seasonnaires are here for the après ski, with a bit of skiing thrown in. Any illusions I had of meeting a serious boyfriend here in Switzerland took a flying leap off a mountain and crashed on the rocks below long ago. It should‘ve been obvious, if I‘d thought it through properly. Seasonnaire. The very name of the type of job we do suggests a temporary arrangement – only for a season. Most of the relationships that spring up in resorts, if they last beyond a one-night stand, span only a few weeks, not even the whole season. I keep telling myself it isn‘t a big deal. After all, it‘s not the main reason I came to Verbier. But still. I had hoped …
My skin prickles to attention, my sixth sense telling me I‘m being watched. I cross my arms and stare rigidly ahead. Thankfully the screen finally flickers into life, showing a holding page, a photograph of an alpine ridge. The general hubbub dies down to the odd cough. One of Sebastien Laroche‘s sponsors from a popular outdoor clothing company comes to the front and lists some of Sebastien‘s previous triumphs by way of introduction – three times European Boardercross champion and a place on the French Winter Games team last year, only narrowly missing out on a medal.
Of course I admire him. He‘s achieved things I can only dream about. Okay, he happens to be easy on the eye too. Maybe I have just a teensy wee crush.
When the introduction is over the holding screen disappears and the screen is filled with the image of a helicopter in flight. The camera pans to the open side door. Inside is Sebastien Laroche, a huge grin lighting up his charismatic face. He has wild black curls and his face is as craggy as the mountaintops he loves. His skin is tanned, with that weather-beaten look truly outdoorsy people get, and there‘s a jagged scar on his chin. Maybe he‘s not conventionally handsome, but when he smiles, like he‘s smiling now, his face glows with a fierce, dancing light.
He‘s utterly mesmerising.
Okay, so it might be more than a wee crush.
‘Snowboarding is my life, my reason to live.’ On screen, Sebastien‘s eyes shine with anticipation of the jump, lit with pure joy.
I shift forward in my chair, my gaze trained on Sebastien as he jumps down from the helicopter onto a metre-wide snowy ridge. The camera pans out and down to show a two-thousand-metre drop to the valley below, broken only by sheer, razor-sharp rocks.
The crowd gasp, united in their incredulity at the precariousness of Sebastien‘s position.
‘Il est fou,’ a woman behind me mutters. With difficulty I resist the temptation to turn around and give her my death glare. How can she dismiss his bravery as madness?
Although, when I see the line he takes down the mountain, sliding on virtually vertical stretches of scree and accelerating when he hits patches of ice, the breath catches in my chest. A small part of me reluctantly agrees. But where do we draw the line between madness and bravery? And who gets to decide where it lies?
Perhaps he‘s both mad and brave, essential characteristics for a pioneer, someone capable of transcending the ordinary with the extraordinary.
The camera follows his path down the mountainside. Whenever he leaps to a decent patch of snow he part-glides, part-dances on the snow‘s crust. He moves so gracefully it‘s like he‘s in tune with the mountain. As though he‘s dancing in time to a mountain heartbeat no one else can hear but him.
I expected his skill but didn‘t anticipate anything so beautiful or so moving. It stirs me deep down, opening up a visceral yearning.
Could I ever move that gracefully? My grandmother was the one who taught me to dream big. Before she died she told me to go out into the world and take all the opportunities she never had. She never left the Scottish Highlands to travel and she always regretted it. I know she loved Granddad but he was traditional and controlling. She made me promise never to tie myself to a man who tried to crush my dreams. I‘ll always be grateful to her for giving me the courage to defy Mum and Dad and come to Verbier.
When the film ends the crowd erupts in enthusiastic applause. I ease back into my chair, disappointed it‘s over. Only now do I finally breathe out properly. I‘d no idea I was even holding my breath.
My skin prickles again and I sense an intent stare from the person sitting beside me, demanding my attention. I bite my lip. It could be someone I know. I wasn‘t really looking when I sat down, I was too busy nabbing the seat. It would be rude not to acknowledge them. Reluctantly I turn and my eyebrows shoot up.
‘Oh my God.’ I‘m staring directly back at the subject of the film, at Sebastien Laroche himself. His eyes flicker with amusement.
‘I‘ve been called a lot of things in my life but never God.’ He grins, a hint of wickedness in the curve of his mouth. ‘I‘m not sure I‘m cut out to be a deity. Too badly behaved.’
His English is heavily accented with his native French accent but he speaks with a confidence that tells me he doesn‘t give a damn.
Heat floods my cheeks and I don‘t know where to look. Why did I have to sound so naïve and starstruck? Along with the prickling embarrassment, I‘m aware of something more – a stirring deep inside me. A quickening and an awakening. The look in his eyes when he says ‚badly behaved‘ makes my stomach flip over. I have to say something, right now. I swallow hard.
‘Um, that was amazing.’ I gesture towards the screen, admiration finally breaking through my embarrassment.
‘I was watching you while the film played. You get it.’ He places a heavy emphasis on the word ‚it‘ and, before I realise what he‘s doing, he takes my hand and places it over his heart. ‘You get it right here.’
I feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through his cotton cashmere crewneck, it pulses against my palm. I can feel hard muscle beneath the soft, silky fabric. My cheeks burn even hotter.
‘Er, yes, I think so.’ I blink and kick myself for umming and erring. This has got to be the most bizarre conversation I‘ve ever had. Yet, as embarrassed as I am, I don‘t want it to end.
Ever.
‘I saw it in your eyes; you were up there, with me.’ His intense gaze is fixed on me, as though I‘m the only person in the room. I always thought that was a cliché, but it‘s how it really feels. Surely he must be aware there are lots of people waiting to speak to him? I‘m sure everyone must be staring at us, but I can‘t break eye contact with Sebastien. He‘s even more mesmerising and twice as charismatic in real life as he was on screen.
‘Do you have a name?’ His lips quirk. I try not to fixate on them but it‘s difficult not to imagine what it would be like to be kissed by him.
‘Yes …’ I‘m flustered. He still has my hand against his chest and is acting as though the way he‘s behaving is perfectly normal. ‘I‘m Lucy.’
‘Lucy,’ he tries out my name, his accent making it sound musical. He smiles. ‘You can call me Seb. Now I‘m afraid you‘ll have to excuse me. I have to go and make nice with the very generous people who give me money to do what I love. Will I see you at the after-party?’
He lets go of my hand and I instantly wish he hadn‘t broken the connection between us.
‘I don‘t think I‘m invited.’ I bite my lip, torn between desire and the urge to scurry back into my shell.
‘Pffft.’ He shrugs, a quintessentially French gesture of dismissal. ‘Consider yourself
