The Hike(2)

‘We can sort the bags,’ Tristan said, slapping Paul on the back. ‘Can’t we, mate? Sorry . . . are you going to puke?’

‘You took those corners far too fast.’

‘Oh, come on. You need to drive like that, ascending so high in one of these stupid little cars.’ He kicked the driver’s-side back tyre. ‘I thought you’d ordered a four-by-four?’

Paul was gulping lungfuls of fresh mountain air, his colour slowly returning to normal. ‘Cat said she did. It’s not my fault they messed up the booking.’

Ginny grabbed hold of Cat’s arm, dragging her away. ‘There’s a bar over the road. Let’s leave them to it.’

Cat grinned at her, and the two of them hurried towards the cute little hut with wooden chairs and tables outside. The tables were covered with red-and-white-checked cloths, held down with metal clips. In the centre of each table was a small stone vase holding a bright-yellow flower.

‘This is just perfect,’ Cat said, pulling out a chair. ‘It’s exactly as I’d pictured.’ She glanced around, soaking up her surroundings. ‘I feel like Heidi.’ She lifted her honey-blonde hair out to the sides in two bunches. ‘Can you do plaits?’

Ginny laughed. ‘I think Heidi was German.’

‘Yeah, but she lived in the Alps, didn’t she? I’m sure it’s not that much different in the German cantons.’

‘Well, let’s hope we don’t bump into the evil Fr?ulein Rottenmeier. She was horrible.’

Cat was about to start dredging her memory for the exact details of the book that she’d read so long ago, when the waiter, dressed in a typical French black-and-white ensemble, appeared by their table, an expectant look on his face.

‘Bon après-midi, mesdames. Vouz avez choisi?’ He waited a beat, then spoke again, this time in heavily accented English. ‘Good afternoon, ladies. Have you chosen?’

Ginny grinned at him, holding up two fingers. ‘Grandes bières. Merci.’ Her accent was terrible, and the waiter forced an indulgent smile before disappearing back inside.

Cat rolled her eyes. It was just like France then – the locals finding the tourists’ attempts at their language barely tolerable. Especially tourists with terrible accents. ‘I thought we were having cheese and wine?’ She had been looking forward to the wine. It was typical of Ginny to change her mind. Sometimes Cat wondered how she managed to get through a day, with all her dithering and indecision.

‘We need a livener first.’ Ginny blew out a long breath. ‘I am so glad to be here. One more of those hairpin bends and I thought we were all goners.’

‘Me too,’ Cat said. ‘Tristan wasn’t exactly taking it easy for someone driving on the wrong side of unfamiliar roads.’ She paused, smoothing down the edge of the tablecloth from where the breeze had flipped the corner up. ‘Are you going to tell me what you two were arguing about?’ She kept the ‘this time’ to herself.

Ginny took a packet of Marlboros and a lighter from her handbag. ‘Everything. Nothing. You know what it’s like.’ She offered Cat the packet, knowing she would shake her head because she hadn’t smoked in years – despite her sister’s attempts to lure her back to it, to ‘keep her company’. Eventually, Ginny shrugged, then popped a cigarette into her mouth, lighting it quickly and inhaling deeply. ‘I think he might be having an affair.’

This time it was the word ‘again’ that Cat added, only to herself. She tried to keep her expression neutral. There was no way her sister could know the truth about what she had planned for this trip, was there?

‘Deux bières.’ The waiter reappeared, placing two large bottles of beer and two stemmed glasses on the table, setting down a small bowl of peanuts between them. Then he was gone, and Ginny’s sentence hung in the air. That cloud, again. But this time it wasn’t shifting so quickly.

Cat nibbled on a peanut, crunching it hard between her teeth. ‘What makes you say that?’

Ginny waved her cigarette, blew out a plume of smoke. ‘A few things. I don’t know, Cat. Maybe I’m overreacting.’

Cat picked up her glass, tipping it to the side as she slowly poured in the beer. ‘Like what?’

Ginny drank hers straight from the bottle. ‘It’s so clichéd, I don’t know if I can even be bothered to tell you. Late home from work. Not paying attention to me. New clothes . . .’

‘Maybe he’s just busy at work.’ Some of us actually do some work, Cat thought, taking a long, slow drink. The beer was ice-cold and tasted heavenly.

‘Not too busy to buy new clothes, though?’ Ginny stubbed out her cigarette, crushing it hard into the metal ashtray. ‘He used to always ask me to help choose his clothes.’ Ginny pouted like the spoilt child that she had always been. ‘God, you’re so lucky with Paul. He’d never cheat on you, would he? The two of you are so bloody perfect.’

Cat kept a poker face. Ginny knew nothing about her relationship. She was far too self-absorbed to care. A classic Daddy’s Little Princess, her sister had grown up to be the ultimate city boy’s trophy wife. The fact that she was supposed to have an actual job helping Cat run her events company barely registered on her radar, especially over the last few months. Ginny’s life was all about looking pretty and searching for the perfect recipe to wow Tristan with every night, despite the fact that he usually got home late, half-pissed, having already eaten out with clients at a posh restaurant. It was no wonder that Tristan had got bored and gone looking for some fun.