Five Ladies Go Skiing: A feel-good novel of friendship and love. Karen Aldous

lifted her chin. ‘But I’ll get there. I am getting there. Especially with you lovely Flowers spoiling me. Mike would appreciate the support you’ve all given me too. And how much you all care. As I do.’

      ‘He was awesome,’ I said, leaning against her, and snuggling close. Ginny was right, he would be demonstrably thankful. He loved nothing better than to rally everyone together in or out of crisis. Mike was the golden boy. Good-looking, athletic, clever, and one of those people who could strike up a conversation with anyone and win their respect. He reminded me of Don Johnson playing ‘Sonny’ in Miami Vice – particularly in the summer months when his skin browned and the sun splashed his hair with honey tones. I could understand why my younger sister Paula had a crush on him. After all, we probably all had a crush on him really. But he only ever had eyes for Ginny.

      When he was sixteen – and Ginny, Lou, Cathy and I were fourteen – I remember Paula, barely pubescent, just twelve, blabbering because Mike had asked Ginny out on a date. Infatuation was putting it mildly. She would hang around outside Mitcham’s, our local youth club, a couple of nights a week, then monthly at one of the school discos we all went to, usually with her friend Lorna. The pair of them resembled clowns, made up in frosted powder blue eye shadow, clumpy mascara, slapped-on rouge, in their mini-skirts, like a pair of groupies stalking a rock god. It was highly embarrassing. I wanted to disown her as much then as I do now.

      I found myself repeatedly apologising to Mike and Ginny. Fortunately for me, they tolerated my silly sister. But even when Mike, along with most of us, told her she was wasting her time, our words fell on deaf ears. She didn’t understand humiliation. Getting his attention was enough for her. He was very patient, considering. As was Ginny.

      * * *

      As soon as Ginny and I walked into the restaurant, we were greeted by a wave from Stefano, the owner who must have recognised me.

      ‘Bonsoir, Stefano.’ I waved back and looked around the room. It was heaving. The waiters rushing back and forth.

      Ginny shrugged beside me. ‘Will we get a table here?’ she asked, reading my thoughts. ‘Such a lovely place.’ Her gaze circled the room. ‘It’s just how I imagined an Alpine restaurant.’

      Ginny was right: it had a traditional authenticity that brought a warmth and charm to its big exterior structure. Wood everywhere with cottage-style windows, which although double-glazed, blended in as you would imagine the originals had done. They were dressed in tied-back red check curtains and café nets. On the sills were modern pewter figurines of climbers or skiers, whilst gracing the walls were framed photographs of bygone years, as well as of visitors to the restaurant and Stefano’s expeditions. And the silky worn flagstone floor added to its history and solidity, bearing the weight of built-in wooden benches and long banquet tables now filled with Savoyard delights for its hungry diners.

      ‘Bonsoir, ladies.’ Stefano came towards us. ‘I have table in ten minutes.’ He pointed to the only circular table, which nestled comfortably in the front corner. ‘Come.’ He raised his arm as if he was going for a swim, beckoning us to follow. As we reached one side of the bar, he called to his barman who promptly supplied him with a bottle of red wine and Stefano took a corkscrew from his pocket, popped the bottle open and placed it on a very small table close to the bar. ‘On the house. I get glasses,’ he said, racing back to the bar and at the same time giving a friendly wave to a group leaving a side entrance.

      ‘Oh, shit,’ Lou said suddenly, scuffling to stand on the other side of me and ducking to make her taller frame smaller.

      Stefano brushed between us with five small wineglasses clutched between his fingers and, twisting his hand, he placed them steadily on the table. ‘Enjoy the Gamay. I call you soon,’ he said, dashing off.

      ‘What is it?’ I asked Lou, curious.

      She squinted her eyes and moved her head side to side. ‘Oh, I’m not sure, no. I thought it was someone … don’t worry, gone anyway.’

      Of course, I was curious. Why would she try to hide from someone? My attention was soon diverted as Cathy launched a glass into my hand.

       Cathy

      Lou was acting strange, but I didn’t feel in the right frame of mind to ask. I was still fuming. I had urged the others to walk on ahead so that they couldn’t hear my conversation with Anthony. He was being obnoxious, and he’d obviously been drinking and was in a loudly argumentative mood. I had hoped he would ring once or twice maybe in the middle of the week, since I had texted him to let him know we had arrived safely, but no. And he wasn’t just fussing and making sure I was comfortable – he wanted to know what we were doing, so I had spent the ten minutes itemising our plans, which hadn’t placated him. It had done the opposite, in fact.

      ‘Please don’t drink too much,’ he slurred in my ear. ‘I expect there are a lot of guys out there in groups, away from their wives and families.’

      I sighed again steeling my patience. ‘I expect there are, love, but I’m here with the girls, so don’t worry. We are only eating. Besides, there aren’t going to be too many men looking to chat up sixty-year-old women.’

      ‘Men are men, Cath. They’ll prey on anything that …’

      ‘For goodness’ sake, Anthony, you’re beginning to sound like some possessive teenager. Now then. That’s enough. I won’t speak to you if you’re going to behave like a child.’ I ground my teeth hoping Lou and Angie hadn’t heard me raise my voice. His tone was terribly embarrassing. His suggestion, however, got me wondering. ‘And anyway, how often have you jollied off to far-flung places? Is it what you would do? Are you suggesting you prey on women?’ I asked, clawing my fingers into my neck.

      ‘Don’t be daft, Cath, of course not. I’ve watched men though. I know what they’re like.’

      I rolled my eyes. ‘Well, let me assure you, I’ll jolly well stay clear of any letches. Now, I’m almost at the restaurant. Stop worrying and remember why I’m here. I’ll call you if I have any concerns, OK? Look after yourself, darling.’ I fumbled for the button quick. I wanted him to leave me in peace. Why was it always about him? I never pestered him when he was away.

      Furious with him, I upped my pace to catch up with the girls. Yes, I expected him to call me to let me know he had arrived safely when he went away, but I trusted him, always. We were lucky that our bond remained close despite not having children. And even when us Flowers had been away before, say Greece, which was our favourite, ‘Shirley Valentine’ holiday we called it – minus the gorgeous Costas of course – Anthony always seemed fine. He had never acted like this, calling me and verbalising his insecurities. And, all the years we’ve been ballroom dancing together, a pastime we stumbled across whilst our friends stayed home caring for their children, there were times when we were instructed to tango, waltz or rumba with another partner and I had never known Anthony to show signs of jealousy.

      I failed to understand why I was feeling guilty. He understood the purpose of the week was to concentrate my time on Ginny, and the skiing. He knows I’m worried about them both, but he hasn’t even asked. Not that there was much to tell him yet, but I would have thought that would be his first concern.

      I couldn’t admit it to the Flowers, but I’d been petrified since day one. It was only when our darling Angie promised to get us physically and mentally prepared that I thought: Cathy Golding, you can do this! A bloody hard slog, but I managed, and no one was more surprised than me when I eventually conquered the dry slope. It was a truth universally acknowledged among us Flowers, that sport had never been my forte! ‘Floppy Doll,’ Ginny and Lou used to call me! I didn’t mind.

      I knew five lessons on the dry slope would never prepare me for ice. Ice was enemy number one! Ever since I slipped in the playground when I was about ten and cracked my head open, I’ve feared ice. Knocking myself unconscious and being rushed to hospital was a huge drama and not one I would want to relive. Just walking in the resort and down that chalet path sent the adrenaline pumping,