Chalet Girls. Lorraine Wilson

We all know how embarrassing that was the last time!

      So please email, unless you fancy a visit from Interpol.

      Bye for now,

      Dad

      From: [email protected]

      To: [email protected]

      Re: Wedding Plans (1 attachment)

      Sophie darling, it was lovely to hear from you finally. It‘s good to know we don‘t have to send a search-and-rescue team out to Switzerland to find you after all. Ha ha.

      However, I really can‘t agree there‘s ‚no rush to decide things‘. If we don‘t take the May slot at The Lodge I honestly don‘t think we‘ll be able to get in anywhere half decent.

      Also, and you won‘t like me saying it, but you‘re not getting any younger. The trend may well be for women to have their babies later these days but the risks are so much greater the longer you leave it.

      It might be old-fashioned of me, but I think it would be best if you marry before you get pregnant. You agree, don‘t you, darling? I know how much you want to be a mother. You always did love babies, even when you were a little girl. Do you remember when you were asked what you wanted to be when you grew up you said you wanted to be a mum?

      I‘ve attached an article from the Daily Mail with all the statistics about the risks for older mothers. I hope that will persuade you of the wisdom of getting on with things quickly.

      Let us know if you want to reserve the May slot at The Lodge after all. It might not be too late to change your mind and it does have such lovely lakeshore gardens. Wouldn’t they make a fantastic backdrop for the wedding photos?

      Love,

      Mum

      SOPHIE

      The Lodge Hotel, the Lake District and Mum all seem a million miles away as Luc negotiates the hairpin bends leading to his parents‘ mountain village. I wish I could pack up all my problems and ship them back to England.

      Luc is gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are as white as the virgin snow blanketing the jagged peaks of the Alps. Other than that, and a tension around his jawline, there‘s no outward sign he‘s affected by the dreadful news we received this week.

      The news I‘m still reeling from.

      I hug myself and stare fixedly at the view. Normally the combination of the picturesque scenery of the country I‘ve adopted and being with Luc would lift my spirits but a black cloud has been trailing us since we left Verbier.

      I don‘t know how to fix this. Or even if it can be fixed. By the time we reach Vex and Luc parks the car I‘m grinding my teeth. I do my best to unclench my jaw and breathe.

      We‘ve agreed not to tell his parents, there‘s no point until we know for sure there‘s nothing that can be done. I want to go along with it, to help protect his parents from unnecessary worry. Especially given they‘ve got their own stress to deal with. The problem is, I can‘t remember how to be normal. I‘m rigid, wired for fight or flight. But there‘s no one to punch and no matter how far we run our problems would just come with us.

      Luc guides me by the elbow across Vex‘s main square to the Café du Place. It‘s a gesture he means to be comforting but it makes me jittery. His awareness I‘m struggling only highlights my awkwardness and makes the painful emotions harder to suppress.

      Today was going to be difficult enough already, but now I have more than one minefield to navigate.

      ‘Sophie, ma chère.’ Thérèse, my future mother in law, greets me with an enthusiastic double kiss as soon as we‘ve pushed our way through the café‘s heavy swing doors.

      ‘Bonjour.’ I attempt my ‚everything‘s just fabulous‘ smile, but my face feels tight and strange.

      It‘s only as I lean in to kiss Luc‘s dad that I see Thérèse is wearing a similar strained smile.

      Oh crap.

      We‘re all pretending, but we need the pretence, the familiar greeting rituals and fetching of drinks. Without this social framework we couldn‘t contain our feelings and today we need to.

      The worried glance Luc shoots his mother and the brief swimming sadness in her eyes put all our less tangible problems into context.

      Her eyes clear and she replaces her fake, bright smile for her husband, Olivier‘s, benefit but the slip tells me we‘re about to get more bad news.

      I slip my hand into Luc‘s and squeeze. I don‘t want to ask the question but not to ask would be horribly rude.

      ‘How did it go at the hospital?’ I revert to English. This is too important to trust to my imperfect French.

      Working at the bar hasn‘t exactly expanded my medical vocabulary. For the millionth time since I moved to Verbier I wish they‘d taught us useful French vocabulary at school. I remember being made to debate environmental issues for my oral exam. Nothing prepared me for when my car broke down in the middle of nowhere at three am and the mechanic I finally spoke to had no English. Beyond saying ‚ma voiture est en panné‘ I was totally lost. And I’ve never once debated environmental issues since I came here. More importantly I’m not sure I know the French phrases for triple bypass or likely prognosis either. I must get Luc to teach me some useful phrases when we get time.

      ‘It wasn’t good news.’ Thérèse answers slowly and doesn‘t meet my eye.

      ‘What did they say?’ A muscle twitches in Luc‘s jaw.

      ‘The doctors have said your father needs to take things much easier if we don‘t want another, more serious heart attack.’ Thérèse sits back down next to her husband, eyes glistening. Her pose has an unnatural stiffness to it.

      The dark shadows beneath her eyes make me wonder if she‘s shielding us from worse news. I have the feeling she‘s protecting us from the details. So she‘s protecting us and we‘re protecting her.

      ‘I can help out more,’ Luc offers straight away. I glance at him. We both know that won‘t be easy to manage.

      ‘That would help, thank you, son. You know how your mother worries.’ Olivier pats Thérèse on the arm, decades of affectionate ease and banter in the gesture.

      Now I know it‘s serious. All previous offers of help over the years have had to hurdle almost endless barriers of resistance and pride. Immediate capitulation is unheard of. This is very bad. The knowledge sends a chill down my spine.

      ‘We should talk about happier things,’ Thérèse declares, blinking hard and getting to her feet again. ‘I need to check if the duck is ready, but when Paul and Marie get here we should talk about your wedding. I know you haven‘t set a date yet. I was thinking perhaps we ought to set a date for early Spring?

      The glimmer of entreaty in her expression twists something in my chest. It‘s a conspiracy. If I didn‘t know for certain they‘ve never met I‘d swear Thérèse is in cahoots with Mum.

      ‘Let‘s talk about it later.’ I force a smile and ignore the growing tightness in my chest.

      When she‘s out of the room I turn to face Luc and see my alarm about Olivier is mirrored in his eyes. I lace my fingers through his again and squeeze, holding on tight. I love Luc more than I ever knew it was possible to love someone. I want to marry him more than anything, but how on earth am I going to plan a wedding that will keep everyone happy? My chest feels tight, like I can‘t take a deep breath.

      ‘How are your parents, Sophie? Are they well?’ Olivier asks, his French accent far thicker than his wife‘s and the words more halting. I know he‘d be insulted if I turned the conversation back to French. He says he likes practising his English with me.

      ‘They‘re both okay, thank you.’ I shove Mum‘s emails to the back of my mind, but it‘s like trying