The Perfect Girlfriend(94)
‘Splendid morning.’
‘Anyone up for the other mountain this afternoon?’
‘Couldn’t ask for better weather.’
I silently pray that Tara will announce that she’s tired, that she’s going to stay behind and take a nap, but no such luck. When they make noises about leaving, I slip out and conceal myself in the woods, behind a large tree trunk, slightly to the left of the property. I’ve worked out that they will ski off in the other direction. Bella and Miles leave first, followed by her parents. Nate and Tara remain inside. As I struggle to contain my rage and jealousy, I force myself to go to the safe place in my mind, because I can feel myself slipping out of control. I know that if I don’t get a grip, I will storm in there. And if I see them together, I will crack.
It takes half an hour before they emerge. And every painful minute strengthens my hatred of Tara.
I follow them, which is easy, because they walk close together. She is wearing an orange jacket and a matching hat. Nate, being all gentlemanly, is carrying her skis as well as his own. They queue up for the gondola. I follow, one behind, and alight at the same place as before. Nate accompanies his soon-to-be-ex to her lesson. She is late. As soon as she’s joined in with the mismatched group of old and young, male and female, Nate pulls down his goggles, adjusts his skis and, after giving her a wave by raising a ski pole, he leaves.
I watch her. An instructor demonstrates positions. I see her trying so pathetically hard to fit in with Nate and his family. Trying so hard to please. I want to ski over and tell her not to bother; to point out that she is wasting her time. Ten hard-working years it’s taken me. A few days on the nursery slopes will do bugger-all for her. And she’s rubbish: too full of fear. Too cautious.
I approach a skier dressed in the same blue ski clothes as Tara’s instructor. ‘Excuse me. Do you know what time the lessons finish?’ I point out Tara’s group.
‘Usually an hour before the slopes shut.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, checking my watch.
She has an hour and a half left. The bus to Vancouver leaves in under three hours. If I don’t make it, I will miss the flight, which wouldn’t be good.
To keep warm, I ski down the nearest slope twice whilst I mentally prepare what I’m going to say to her. When the group breaks up, I board a gondola ahead of her, so that I am ready for her at the bottom.
She disembarks, removes her skis from the side holder, and carries them awkwardly. I follow. I’ll speak to her when it’s less crowded. She walks slowly, as though she’s in pain, towards the outskirts of the village. She stands in the bus queue, which throws me for a moment. I hesitate, before deciding to walk, so I can catch her by surprise as she approaches the house.
Less than a couple of minutes after I set off, I see the bus drive past. Damn. I speed up as much as I can, ignoring the rubbing of my boots against my ankles. But there is no sign of her on the road to the chalet. I approach the house from the back. I feel a sense of rising dread, because she needs to be there and I am running out of time to speak to her. Nate and the others will be back soon after the slopes close, if not before.
As I remove my skis, I see a blob of snow run down another ski and plop on to the ground. One pair. They have to be Tara’s. I change my boots and take off my ski gloves, swapping them for thinner ones. I climb the slope to double-check that it’s her and that she’s definitely alone. I peer over. The living area is empty, but then . . . elation! She is alone. On the balcony. I watch her. She shrugs off a robe and climbs into the hot tub. I see her lie back. Fearful of losing my chance, I almost break into a run back down.
The back door is locked; clearly, she’s the cautious type. So I’m forced to enter through the front again.
Inside, it’s quiet. I make my way upstairs and open the door to Nate’s room. I can see the back of her head through the glass. On the side rests a glass of white wine, her phone and two small speakers. I slide back the glass door. The sound of a local radio station blares above the noise of the water bubbling in the hot tub. I move closer. She looks completely chilled, her eyes are closed. I could push her head down and hold it there, but I won’t. I stand still. Her cerise swimsuit shimmers with white bubbles. I pick up her phone. When I switch off the music, her eyes fly open and she twists her head round. I sit on the edge of the pale blue tub, out of her reach.
‘Hello, Tara.’
She stares at me. ‘What are you doing here?’
I give her a friendly wave. ‘How’s it going? I don’t blame you for being in there, I bet you’re aching all over. I remember what it was like when I learned to ski. But it’s all a waste, you know. All this hard work and effort.’
She looks for her phone.
I hold it up. ‘How about I look after this?’
She clambers out and reaches for a nearby towel. ‘Give it back!’
‘Not just yet. We need to talk about Nate. He doesn’t have the guts to tell you himself, so it’s down to me. We’re still together. You’re just the other woman.’
She rubs herself semi-dry. ‘That’s not what he says.’
‘I’m his wife. You know that. And you also know another thing, you saw him attack me on board. He was furious, because he wants me to keep quiet about us, to keep you in the dark. Nate, you see, as always, wants everything his own way, on his own terms. That’s what the real Nate is like. And you’re letting him get away with it.’