Page 19 of Not the Man I Thought We Was

Chapter 10

Toby appears to be in much better spirits when I arrive at the ski school to meet him.

“I think you were right,” he tells me, as we head off in search of lunch. “I still fell over, but not as often, and I managed a couple of runs where I didn’t fall at all. The instructor says we’ll start looking at turns tomorrow.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with the miserable bastard I left here this morning?”

“Ha ha. How was your morning?”

“Well, the skiing was good, but some slimeball calling himself Aldo tried to come on to me. Even when I told him I had a boyfriend already, he still tried it on. Revolting.”

“I thought you said you were single?” Toby looks genuinely confused.

“I am. I took your name in vain. After your antics with that woman on the plane you owe me. Anyway, it’s no big deal. I’ve come across his type plenty of times before. Deficient men compensating for their unattractiveness by showing off, whether with a flash car, ridiculous clothes or, in Aldo’s case, alleged ski and sexual prowess.”

“Wow, that’s harsh!”

“It’s true, though. There’s a type of man that thinks women are going to find them completely irresistible just because they’ve got a Ferrari, or a Rolex, or whatever it is. Most women I know don’t give a shit about all of that stuff. If you’re severely challenged in the looks department, no ridiculous car or fancy watch is going to change that. A private jet might soften me a little,” I add, with a smile, “but I still don’t think it would be enough to make me want to put up with some fat, sweaty, bald old man grunting away on top of me.”

“OK, that’s an image I didn’t need, particularly just before lunch,” Toby laughs.

“Don’t get me wrong. I like nice stuff, but not when it’s waved around as some kind of status symbol or expected to act as a fanny magnet that we poor women will be completely unable to resist. Total turn-off.”

After lunch, we head back to the Mirabelle to retrieve our bags and then walk to our next hotel, La Residence. The drop from five to three stars is immediately apparent in the lobby, which is small and very spartan compared to the luxury of the Mirabelle. It’s bright and clean though, which bodes well.

“I don’t understand why Voyages Luxes is sending us to a three-star hotel,” Toby whispers, after we’ve rung the bell at the deserted reception desk. “It seems off brand to me.”

“Yes, but this is Courchevel, so staying here costs much more than the average three star. I guess they wanted to show different options. It’s hardly a hostel, is it?”

Our discussions are interrupted by the arrival of the receptionist, who takes our details and, after a bit of tapping on the computer, informs us that our room is ready and hands over the key cards. I double-check our dinner reservation with her, and we head over to the lifts.

The room, on first impressions, follows the same theme as the lobby. It is smaller and more spartan than the room at the Mirabelle, but it’s much more modern and the window lets in lots of natural light. The bed is a standard double, and the sheets look clean and crisp. Once again there is no desk, but there are two low-backed chairs by the window. We drop our bags on the floor and Toby wanders over to the window to look at the view. I turn slowly, taking in the rest of the room, and that’s when I spot it.

“Shit, Toby, we have a problem,” I tell him.

“What’s up?” he asks, still looking out of the window.

“Turn around,” I command, and he does. As he spots what I’ve seen his eyes widen.

“Ah,” he says. “Yes, that’s awkward.”

Instead of a separate bathroom, the shower, washbasin and toilet are all in the room itself. There are frosted glass partitions to protect a little bit of modesty, but frankly they’re not going to leave much to the imagination. On top of that, the sound of either of us using the toilet is going to be very clearly audible. Some things, no matter how intimate you are with someone, should remain strictly private.

“What are we going to do?” he asks.

My mind is whirling. An idea comes to me and I cross to the telephone by the bed and dial down to reception. I recognise the voice of the same receptionist and ask her whether all the rooms in the hotel have the same layout.

“Non, Mademoiselle,” she replies. “The superior rooms are larger and have balconies, and the executive rooms are larger still, with desks for working and separate bathrooms with bath and shower.”

“And are any of the executive rooms available?” I ask her. I can hear her tapping at her computer and, after a moment or two, she comes back.

“Oui, Mademoiselle. We can certainly transfer you if you wish. It will be an extra two hundred euros per night. Is that OK?”

No, it bloody well isn’t OK! “I need to consult,” I tell her. “I’ll call back if we decide to move. Merci.”

“What did you find out?” Toby asks.

“The good news,” I tell him, “is that they do have some rooms where the bathroom is separate. The bad news is that it’ll cost an extra four hundred Euros for the two nights.”

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