Read Online The Troika Dolls by Miranda Darling - Free Book Online

way out, she would have no choice but to feign nausea. No one ever argued with that.
    But the man didn’t move from his table.
    Stevie finished her interminable dinner, having left most of it untouched, and rose. Without glancing at the man, with a nod to the maitre d ’, she slipped out.
    There were no messages under her door. Joss hadn’t called. What sort of engagement could Joss possibly have to keep him in London?
    And so vague . . . Joss didn’t use words like ‘engagement’—especially not words like ‘engagement’. Why hadn’t he wanted to talk to her?
    Again Stevie debated calling and decided against it. Joss knew where she was. He would call if he wanted to.
    Had her luminosity faded in his eyes . . . was that what was driving Joss incrementally away from her?
    Thirty thousand feet above the scene, Stevie accepted a refill of her champagne glass. Somewhere in her crocodile bag, she still had the message that had arrived at her door the next morning, accompanied by a pretty bunch of primroses: Herr Carey called to say he is devastated he can’t make it.
    Primroses. Like that first one which, held in his palm, had ensnared her heart.
    Stevie had opened the curtains and looked out at the mountain. It was so beautiful in the early light. Teardrops crawled like flies from her eyes, pausing a moment on the ridge of her jaw before leaping down and disappearing into the towelling of her robe.
    This would not do. The mountain was there and the snow was excellent. If there was ever a time to carry on and enjoy herself tremendously, this was probably it. Crying was ridiculous; she would go to breakfast instead.
    The Swiss ski breakfast is a triumph of human achievement: the Bircher müsli, that glorious mess of oats, grated apple and yoghurt; the mountain breads—the Walliserbrot , the potato bread, the rye loaves; the displays of mountain cheeses and air-dried meats; the strangely coloured vegetable juices that tasted worse the better they were for you, culminating in a bright green sludge that tasted like old socks and bitter cucumber. No doubt the elixir of life itself. How could anyone feel down when faced with this?
    Stevie took a small table by the window overlooking the soft white valley and ordered a pot of black coffee. Then she sauntered blithely to the buffet and chose a slice of thick black bread, an enormous slice of fresh, unsalted butter and a piece of Emmenthal cheese. She felt better already.
    The thermometer outside the lobby read –10 degrees Celsius. Stevie thought she had better take the necessary precautions: her biggest fur hat, her fullest goggles, with mirrored lenses and a bright red frame, her warmest ski gear—which happened to be an all-in-one by Jean-Claude Killy in canary yellow. She looked like a cockatoo.
    Busy with her boots in the ski room, she suddenly heard a voice over her shoulder.
    ‘So you decided to stay?’ The tall man from the dining hall was standing behind her, skis in hand.
    Stevie turned back to her boot buckles.
    ‘Shouldn’t I have?’
    ‘I’m sorry. I thought maybe . . . but you look much more cheery this morning.’
    Stevie saw that his eyes were on her sunshine ski suit.
    ‘Well, just because circumstances have changed, it doesn’t mean my wardrobe has to.’
    ‘The colour is perfect. And my name is Henning.’
    ‘Stevie.’ They shook hands, then Stevie hurried off for the Weisshorn, the highest peak, determined to escape the advances of everyone in the hotel.
    And that was how Stevie had met Henning. They became co-conspirators that weekend, if not friends. He had cheered her admirably and without imposing on her and for that Stevie had been grateful.
    When everything had fallen apart not long after, Stevie found herself with a broken heart, puffy eyes, lunching in Zurich at the Kro-nenhalle and telling Henning everything over cucumber salad and Zürcher Geschnetzeltes mit Rösti . This gushing was most unlike her and she immediately regretted it.