Fraser Mountain - Living the snow life

Chapter Four

Much as I try to shake it off, I can’t stop thinking about my conversation with Joe. We’ve emailed back and forth a few times since the night at the SnowDome and it’s been fine – no more I-might-fancy-you awkwardness. He’s sent me links to some useful websites, and seeing as I am bored out of my tiny mind at work, there’s been nothing to do but look at his suggestions and surf my favourite snowboarding forums. It’s giving me itchy feet and I’m jealous as hell that he’s going to Utah without a care in the world in a few weeks time. Evie isn’t being much help either. She keeps sending me YouTube links to snowboarding videos in emails entitled ‘What you could be doing in a month’s time’ and pictures of snow-capped mountains.

I lean back in my chair and look around the office. The very notion of never having to drag myself into this dull place again is filling me with more excitement every day. Henry, on the other hand, has been on at me constantly about finding another job and his nagging is killing my freedom-buzz. Okay, so I’ve only been invited for a few ‘informal’ chats with some design agencies, and nothing’s happened yet. But it will. I just have to give it time. And everyone always says that as a couple, if you can make it through stressful times like redundancy, then you can make it through anything. I can’t help but feel that if this situation was reversed and Henry lost his job, I would be a touch more supportive. I sigh and double click on the mouse, opening up yet another email from one of the recruitment agencies, promising the earth and delivering nothing.

There is another fly in the ointment. I made the fatal mistake of telling Henry about my conversation with Joe, when I thought he was in a mellow mood. He’d consumed most of a bottle of his favourite red wine, which I’d bought on the way home.

‘What? I don’t quite understand what you’re saying? What is this sudden fascination with becoming a chalet girl? Are you honestly telling me you want us to give up everything we’ve worked for, to go on some GAP year jaunt and live in some bloody arctic wasteland? You’re 30, for God’s sake! We have a life here – we can’t just up sticks and leave… It’s because you’ve been hanging out with Sam and his friends, isn’t it? They’ve put all these crazy ideas into your head. When are you going to see what a bunch of losers they are, Lex? They’re not like us. We have ambitions and goals. All they want to do is smoke weed and snowboard all day… it’s boring.’

There’s that ‘goals’ word again … It keeps coming back like a bad smell. Is Henry right?

After the longest four weeks ever, and I switch off my beloved Mac for the last time, wondering how I managed to form more of a bond with a piece of machinery than with my boss. Looking at my watch, I realise I need to get a move on or I’ll miss my train. Henry’s away for the weekend at some rugby reunion thing and Evie’s working.I’ve decided to make the most of an empty weekend and spend a few days with Mum and Granny. It’s not like I’ve got a job to come back for on Monday – just a cranky, potentially hung-over boyfriend

Walking out of the Bostock building for the last time doesn’t make me feel as happy as I thought it would. I was on the receiving end of an awkward hug from Susannah, which was frankly unpleasant. Barney was nowhere to be seen and Rob insisted on giving me his email address and suggested we keep in touch, which was unexpected, but I suppose we’ve bonded over these last few weeks.

Granny lives in the same village as Mum, so I get to kill two birds with one stone when I visit. My grandmother never ceases to amaze me with her endless energy. She must be in her late eighties, and she still goes walking every day, brandishing her stick and terrifying anyone that gets in her way. She’s a much-loved local, even if she can be a bit cantankerous.

Mum, being the free-spirited type, has always encouraged me to follow my dreams. My father left when I was eleven, which was pretty crap at the time, but Mum’s been everything I could ever want in a parent. When I went off to art college, Dad was nothing but dismissive, saying that I’d never earn any money and end up as an impoverished artist, just like my mother. Needless to say, we don’t talk anymore.

We all sit down over a cup of tea and I tell them both about the last few weeks, glossing over Henry’s lack of empathy. Mum listens carefully and although she’d never say it to my face, I’m not entirely sure she’s a big fan of his, although she’s never been anything but nice to him. Even Granny doesn’t offer an opinion, and she’s never backwards about coming forwards, if you catch my drift.

I tell them both I’m worried about putting my life on hold and the concerns I have about pensions and getting a foot on the housing ladder. Gran clasps my fingers tightly in her gnarled hand, looks me right in the eye and asks me a really simple question.

‘Are you happy?’

What is it with old people being really wise all the time? I don’t know how to answer her. My life could be so much worse than it is. I’m not struggling financially and I have wonderful friends. Maybe I’m just a victim of this weird modern phenomenon – being so bogged down with self-obsession that we’re never truly happy. But could I be happier? Probably, yes.

After a wonderful weekend with my family, I arrive back at the flat feeling even more confused than ever. For a Tuesday, my day is not going well. By 4pm, I’m so bored I might have to alphabetize the CD collection for something to do. I sort through Henry’s dry-cleaning in an attempt at embracing the role of the fifties housewife now that I’m not working – anything to keep me occupied. As I check the pockets of his favourite designer suit, my hand feels something brush against it. I pull whatever it is free, and my brain takes a few seconds to register what I’m holding. The thong is lacy, skimpy and bright pink. And it is definitely not mine.

What do I do? Nothing. I don’t even say anything to him when he gets home from work. I throw the knickers in the kitchen bin and go back to sorting out laundry. The sensible voice inside my head is saying ‘Ah, the shenanigans of the rugby weekend. No doubt they went to lap-dancing bar and it got a bit raucous.’

It would seem silly to start a fight about a pair of stripper’s pants, after all. And when Henry gets home with the largest bunch of flowers I have ever seen, which definitely cheers me up. I cook us a lovely dinner and he even let his iPhone ring for ages all evening, telling me he’d rather devote his time to me than speak to his boss. Poor Henry – he works so hard.