“You were dreaming last night, shouting about someone called Will. I heard you through the wall. It woke me up.”
Fuck.
“Huh, weird.” I keep my voice light, and just a little puzzled. “Sorry about that. Nightmare I guess.”
And then before he can pursue the question, I leave the room. I carry the tray through to the dining room with hands that are only slightly trembling and begin laying out the breakfast things on the big wooden table. I’m setting out the last jars of preserve when I hear the click of heels on the stairs and look up to see Eva coming into the lobby. She looks pissed off.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi, what’s happened to the internet?” she says without preamble. My heart sinks. Shit. I’d hoped it was a temporary thing.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry. Is it still down?”
“Yes, and the mobile reception is terrible.”
“I’m ever so sorry, it’s something to do with the snow. It happens occasionally. I think it means a wire’s snapped in the snow or a repeater’s gone down or something. It’s not uncommon after very heavy falls, and we’ve certainly had enough of that recently.”
I wave my hand at the window where the snow is halfway up the glass in some parts.
“I don’t need the science bit, what I want to know is when will it be back up?”
Her tone is sharp and unapologetically annoyed. It’s the voice of someone used to saying “Jump” and getting the answer “How high?” Which doesn’t bother me in itself—in some ways I prefer people who are clear about their expectations, rather than smiling at you all week and then giving you a shitty write-up on their feedback forms. But in this instance I can’t help, and something tells me Eva isn’t going to like that fact.
“I don’t know,” I say. I fold my arms. “I’m sorry. They usually get it up and running in a few days, but I can’t say with more certainty than that.”
“Fuck.” She is annoyed and not trying to hide it, but the expression on her face is something more than that, there’s a level of stress and upset here that’s out of proportion.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I wish I could do something more concrete. Is it a problem with work?”
“Work?” She looks up at that, and then shakes her head and gives a bitter little laugh. “God no. All my work problems can be summed up in one word—Topher. No, this is home. It’s—” She sighs, and then runs her hand through her silky white-blond curtain of hair. “Oh, it probably doesn’t sound like a big deal, but I always Skype my daughter, Radisson, every morning when I’m away. It’s our little ritual, you know? I have to travel so much, and I’m not always able to be there as much as I’d like. But the one thing I always do is say good morning to her over breakfast, and I feel like a complete shit that I can’t do it today. I managed to get through on the phone to my partner, but you know, with little kids they don’t really understand phones. She’s only eighteen months. She needs to see a face.”
“I can understand that,” I say softly. “It must be really hard being away from her.”
“Thanks,” Eva says shortly. She blinks and then turns away, under the pretense of filling up a cup at the steaming tea urn. I think she is pissed off with herself for showing that she’s only human, but it makes me like her a bit more. Underneath that icy facade is a person, apparently.
Then she picks up a tea bag, puts it into the cup of boiling water, and walks away back to her room without another word.
* * *
Topher, Rik, and Carl are the next guests down, about half an hour later, and my heart does a little jump of relief at the sight of the three of them. Well—at the sight of Topher, to be more accurate. He looks bleary-eyed and hungover, but he’s here, which is as far as my responsibility to the group goes.
“So you weren’t the only dirty stay out,” Carl is saying to Topher as they enter the room. “Inigo came crawling back to our room at five a.m.”
“Oh Christ,” Topher says. He rolls his eyes. “Not that again. Eva should know better.”
Eva? Her name gives me a little prickle of reaction, though I can’t say why, exactly. It’s none of my business after all. Perhaps it’s coming straight after her obvious distress at not being able to talk to her family. Is Topher right, or just stirring up trouble?
“Hashtag cougar,” Carl says with a grin. He walks across to the breakfast buffet I have laid out, picks up a warm croissant, and dunks it straight into the glass mason jar containing Danny’s golden homemade apricot preserve. Then takes a huge bite, grinning through the crumbs.
“Hashtag?” Rik says disdainfully. He’s wearing a black merino polo neck and looks like a page ripped from a high-end men’s knitwear catalog. “Cougar? Have I woken up in a frat house in 2005?” Then he turns to me with a deliberately charming smile that crinkles the skin at the corners of his mouth. “I’d love an espresso, please, Erin. If that’s okay.”
Carl glares at him with a force I can feel over the other side of the room.
It should have come across as a dick move—a younger, fitter, better-looking man taking the piss out of his less-hip colleague. But I get the impression that Rik’s issue isn’t really with Carl’s choice of words but more with his choice of conversation topic. It’s funny, I’m starting to like Rik more and more. There is something about the way he relates to Eva—and Miranda actually—that is very different to Carl’s and Topher’s sniggering boys’ club attitude. Much more likable.
“So, skiing today?” The voice comes from the top of the stairwell, and I look up to see Miranda making her way down the spiral. Her dark hair is tied back in a bun, and she looks ready for business. She clocks me dispensing Rik’s espresso and says, “Good morning, Erin, mine’s an almond-milk cortado, please. What’s the forecast?”
“More snow in the afternoon,” I say. “In fact, some people are saying they expect the avalanche rating to rise, which means more closures. If you want to ski, do it this morning is my advice.”
“Eva won’t be pleased,” Carl says. “She’s got this morning packed with presentations.”
“Eva will have to lump it,” Topher says sourly. He pops two white pills into his mouth and washes them down with a gulp from his stainless-steel water bottle, then massages the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t come all this way to sit in a board room all week listening to her bore on about investor expectations. She can push her little bits of paper around this afternoon.”
“I’m sure she won’t mind rescheduling,” Miranda says mildly. “It’ll be good for everyone to blow off some steam. I certainly can’t wait to get my skis on.”
She has the look of a skier. Lean but strong. Topher looks like a boarder, and I’m unsurprised when he says, “What’s the off-piste like round here, Irene? Any good powder?”
It takes me a beat, then I realize he’s referring to me, at the same time as Miranda hisses, “She’s called Erin,” in Topher’s direction.
I smile, trying to convey that I don’t mind. Irene, Eileen, Emma—it’s all the same. When you’re staff, you’re not really a person. Topher would probably treat a robot with high-quality AI with the same level of polite disinterest.