scooping up the cases, the man hoists them into the back of the minibus.

Elin looks to Will to fill the gaps. She finds small talk like this an effort.

“South Devon. Flight was on time . . . never happens. I said to Elin that it’s Swiss timekeeping keeping EasyJet on point.” Will smiles—dark eyes rueful, eyebrows raised. “Shit, that sounded clichéd, right?”

The man laughs. This is Will’s modus operandi with strangers—neutralize them with a mix of sheer enthusiasm and self-deprecation. People are invariably disarmed, then charmed. Will makes moments like this easy. But then, she thinks, hovering behind him, that’s what first attracted her to him—it’s his thing, isn’t it?

Effortless.

To him, nothing’s insurmountable. There’s no bravado in it, it’s just how his mind works—rapidly breaking an issue down into logical, manageable chunks. A list, some research, a phone call or two—answers found, problem solved. For her, even easy, everyday things became something to be agonized over until they swelled out of all proportion.

Take this trip: she’d stressed over the flight—the close proximity to other people at the airport and on the plane, the possible turbulence, delays.

Even the packing bothered her. It wasn’t just the fact that she’d needed to buy new stuff, but the questions over what she should buy—what weather eventualities should be covered, the most suitable brands.

As a result, everything of hers is brand-new, and feels like it. Pushing her finger down her trousers, she tucks in the itchy label she meant to lop off at home.

Will had simply thrown things in his bag. It had taken less than fifteen minutes, but he still somehow manages to look the part: battered hiking boots, black Patagonia puffer jacket, North Face trousers just the right side of worn-in.

Somehow, though, their differences complement each other. Will accepts her and her foibles, and Elin is acutely aware that not everyone would. She’s grateful.

With an expansive, easy gesture, the driver slides open the door. Elin clambers inside, casting a sidelong glance at the back.

One of the families from the funicular is already there: a pair of glossy-haired teenage girls, heads down, watching a tablet. The mother is holding a magazine. The father, thumb to screen, is scrolling through his phone.

Elin and Will settle into the middle two seats. “Better?” Will says softly.

She nods. It is: clean leather seats; no loud, abrupt voices. And best of all, a marked absence of damp bodies packed tight against hers.

The bus crawls forward. Turning right, it bumps over the uneven ground and out of the car park.

When they reach the end of the road, they come to a fork. The driver takes the right turn, windscreen wipers moving rapidly to dislodge the falling snow.

All’s fine until they meet the first bend. With one quick movement, the bus swings around to face the opposite direction.

As the bus straightens with a jerk, Elin stiffens.

The road is no longer flanked with snow or trees, not even a strip of grassy verge. Instead, it’s clinging to the very edge of the mountain, with only a thin metal barrier between her and the vertiginous drop to the valley floor below.

Beside her, she feels Will tense, knowing what he’ll do next: he tries to cloak his unease with laughter, a low whistle between his teeth. “Bloody hell, wouldn’t fancy my chances driving this at night.”

The driver shakes his head. “No choice. It’s the only way to get to the hotel.” He glances at them in the rearview mirror. “It puts some people off from coming.”

“Really?” Will puts a hand on her knee, presses too hard, and gives another forced laugh.

The driver nods. “There are forums about it online. Kids have put videos up on YouTube, filmed themselves going around the bends, screaming. The camera angles make it look worse than it is. They stick their phone out of the window, point it over the edge, down the drop . . .” His words fall away as he looks intently at the road ahead. “This is the worst part. Once we’re through this . . .”

Looking up, Elin’s stomach plummets. The road has narrowed further, barely wide enough to take the minibus. The tarmac is a murky white-gray, shiny with ice in places. She forces herself to look toward the ragged horizon of snowcapped peaks ahead.

It’s over in a matter of minutes. As the road opens, Will’s grip on her leg eases. Fiddling with his phone, he starts taking photographs through the window, forehead creased in concentration.

Elin smiles, touched by the care he’s taking. He’s been waiting for this moment—the views of the landscape, the first glimpse of the hotel. She knows these images will be toyed with on his laptop later. Critiqued. Tweaked some more. Shared with his arty friends.

“How long have you been working for the hotel?” Will says, turning back.

“Just over a year.”

“You like it?”

The driver nods. “There’s something about the building, the history, it gets inside your head.”

“I looked it up online,” Elin murmurs. “I couldn’t believe how many patients actually—”

“I wouldn’t think too much about that.” The driver cuts her off. “Digging up the past, especially with this place, you’ll send yourself mad. If you go into the details about what went on . . .” He shrugs, trailing off.

Elin picks up her water bottle. His words echo in her mind: It gets inside your head.

It already has, she thinks, picturing the brochure, the photographs online.

Le Sommet.

They’re only a few miles away.

3

Sliding her phone into her pocket, Adele Bourg pushes her vacuum cleaner through the door of room 301.

Not that it’s actually called 301. Le Sommet is too . . . self-aware for that.

They’d rejected just about every Alpine cliché—the faux-fur chalet vibe, “traditional” menus—and that included getting rid of the mundanity of room numbers.

Instead, this room, like the others, is named after a peak in the mountain range opposite.

Bella Tolla.

Adele can see it now. Through the vast windows, its jagged summit punctures the sky. The sight burns. It was one of the last climbs she did before she became pregnant with Gabriel. August 2015.

She remembers it all: sun, a cloudless sky. Neon-framed sunglasses. The scrape of the harness against her thighs. The gray rock, cool beneath her fingers. Estelle’s tanned legs high above her, contorted into an impossible position.

Gabriel, her son, now age three, was born the following June, the result of a short-lived fling with Stephane, a fellow student and mountain lover, during a weekend in Chamonix. Everything stopped then—climbing, hiking, studying for her business degree, pissed-up nights with her friends.