man challenges, raising a thick, blond eyebrow.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’
‘Olly.’ He holds out a large hand for me to shake. ‘I’m staying in the chalet next to you. With the Olympic rabble over there.’ He points to a rowdy group of young men holding beers. ‘You’re a chalet girl, right?’ He grins. ‘Nice work if you can get it.’
‘Actually, it can be exhausting,’ I say.
Olly laughs. ‘Are you thinking about jumping off the mountain then?’
My smile disappears. ‘No. Why would you ask that?’
‘Just joking.’
We stare out at the peaks for a minute.
A live band strikes up behind us, playing a Beatles cover – ‘Love Me Do’.
Olly’s shoulders move to the music.
Mine do too.
‘You like the Beatles?’ Olly asks.
‘Yes.’ I look at him shyly, hoping this is the right answer.
‘Me too! I have a massive collection of Sixties vinyl.’
‘You collect vinyl?’ I ask.
‘No, well … not really. Most of my records are my mum’s. She listens to CDs now. It feels like time-travelling when I play vinyl, you know? Like I’m part of the swinging Sixties.’
‘Olly!’ A tall, red-cheeked man swaggers over, holding out a beer bottle. ‘Olly Kinnock. This is supposed to be a lads’ night out and here you are chatting up girls again.’
Olly smiles at me, staring with blue, blue eyes. ‘Not girls. A girl. A very interesting girl.’
I feel myself blushing.
‘Fair enough,’ announces the red-cheeked man, thrusting the beer into Olly’s hand. ‘We’ll see you in the morning then.’ He returns to his group of friends, who break into guffaws of laughter.
‘Sorry about them,’ says Olly, putting his elbow on the balcony and, in the process, leaning nearer to me. ‘They can be morons.’
‘You can go back to them if you like.’
‘Actually, I’ve always preferred female company,’ says Olly. ‘Girls smell better. But you must have a boyfriend, surely? A pretty girl like you. So tell me to get lost if you want.’
I blush again and stammer, ‘Um … no, I don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘Have a drink with me then.’
Surely he’s just teasing me? Handsome snowboarders don’t chat up chalet girls. And he really is handsome, with his lean, toned arms and perfect white teeth.
His eyes are serious, holding my gaze.
Maybe he isn’t joking.
‘Okay,’ I hear myself say. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s a date.’ Olly takes my hand like he’s won a prize.
I laugh, sucking in my breath as his strong fingers close around mine.
‘So what are you drinking?’ Olly asks.
‘Um … white wine?’
‘Chardonnay?’
‘Sure. Yes please.’
He winks at me. ‘I love Chardonnay. Best wine ever. Just don’t tell the lads. It’s a bit girly. I’ve been noticing you for weeks, Lizzie Riley. I think we should spend lots and lots of time together. And then get married.’
I can barely believe this is happening. A nobody chalet girl like me, being chatted up by this confident, tanned athlete. I guess I should enjoy it while it lasts. When he works out what a nothing I am, he’ll run a mile.
I laugh. ‘Are you always so forward with your wedding plans?’
‘Only with my future wife.’
‘You don’t even know me.’
‘Yes, but I’ve been watching you and your purple puffer jacket for ages, wondering how you don’t freeze to death in those DM boots.’
‘Where have you noticed me?’
‘Drinking black coffee in the café, buying a ginger cookie and giving crumbs to the birds on your way out. Always carrying a pile of books under your arm. Are you a student?’
‘I’m training to be a nurse.’
‘A nurse? Well, Lizzie Nightingale, you’ll have to put your career aside when you have my five children.’
‘Five children?’
‘At least five. And I hope they all look just like you.’
Our eyes meet, and in that second I feel totally, utterly alive.
I’ve never been noticed like this.
It’s electrifying.
And I feel myself hoping, like I’ve never hoped before, that this man feels the same sparks in his chest as I do.
8 a.m.
I’m eating Kellogg’s All-Bran at my desk, silently chanting my morning mantra: Be grateful, Kate. Be grateful. This is the job you wanted.
Apparently, social workers suffer more nervous breakdowns than any other profession.
I already have stress-related eczema, insomnia and an unhealthy relationship with the office vending machine – specifically the coils holding the KitKats and Mars bars.
Last night I got home at 9 p.m., and this morning I was called in at 7.30 a.m. I have a huge caseload and I’m firefighting. There isn’t time to help anyone. Just prevent disaster.
Be grateful, Kate.
My computer screen displays my caseload: thirty children.
This morning, I’ve had to add one more.
