Page 9 of Lost in Translation
The agent scribbled on her notepad, and the boys high-fived each other. Dom kissed Charlotte, the boys groaned, and the agent beat a hasty retreat to her car.
* * *
‘I like cheese, but—’Alastair stirred the gloopy substance around, his face a perfect picture of discontent. To celebrate the whole school and house thing, they’d headed to a restaurant recommended by the agent: typically Swiss, with cheese fondue the speciality. A giant pot of the stuff simmered away, and each of them was armed with a skewer and a plate of bread and pickles. Liberally laced with white wine, the concoction lay heavy in Charlotte’s stomach.
‘Could I have a burger?’ Robson carefully speared a wodge of bread and dipped it into the bubbling cauldron. ‘They have burgers on the menu.’ He gazed wistfully at the table next to them, where two boys of similar ages chomped on layers of bun, meat and miscellaneous fillings.
‘This is what we’re having.’ Dom skewered a green pickle, known locally as a cornichon, and dunked it in the cheese mix. ‘Delicious,’ he added, although Charlotte thought that washing it down with half a glass of beer indicated the contrary.
Suppressing a yawn, she surveyed the room. Predominantly locals, gabbling away in French, with a smattering of tourists delving into fondue, raclette and other local delights. Charlotte sipped her glass of wine and wished she could crawl under the crisp hotel sheets and sleep for twenty-four hours.
Her wish came true an hour later. The boys were tucked up in their adjoining bedroom, Dom sitting at the desk and flicking through the paperwork for the house lease. They needed to sign for a minimum of eighteen months, although Dom was vague when pressed on how long his contract would be for. Charlotte told herself two or three years was doable. Then they could return to their lovely home, which was now on the rental market.
‘School sorted, accommodation sorted. Now all we need to do is book a removal company and figure out what comes and what stays.’ Dom put the papers in his briefcase and snapped it shut. Privately, Charlotte thought there was an awful lot more to do than that. She just didn’t want to face up to all the practicalities of moving country just yet.
‘I’m shattered, Dom. Any chance you could come to bed and we could get some sleep?’ Charlotte hoped he wouldn’t try to instigate anything else, not least because the boys were mere feet away. But a comforting cuddle would be nice—
‘Sorry, something’s come up. With work, I mean.’ Dom picked up his phone, coat and hotel room keycard. ‘I need to pop out for an hour. Got some issues to discuss with the team here.’
Charlotte squinted at the illuminated clock on the bedside cabinet. ‘At ten o’clock at night? Can’t it wait till the morning?’ She knew the answer before the words left her mouth. They were on a mid-afternoon flight, and Dom liked to have a leisurely breakfast and minimal stress before travelling.
A hasty peck on Charlotte’s cheek, and he left. She turned off the light and battered the pillow into submission. No sound from the boys, and only the distant rumble of passing cars disturbed the peace. She closed her eyes and pushed away the niggling worry over what — or who — demanded attention at such a late hour.
Chapter 10
‘This is brilliant, Mummy!’Alastair glided past Charlotte, closely followed by Robson: two blurs of emerald-green jackets, fluorescent helmets and swooshing skis. Blurred not because of speed, but because Charlotte’s goggles had misted up.
‘Charlotte, just do what I do. Stay focused and it’ll all fall into place.’ Dom sidled up next to her, skis perfectly aligned and goggles miraculously mist-free. Easy forhimto say, she thought. Dom had started skiing at six, taken to France, Austria and Canada by his parents, Torquil and Jean. Or Torvill and Dean, as Charlotte privately called them, mainly because she always felt she was skating on thin ice around them. Dom had little to do with them these days, apart from the odd chat on the phone on birthdays and other special occasions. They sent the boys presents, always expensive and usually age-inappropriate.
The last time they’d seen Torquil and Jean had been at their golden wedding anniversary party in the summer. A lavish affair, with a giant marquee erected in the garden of their former vicarage home, and hired staff bustling around with flutes of champagne and postage-stamp-sized canapés. A ‘no children’ policy meant Alastair and Robson stayed at home with friends. Charlotte would rather have hung out with Ruth, wearing onesies and eating their body weight in cake and chocolate, but Dom had insisted they both go. He might not see eye to eye with his parents, but he had no intention of losing his substantial inheritance.
‘Isn’t this the perfect pre-Christmas break?’ Dom removed Charlotte’s goggles and wiped them with a tissue. ‘Snow, sunshine and exercise. What more can you ask for?’
A comfy chair and a steaming mug of vin chaud,thought Charlotte, massaging a burgeoning bruise on her bottom. Dom’s assertion that it would all fall into place only partially hit the mark. Charlotte had fallen over more times than she could count, and the stream of toddlers and infants sailing past her in perfect snow-plough formation compounded her humiliation.
‘If you say so,’ huffed Charlotte. Her feet ached in the hired ski boots, and she didn’t know how much longer she could carry on. Dom had booked the five-day ski trip to Switzerland without telling her, presenting it as another fait accompli ‘because it would be good for the boys'.
‘They’ll be skiing with the school,’ he’d argued, as Charlotte eyed the boarding passes with a sinking heart. ‘Maybe not this season, unfortunately, but a bit of experience now will stand them in good stead.’
Charlotte watched as the boys queued again for the button tow on the small practice slope. They’d mastered pulling it down and clasping it between their legs. Charlotte hadn’t. Once, it rebounded and nearly took out her front teeth. On her fifth attempt, it snagged in her jacket pocket and dragged her several feet before she ended up in a heap, her pocket ripped to shreds.
‘I was thinking of heading off for an hour,’ said Dom, passing back Charlotte’s goggles. ‘Maybe do a red or black run, just to get the old juices flowing again. Will you be all right with the boys?’
A small buvette serving drinks and snacks sat at the foot of the slope. No comfy chairs, just metal foldaway ones, but Charlotte reckoned she could install herself there and monitor things. Two Swiss ski school staff lingered close by, and the boys seemed totally at home.
‘Sure. Just don’t be too long.’ Charlotte waggled her gloved hand at Dom, who called the boys over.
‘Be good for your mum, and no daredevil antics,’ he warned. ‘I’ll scope out some easy runs for you guys once you’re ready. You too, Charlotte.’
Dom glided away towards the car park, Charlotte watching as he pulled out his phone and appeared to make a call. Work, no doubt, although why he needed to speak to someone when they were technically on holiday she never understood.
Taking off her skis — sheer bliss — Charlotte rammed them into the snow outside the buvette and slung the poles over their tips. Alastair and Robson joined her, demanding frites and Coke.
‘With lots of ketchup, Mummy,’ said Alastair.
‘And salt,’ added Robson.
Charlotte ordered three portions of frites, two Cokes and a chocolat chaud for herself. She declined the offer of a dash of rum, tempting though it was, and slumped into a chair. The boys darted back and forth, shoving in handfuls of chips (they’d always be chips in Charlotte’s eyes) and lobbing snowballs at each other.
