the day before, but one more won’t hurt,’ says Sophie, and we drag our cases down to reception and leave them behind the desk, collecting little tokens in exchange as they’re locked away.
Outside there’s no sign of the sun and the sky is thick with pale clouds, tinged with the faintest hint of violet. More snow on the way, it said on the forecast, after a week that had been absolutely gorgeous. The sun had shone so brightly that we’d sat at the piste café having lunch outside most days with our ski coats off, listening to the thudding bass of dance music, our skis standing upright in the snow. It feels sad to be leaving Val d’Isère, with its throng of holiday guests, swooshing past in their expensive-looking ski garb, heading up the chair lifts for another day of fun. We take a seat at the little wooden chairs outside the hotel and stretch our legs out in the sunshine. It’s strange to be back in normal clothes, after a week of clomping around in heavy ski boots.
Celebrating New Year – and New Year’s Day – in a ski resort has been amazing, but my liver feels like it needs to go on a rest cure. Not to mention my legs, which are aching so much I’m walking like a robot, and covered in bruises from a pretty spectacular fall when the aforementioned Handsome Fabien, the instructor we’d clubbed together to pay for, had tried to get us to go down a run that ended with ‘une petit noir’, except his idea of a little black run looked like a vertical drop. Sophie and Gen, who’d had more time on skis than me, managed to make it down in one piece. I’d landed at the bottom, on my bottom, followed unceremoniously by one ski clonking me on the head (thank goodness for helmets) while the other one sailed past, over the edge of the piste and into the trees.
The waiter brings our order – hot chocolate laced with cream and a dash of rum for me and Gen, vin chaud for Sophie.
‘It’s amazing that we’re all in the same place at the same time at the beginning of a year,’ I say.
‘Can’t remember the last time that happened.’ Sophie twirls a beer mat between her fingers, looking thoughtful. ‘Wonder what we’ll be doing this time next year?’
‘Maybe I’ll have had my big break,’ says Gen, who has been saying that since she started drama classes back when we were in primary school.
‘This is the year,’ Sophie says, sounding determined. ‘Rich and I are settling down. I’m going to be thirty. It’s time. And I’m knocking these on the head, too.’ She taps her glass with a neatly manicured finger.
‘You’re giving up drinking?’ I look at Gen, and Gen looks at me, and together we look at Sophie.
‘I don’t want to take any risks.’
‘You’re not even thirty. Nobody has children when they’re this age. You’re the only person I know who is like a proper grown-up, Soph,’ I say.
Gen nods. ‘They’ll make the house untidy and you’ll have loads of plastic crap everywhere and you’ll end up being one of those people who pisses everyone off in Pizza Express because you turn up with a baby that screams the place down when we’re all trying to have a nice hangover meal on Tesco points.’
‘Thanks,’ says Sophie, drily. ‘I can’t believe you spent so many years working as a mother’s help. You’re literally the most un-maternal person I’ve ever met.’
‘I am not,’ Gen protests, unconvincingly. ‘I just don’t understand why anyone would want to subject themselves to parenthood.’
‘That’s what she means,’ I say.
‘I am still here,’ Sophie points out. ‘As in sitting right here. Anyway, I won’t have the sort of baby that screams in restaurants. If it does, I’ll take it outside or something. But I’ve got it all planned out …’
There’s a split second where Gen and I look at each other and make a face, and Sophie mutters something unrepeatable under her breath before we all laugh and she carries on. ‘I’ll get married this year. Then I want three kids and I want them before I turn forty.’ She’s actually counting this out on her fingers. ‘If I have a two-year age gap, that’s—’
‘Soph, you’re so organised.’ Gen snorts with laughter. ‘I don’t even have a bloody house of my own, and you’re planning everything out. I bet you’ve got a spreadsheet on Excel with all this