Page 11 of Counting Down To You

I prop myself up against the pillow and try to think about how best to answer. In the end, I settle on the truth. After all, these are Robyn’s friends too, and they know about the calendar.

Let’s just say Robyn wanted to make me work a bit this year with the challenges.

I get a line of hearts from one friend—the one who probably knew Robyn the least.

Oh Al. She’d be so proud of you.

She’d LOVE this. I can actually imagine her victory dance right now. You know the one where she did the weird thing with her hands.

I loved that dance.

I hope you’re okay Ali. Know that we all miss her too and we’re thinking of you. We’re here any time you want to chat. Love you.

It’s making me emotional reading the messages, and I don’t want to show up for my first shift red-faced and puffy-eyed, so I put down the phone and rub my hands over my face. It’s stupid. I should be glad my friends are all rallying around me, that they miss Robyn too. But this is why I couldn’t face London in December with nothing to do. Because, although I very much want to keep Robyn’s memory alive, it’s just so damn hard talking about her, trying to figure out the right thing to say.

For now, I throw off my duvet and get ready for my first shift—this, at least, is a distraction. When I step out of the cabin a little while later, the mountain is at my back. If I squint, I can make out tiny dots that must be people out there skiing. The pine trees are more impressive under the bright blue sky, each one dusted with icing-sugar snow, and there is another cabin out here, nestled a few meters away from mine.

I’m wearing formal black work shoes, to go with the suit that I’d dug out. I sent a photo of it to Cal, wondering whether it was appropriate “guest-relations manager” attire, and got a thumbs-up emoji in response. It’s simple, a fitted black blazer with a pinstripe blouse, and I’ve topped it off with small stud earrings. The shoes, however, are clearly a mistake—even though the walk is barely a minute, I can feel the freshly fallen snow seeping through, just like with my Converse. Well, at least it’ll give me something to do on my day off—somewhere nearby must sell suitable footwear, right?

The steps at the hotel entrance have thankfully been salted, so I manage not to fall on my face as I head into the lobby, a doorman opening the door for me. Nerves squirm in my stomach. What if they realize, immediately on meeting me, that I’m an impostor?

Get a grip, Ali. It’s just a few weeks. What’s the worst that can happen?

The smell of Christmas rises up to meet me as I cross the wooden floor to the front desk: cinnamon and pine and gingerbread. There is a fire crackling on one side of the room, with comfy seating surrounding it, a glass coffee table adding a touch of the modern, with various magazines arranged neatly on top. A huge Christmas tree, artfully decorated, sits in the corner of reception, with what are presumably fake presents underneath.

There are two people behind the reception desk. When the woman on the left smiles, I veer toward her. She’s got to be around the same age as me, with near-black hair pulled into a chic bun, and an angular, almost sharp face with high, impressive cheekbones.

“Good morning,” says the woman, smiling. “Welcome to Hotel Étoiles.” She has an English accent, but she nails the French pronunciation. “Are you here to check in?” She glances down expectantly to my side, no doubt looking for luggage.

I take a silent breath, square my shoulders, and work up my best smile. “No. I’m Ali Reynolds.” The woman’s eyebrows arch upward, elongating her face further. I falter. This is the right place, right? Ed didn’t drop me at some random cabin by mistake? “I, umm, I think I’m here for the guest-relations manager role?”

Why do I have to sound so unsure? I lecture my recruitment clients on sounding confident—way to take my own advice.

The woman nods, glancing down at her computer screen. Is it just me, or is that nod a little stiff? The smile has gone too, a definite impassivity taking its place. “I’m the front-office manager,” she says. Her hazel eyes flicker back to my face. “Lucie. Ed showed you to the cabin last night?”

“He did. It’s so beautiful.” I give Lucie a smile that is not returned.

“Yes,” Lucie agrees shortly. “It is.” She sighs. “Brooks isn’t here yet, I’m afraid. I suppose you know he’s not flying in until the afternoon.”

There’s that name again. Brooks. Said like it’s someone I should know. Determination not to fuck up on my very first day has me nodding. “Right. Okay.”

“You’re supposed to start on the lunch shift.” She sighs again. She has a rather impressive sigh, I’ll give her that. “I guess I should show you round.”

“That would be great,” I say, injecting as much warmth into my voice as I can. There is no reason for this woman not to like me, I tell myself. I’m probably imagining the frostiness. Even as that theory is tested by the somewhat suspicious look Lucie gives me as she steps around to my side of the desk. At least I have the uniform down. Lucie is dressed in a pencil skirt and small heels, with a sleek fitted blazer. I can’t help wondering how she navigated the snow and ice in those heels, though I figure best not to ask.

“Johann, will you watch the desk for half an hour, please?” Lucie calls over to the other receptionist, who nods.

Lucie shows me around the key facilities of the hotel, seeming almost bored as she does so. There is the drawing room, where guests can retire with a book and a glass of wine in front of the fire at the end of a long day, the spa, which includes an outdoor hot tub so you can soak under the stars no matter how cold it is, the bar, where you can relax in comfy armchairs or sit at one of the high stools and admire the view of the mountains and the classy restaurant, with candles on each table waiting to be lit. For a “boutique” hotel there is certainly a lot going on, and I’m starting to understand how they justify the enormous price tag.

“That’s about it,” Lucie says, leaning back against one of the round tables in the restaurant in a way that looks risky given the glassware that is currently glinting there. She checks her watch and huffs. “There are some VIPs arriving tomorrow morning, so you might want to get up to speed with that. At least, I’m assuming that’ll be on you, but as Brooks isn’t here to confirm…” She trails off in a way that is definitely meaningful.

“Right,” I say with a nod. “VIPs.” Fuck, what am I supposed to do with the VIPs? Hopefully there will be a file or something telling me what to do.

“Housekeeping is that way,” Lucie says, pointing through the restaurant door, back the way we came. Which isn’t overly helpful, given everything is that way. “Maggie’s in charge and is the best person to ask if you need anything in particular doing. Marco’s the head chef, but I wouldn’t bother asking him directly if there are any special requests—Elodie is the only one who has any sway over him, so—”

“Did I hear my name?”

A tall blond woman, probably in her late forties, appears from behind the door that leads to the kitchen, seeming to glint as she walks. It takes me a moment to realize that’s because she’s completely adorned in sparkly jewelry, with dangling diamond earrings and bracelets that jangle as she moves. Even the buttons of her blazer sparkle.