Proposal At The Winter Ball

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She could never face him again. She should pack her bags and escape down the mountain, at night, in thick snow. She couldn’t ski, didn’t have a car and Innsbruck was several miles below. But that didn’t matter, the exit plan itself mere details. The important thing was that she needed to escape and to pretend she had never ever laid eyes on Alex Fitzgerald with his crooked smile and red-brown curls.

But then he would spend Christmas alone. And without her family what did he have? He would never show it, of course, never say anything but she knew. She saw the look of relief when he stepped through the front door into her parents’ hall. Saw him almost physically set down whatever burdens he carried around along with his overnight bag. Watched him relax, really relax, as he talked sport with Horatio—not that Horry had much of a clue but he tried to keep up. Watched the laughter lurk in his eyes as he half teased, half flirted with Minerva in a way no other mortal, not even her own husband, could get away with.

He helped her dad in the kitchen, talked through work problems with her mum and was on Flora’s side. Always.

No, he couldn’t be allowed to leave them. She would just have to grin, bear it and blame the schnapps. Not for the first time.

And she would work hard. She would blow the caramel-haired, caramel-clad, tight-skinned Camilla Lusso’s designer socks off with her colour schemes, materials and designs. She would make Alex proud and this would be just a teeny footnote in their history. Never to be mentioned again. Never to be...

What now? A knock on the door interrupted her fervent vowing. Flora pushed herself off the bed, smoothed down her hair. Please don’t let it be Camilla Lusso. There was no way she was ready for round two. ‘Come in.’

A bellboy pushed the door open and smiled politely. ‘Excuse me, Fraulein. I have Herr Fitzgerald’s bags if now is convenient?’

If now was what?

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Frau Lusso asked me to move Herr Fitzgerald’s bags into your room.’ He opened the door a little wider, pushing a trolley through heaped with Alex’s distinctive brown leather bags.

‘But...’ Flora shook her head. Was she dreaming? Hallucinating? Had she been drinking absinthe? That would explain a lot. Maybe the whole hideous evening had been some weird absinthe-related dream.

‘Mr Fitzgerald has his own room.’

‘Not any more,’ Alex stepped into the room, just behind the bellboy. His voice was light but there was a grim set to his face, his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. ‘Camilla very kindly said there was no need for us to be discreet and we absolutely shouldn’t spend the week before Christmas apart. Nice bath. Do you want first dibs or shall I?’

* * *

‘You can’t stay here.’ Flora sank back onto the bed and stared at the pile of bags. It was most unfair; how did Alex have proper stuff? They were more or less the same age. How had he managed to turn into an actual functioning grown-up with matching luggage filled with the correct clothes for every occasion?

‘What do you suggest?’ He seemed unruffled as he opened up the first, neatly packed suitcase and began to lay his top-of-the-line ski kit out onto the other side of the bed.

‘Well, we’ll just say we’re not ready for this step. Say we’re waiting.’

‘We’re waiting?’ An unholy glint appeared in his eye. ‘How virtuous.’

‘People do...’ Her cheeks were hot and she couldn’t look at him. All desire to discuss anything relating to love or sex or kissing with Alex Fitzgerald had evaporated the minute she had caught the disgust in his eyes. Again.

‘They do,’ he agreed, picking up his pile of clothes and disappearing into the walk-in wardrobe with them. ‘Why haven’t you unpacked?’

Flora blinked, a little stunned by his rapid turn of conversation. ‘I have. Those clothes there? They’re mine.’

‘But where are your ski clothes? You can’t hit the slopes in jeans.’

Flora winced. She had a suspicion that hitting would be the right verb if she did venture out on skis—as in her bottom repeatedly and painfully hitting the well-packed snow. ‘I don’t ski.’

Alex had reappeared and was shaking his tuxedo out of another of the bags; somehow it was miraculously uncreased. Another grown-up trick. ‘Flora, we’re here to mingle and promote the hotel. In winter it’s a ski hotel. I don’t think staying away from the slopes is optional. Did you pack anything for the dinners and the ball?’

The what? ‘You didn’t mention a ball.’ Unwanted, hot tears were pricking at her eyes. Any minute he’d inform her that she needed to cook a cordon-bleu meal for sixty and she would win at being completely inadequate.

‘You’ll have to go shopping tomorrow. You need a ski outfit, another couple of formal dresses for dinner and something for the ball.’

Flora leaned forward and covered her face with her hands, trying to block the whole scene, the whole evening, the whole day out. If she wished hard enough then maybe it would all go away. She’d wake up and be back on the train, squashed onto the knee of a leering stranger, and she’d know that there were worse ways to make a fool of herself.

‘I can’t afford to go shopping for things I’ll only wear once. I cut up my credit cards so I wouldn’t be tempted to go into debt and until I get paid next Friday I have exactly two hundred and eight pounds in my account—and I need to live on next week’s pay until I go back to London after New Year. We don’t all have expense accounts and savings and disposable income.’

It was odd, arguing over clothes and money when so much had happened in the last half-hour. But in a way it was easier, far better to worry about the small stuff than the huge, shattering things.