Fraser Mountain - Living the snow life

Prologue

*Ding*

I open one bleary blue eye and spot the seatbelt sign has started to glow. Shifting in the unbearably small seat and stretching one long leg out, almost tripping an uptight air hostess up as she bustles past, I find myself on the receiving end of a filthy look and a loud tut.

‘Sorry.’ I mouth silently, trying not to wake the snoring pensioner beside me.

I hadn’t been sleeping deeply – more of a doze. Curling my six foot frame into a space designed for short, thin people would challenge anyone to attempt anything like a nap, let alone a satisfying kip. I close my eyes, trying to entice some moisture into the sockets to make them feel less gritty. Flying always makes me feel like a pot noodle before being introduced to a kettle – dehydrated, unhealthy and frankly yucky.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Jones speaking. We’ll be starting our descent into Calgary airport in about an hour. The weather looks to be pretty good for our arrival… it’s twelve degrees and the sun is shining. On behalf of blahdy blah airlines, blah blah blah….’

The announcement rumbles over the intercom as I try to picture a face to match the voice. It’s a favourite game I like to play, possibly because my mum listens to The Archers like it’s some kind of religion. I grew up in a house where Ruth and David had dinner with us every night at 7pm. Imagine my horror when I opened up the Radio Times and discovered the actor who played David Archer was so far removed from the farmer of my 12-year-old dreams I spat my broccoli out (that was my excuse and I’m sticking with it). Captain Jones may have a deep voice that is slightly sexy in a capable and sensible way (naturally) but I would happily bet my wallet full of dollars there’s a balding fifty-year-old behind the cockpit door, who probably answers to the name Kenneth. Or Cliff.

And then there’s my mate Printer Dave, for example. We met through my work and whenever he called me about some artwork, or a quote, his telephone voice made him sound like one of those heroes on the cover of a dodgy Mills & Boon novel – all chiselled abs and square jaw. We had a nightmare report running really late and he’d had to deliver some proofs in person, where it turned out he was short and slightly spotty with a Burberry cap perched jauntily on his head, and had a paunch covered in an Arsenal football shirt. Like my Granny always said, never judge a book by its cover. God, I’m really going to miss Gran. And Evie. And Sam. And Mum, obviously. Maybe even Henry. Bloody hell, don’t cry again, I tell myself firmly.

‘Oh lordy! I think I must hate the landing part as much as the taking off… ’

The elderly lady in the seat next to me smiles nervously, sending another whiff of sour milk my way as she shifts in her seat. Marjorie, otherwise known as ‘The Crazy Old Lady Sitting Next To Me’, decided to open her third pot of creamer (apparently, one is never quite enough) just as we were flying over Greenland. At the precise moment she’d pulled back the silver foil, most of its contents had somehow landed on my favourite jeans, so I now smell like a past-it dairy cow. Turbulence over Greenland is always a bit of a given, according to my new bezzie mate Marjorie, who seems to know everything about anything if you care to ask her. And anything else if you don’t.

I’ve spent the last nine hours getting a crash course in topics apparently favoured by your average Canadian pensioner… to knit or to crochet, for example? How big should one’s log pile really be? And is it conceivable that Prince Charles married again? Shocking.

‘Are you getting excited yet, dear? I would be so excited. A new life in a country you’ve never even been to. Oh, it’s just so romantic! I’m so pleased I sat next to you.’

This is possibly the fifth time Marjorie had plumped for the same topic of conversation and I try to smile at the same time as giving a little involuntary shiver, so no doubt my gritted teeth grin isn’t putting her off. She continues to wax lyrical about my ‘zany’ situation which only helps to enforce the fact that I’m about to land in a completely alien country, where I have no friends, no job, no family, no nothing. Nada. Oh, and last week I left my boyfriend, the supposed love of my life, the one I thought was ‘The One’ standing in an estate agents in Colliers Wood, wondering what the hell just happened. Get me, I’m a total feministic vision of romantic brilliance. Jane Austen would be so proud. Would she hell.

‘Very excited, thanks.’ I reply, needing to pee for the fifteenth time. The Air Hostesses are going to think I’m a junkie at this rate. ‘Just going to nip to the loo again.’

What the hell am I doing? I think over and over again, as I get up from my seat and shuffle towards the toilets. I avoid eye contact with row after row of passengers before I get to the back of the plane, and mercifully, there’s no queue. As I lock myself in the tiny, claustrophobic cubicle, I take in some long deep breaths and fumble in my pocket for the little yellow bottle of rescue remedy. I could really do with a bucket of the stuff, but I’ll end up smelling like a distillery.

I peer in the tiny mirror and it’s fair to say I don’t look my best. Frankly, I look minging, regardless of the unflattering lighting. My skin is blotchy and my eyes are red and puffy. My mousey fringe falls lankly around my face so I pull a hairband from my wrist and scrape my hair back into a greasy ponytail.

‘What the hell are you doing, Lexie McGinty?’ I mutter to myself out-loud, peering again at my grey-tinged skin in the mirror. ‘It’s official. You’ve gone mental.’