The Perfect Girlfriend(93)

To start off with, it’s easy enough. The pavement has been gritted and cleared; dirty snow piles up along the edges. I cross over a bridge, beneath which is a gentle-running river. But the images I studied were taken in summer, so the route isn’t quite as I pictured. After walking up the wrong street, I backtrack until I recognize a bend in the road. When I spot the chalet-style villa, I am certain it’s the right one, and the number confirms it. It is set back from the road, along a short drive, which has been gritted too.

I walk past the side of the property and round to the back, following a track which leads up a slope and into a wooded area, treading carefully because of the frozen ground. Halfway up, I stop, put my bag down at my feet, lean against a fir tree, take out a bottle of water and sip. The place is even more magnificent than it appeared in the pictures. Wooden walls help the building blend into the surroundings. I can see directly through the high windows into the spacious living and dining area. Icicles hang from the edges of the wooden shutters. High above these rooms, two large balconies face me, one of which houses a hot tub. Below, there is a covered area with benches, a pile of logs and racks supporting ski equipment: a mixture of skis, poles and spare boots. Looking around, over to my left, I can see one of the nearby ski lifts and snow-tipped mountains in the distance. To my right, there are more houses of similar design.

There is no sign of anyone.

Despite my thick gloves, my feet and hands feel frozen, yet I wait for a while longer, listening to the gentle rustle of a faint breeze among the trees, before deciding that it’s safe to head back down. As I hide my bag behind the pile of logs, I spot a rear entrance. I dare to hope that Nate’s key will work, but it is completely the wrong type for the lock. I’m going to have to brazen it out and walk round the villa to climb the stairs leading to the front door.

I knock, prepared to make a run for it, but no one comes.

I experience a sliver of fear as I push the key into the lock; it’s a bit awkward with my gloves on, but thank God it works. I’m in.

Silence. Light pours through the large windows.

I look around, taking in the space: the high-up wooden-beamed ceiling, the gleaming marble and glass surfaces, the cosy sitting room with its rich red-and-orange sofas and large cushions.

A rush of anger hits, because I can picture myself fitting in nicely here.

Buoyed with fresh indignation, I risk exploring further by going upstairs, opening and closing each bedroom door until I find Nate’s. I can’t bring myself to think of it as Nate and Tara’s. I feel room-spinningly sick. Even though I thought I was mentally prepared, it’s still a punch in the stomach to see the physical evidence. She hasn’t even bothered to completely unpack; some of her clothes remain in a suitcase, whilst Nate’s hang neatly.

I have such an overwhelming desire to destroy all her belongings. So, as a distraction, I slide open the door to the balcony and inhale deep breaths of cold air. I navigate past the covered-up hot tub and lean against the wooden railing. Scanning the stunning wooded area, I seek out the exact spot where I recently stood. The area’s still deserted. I glance down. It’s much higher up than it looks from the outside, making it impossible to use as an escape route if they suddenly return. The thought jolts me into action, so I return inside to the warmth.

I search through Tara’s bag until I find something of use: a receipt for pre-booked ski lessons. That’s useful information, because I’m going to find her and tell her why she needs to leave. She needs to know why it can never work between them. I can’t resist having a quick rummage through Nate’s belongings too, before I leave. I’ve so missed having access to his world. It’s intoxicating, like being reintroduced to a drug.

Downstairs, I exit through the back door, leaving it unlocked. I retrieve my bag from its hiding place and slide my ski-wear on over my clothes. There are plenty of spare skis and poles, which will save me having to hire any. I select a pair that look like they’ll do and push my feet into my ski boots, adjusting the tightness.

I retrace my steps in the direction of Whistler village, and join a long queue.

‘Where are the ski schools based?’ I ask the woman behind the booth as I hand over cash for a one-day lift pass. ‘Are there learner slopes?’

She hands over a map and points to the Olympic station on Whistler Mountain.

I wait in a different queue, in the singles line – story of my life – before joining a group in one of the gondolas, alighting at the first station. It is hectic. Bright ski colours crowd the area. It is tricky finding Tara. But I intend to persevere, because that is my plan, and I need to approach her alone. I scan the different groups, but the sun reflecting off the snowy whiteness means that everyone is wearing goggles, as well as hats and helmets.

At midday, I give up. My cheeks sting and my lips are dry. At the top of the slope, I have a moment’s hesitation before I push away with my ski poles. I’d forgotten the initial fear, the jolt of nervous anticipation before I let myself go. However, exhilaration takes over and I fall into the rhythm. I watch my shadow, dark against the white, almost unaware of other skiers.

It feels surreal, that I am here, now. Yet tonight, I will be flying back to London.

And Tara will be disillusioned and heartbroken.

After a sandwich and a coffee, I retrace my steps to the house.

Several more pairs of skis are leaning against a wall at the back, so it doesn’t feel wise to climb up the slope and look in; it feels too exposing. Slowly, quietly, I try the back door. It opens. I ease it open wide enough for me to step in. There is an array of boots on shoe racks and a messy pile of gloves, helmets and goggles. My heart thuds as I stand at the bottom of the stairs, listening. They’re all up there, including Tara. Snippets of conversation drift among the sounds of clinking cutlery and china.