One by One(7)

You just asked that, I think. But I say nothing. I am learning that it’s okay to do that sometimes. In fact it is quite fun to watch people’s reactions.

Rik’s eyes flick to me, waiting for my socially conditioned “Fine,” and when it doesn’t come, he shoves his free hand in his pocket, looking distinctly disconcerted.

Good. Let him wait.





ERIN


Snoop ID: LITTLEMY

Listening to: Offline

Snoopers: 0

Snoopscribers: 0

“Littlemy?” Danny says, looking over my shoulder as I type in my brand-new username. He pronounces it like two words—litt lemy. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Not Lit Lemmy. Little My. It’s a character from the Moomins.”

“The moo you what?”

“The Moomins! It’s a series of children’s—Look, never mind,” I say, seeing his baffled expression. “What’s yours?”

“I’m not telling you,” he says, affronted. “You might snoop on me.”

“Oh, so you’re allowed to know mine, but I’m not allowed to know yours?”

“Too bloody right. What are you going to listen to?”

I click a profile at random. NeverMindTheHorlix. It’s someone the app suggested from my contact list, and although I don’t know who it is for sure, I think it might be a girl I went to school with. “Come and Get Your Love” by Redbone fills the room. I’ve never heard of the band, but I know the song.

“Someone’s been watching Guardians of the Galaxy,” Danny mutters with a touch of derision, but his hips are twitching in time to the beat as he walks across the room to peer out into the snow. He’s only there for a second before he swings back round, grabbing a bottle of champagne from the cooler on the coffee table and popping the cork with a sound like a gunshot.

“They’re here, I can see the funicular coming up.”

I nod and shove my phone into my pocket. No time for chat now. This is action stations.



* * *



Ten minutes later I am standing in the open doorway of Chalet Perce-Neige, tray of glasses in one hand, watching a little group staggering and sliding down the path from the funicular to the porch. None of them are wearing suitable shoes, and they’ve not mastered how to walk in snow, with short steps and your weight thrown forward, not back. One of them, a very good-looking black guy, is carrying what looks like—yes, it is. It’s an empty bottle of Krug. Great. They’re already drunk.

A tall blond man reaches me first, in his early thirties, handsome in a Don’t I know it kind of way.

“Hi. Topher, Snoop founder,” he says, grinning in a way that is clearly meant to charm the socks off me. His breath smells of alcohol, and his voice is every boarding school boy I’ve ever met. He looks faintly familiar although I can’t place the connection—but maybe it’s just the fact that if you were casting for the CEO of a hip internet start-up, he’s exactly what you’d choose.

“Good to meet you,” I say. “I’m Erin, your chalet host for the week. Champagne?”

“Well, since you insist…” He takes a glass of champagne off the tray and knocks it back in one. I make a mental note that next time I prepour drinks for this party, I’ll use prosecco. There is no way they’ll be able to taste the difference, throwing them back like that.

“Thanks.” He replaces the empty glass on the tray and stares around him. “Great location, by the way.”

“Thanks, we like it,” I say. The others are coming up behind him now. A stunningly beautiful woman with caramel-tanned skin and white-blond hair is picking her way through the snow.

“Eva van den Berg,” Topher says as she comes level with us, “my partner in crime.”

“Hi, Eva,” I say. “We’re delighted to welcome your group to Chalet Perce-Neige. Do you want to leave your bags here and head inside to warm up?”

“Thanks, that would be great,” Eva says. When she speaks there’s a tinge of something not quite English in her inflection.

Behind her one of the men slips in the snow and launches into a grumbling rant under his breath, and she says, quite carelessly over her shoulder, “Do shut the fuck up, Carl.”

I blink, but Carl doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary and simply rolls his eyes, picks himself up, and follows his colleagues into the warmth.

Inside the lobby a fire is roaring in the big enameled wood burner. The guests shake the snow off their coats and rub their hands in front of the fire. I set down the tray of glasses within easy reach and unfurl the list of guests and room numbers. I glance around the room, mentally trying to match people to names.

Eva and Topher I’ve got already. Carl Foster, the guy who slipped in the snow, is a stocky white man in his forties with a buzz cut and a pugnacious expression, but he’s cheerfully downing champagne in a way that suggests he’s not brooding on the moment outside the door. Judging by her surname, Miranda Khan is probably the very elegant Asian woman over by the stairs. She’s wearing six-inch heels and she’s talking to the guy with the Krug, who’s swapped the empty bottle for a full glass along the way.

“Oh, Rik,” I hear her say, a touch of flirtation in her voice. “You would say that.”