"A single man leads only half a life." (Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart)
1/9
Margaret, known to her numerous friends as Mog, regarded herself as one of life's loners. Having regular friends and being a loner can, of course, seem incongruous, but Margaret had made up her mind.
Heading into her late twenties, childless and without a partner, she was resigned to a continuation of the same-old lifestyle, mundane clerical job, appreciation of the arts, and in particular, a love of classical music -- not a CV to set a dating agency ablaze with enquiries from hot males. Not that she craved the attention of hot males anyway.
She was tall and slim, and certainly not unattractive, though she was conscious of her slightly hooked nose, gappy front teeth, and a natural tendency for her breasts to point outwards a tad when unsupported. She had experienced several boyfriends over the years, although she could not justifiably be labelled promiscuous. In no single affair, however, could she have contemplated a long-term live-in relationship. In a nutshell, she found guys at the office dull, and single men into art or classical music, like herself, lacking personality. And, of course, like-poles repel each other. Stalemate.
Her dilemma was not eased by her sense of social ineptitude, albeit a view not shared by anyone who knew her, and who generally warmed to her fatalistic philosophy and funny self-deprecation. The odd 'girls night out' seldom threw up any realistic prospects, whereas others in her circle would 'score' on a regular basis, and probably spend the rest of the week keeping everyone informed of progress and gossip, juicy or otherwise. But then, Mog never glossed her lips, nor wore hemlines or heels too high. She simply wasn't interested in attracting male attention in that way. Her friends would light-heartedly tease her, and a standing joke was that as soon as Mog bought herself a decent pair of fuck-me shoes, marital bliss would inevitably follow.
Another negative which niggled her was feeling ill-at-ease with kids, never knowing quite how to relate to them and their media-driven lives, given the adult staidness of her own. And unlike many women of her age, she didn't seem to be over-concerned that her 'body clock' was ticking down, not being consciously aware of any broodiness.
It was February in Britain -- not an ideal time of the year if one is affected by depressive moods. However, Mog looked forward to a winter break relaxing at home, in the warm, with her TV and her symphonies. Many of her friends were going off skiing in the Spanish Pyrenees. Mog knew only too well it would involve a lot of drinking, a lot of falling over, and probably a lot of ill-advised sex with swarthy Catalonian ski instructors called José. The others had tried, in vain, to cajole her into coming. Mog responded with absolute and unwaivable conviction, insisting she would rather have hot coals inserted into places where the sun didn't shine than be sat with twisted body parts, in freezing snow, on a foreign mountain.
Several days later, she recalled those exact sentiments as she sat on the cold, wet seat of the dual gondola transporting her and an unknown Frenchman's halitosis up to the intermediate lift station, to enrol in the beginners ski class.
2/9
Through his innovative concert tours, combining classical and contemporary music, Paul Duval had become well-known in the entertainment industry. His latest venture, "The World in Music", a series filmed for TV, had catapulted him to celebrity status. Shot in unique locations, each show would typically see him interviewing, or performing with, accomplished singers and musicians. His looks and charisma enabled good chemistry to bubble between himself and female guests, appealing to both the prime-time viewing public and musical purists. Although modestly claiming not to be concert pianist standard, his mastery of the piano and knowledge of music in all its forms, earned him huge respect.
His personal life had taken a dive a couple of years previously, losing his wife to cancer. She had been his one true love, and the mother of their child Elizabeth. For a while he had struggled to cope, but found solace by immersing himself in his work and travel. But he was concerned that his daughter lacked a mother-figure, and he was torn between his exciting lifestyle and a duty to remarry.
He had employed a series of nannies, and they managed, of sorts. Often they even accompanied Paul and the TV crew to various locations in Europe and America, with Elizabeth playing cameo roles in some of his programmes, being at the televisually cute age she was. In the end, Paul decided to enter her at a top Sussex boarding school. It was the hardest day of his life when he deposited her for her first term, and for the time being bade her farewell. He drove away, pulling in at the first convenient spot, and wept uncontrollably.
He had told Elizabeth that he would telephone every evening, and if she was the slightest bit unhappy, he would come immediately and pull her out. At the end of the first week, he rang as normal. "Daddy, you don't have to keep calling every night, you know. We're having a pyjama party in Nicola's room, and I'll be missing it if we talk too much. I'll ring you if I have any problems. Bye bye, love you."
He was rarely put in his place, but this time he put the phone down, shaken. He was relieved that she was happy, but somehow sad at the same time. It was as if he'd lost her.
3/9
Mog was already beginning to rue her decision to fill in for someone who'd had to drop out just prior to the holiday. Good nature had got the better of her, faced with the prospect that her friend's pre-paid holiday money would otherwise go down the tubes. Approaching the top station, she now realised her goggles would not fit over her glasses, and without her glasses, life was a blur. But then, "What's new?" she thought to herself.
Then there was the innocent sound of carbon fibre on carbon fibre, and two seconds later, one of her ill-secured skis had slid out of the cage and was plummeting to the depths of the ravine over which the gondola was passing. There was much shouting and laughing from a noisy party of young schoolgirls in the chairs behind. Mog looked for support towards her random French traveling companion. The only sympathy she could summon was a Gallic shrug. At the top, she made straight for the storage cabin.
"No tengo reemplazo para su tipo." The local jobsworth told Mog he didn't have any skis suitable for her. She tried to convince him, in her best Spanish, that she needed just to borrow a set of skis to get her through her first morning. She would be able to return them as soon as she got herself sorted out back down at the shop, where she had hired the doomed originals.
"No tengo reemplazo," was his final unhelpful word, accompanied by a gesture demonstrating Gallic shrugs were not the exclusive domain of the French.
"Paco," a man's voice intruded. "Hablemos, por favor."
Moments later, Mog had a replacement pair. They needed adjusting, then she would be in time for lesson one. "How on earth did you manage that?" she demanded, quite annoyed that his short intervention had produced a result where her own carefully crafted requests had yielded nothing.
"I've been here before," replied the blurred man with an oddly familiar voice. "You have to get the inflection just right up here in the mountains, and there's a bit of Catalan about it too. Anyway, see how you get on with these."
Mog knew she should have been really thankful, but she still bristled with indignation at the thought she had been fobbed off because she was a mere woman, and couldn't possibly be expected to speak the lingo.
By mid-afternoon, the beginners class had slipped, slid and fallen headlong down the nursery slopes countless times, practising how to snow plough stop and turn, and were tentatively traversing the bottom section of the green run, heading down to the chair lift back to the hotel. Most were ready for a drink and a spot of late lunch. Mog was ready for the plane home.
"How could anyone find this remotely enjoyable?" she protested to herself. And as if to emphasise her point, she fell over again, attempting a stem turn. A junior set of skis swished broadside across her and brought their wearer to an abrupt halt.
The little girl examined Mog intently. Mog would normally have said, "Bugger off," but was past caring.
"Hello. My name's Lizzie."
'Is it?' thought Mog. 'Well, good for you.' The last thing she wanted was a spoilt brat making fun of her. Relenting her hard line, Mog answered civilly, "Would that be Elizabeth, then?"
"Yes," replied the girl. "Daddy calls me Elizabeth when he's cross with me. But most of the time he calls me Lizzie." Then she beamed. "What's yours?"
"I'm Margaret," Mog reluctantly admitted, before uncharacteristically opening up. "People call me Mog, even when they ARE cross with me, which is most of the time."
Lizzie grinned. "You lost your ski this morning. We saw it drop. My daddy's name is Paul. He's ever so clever. I have to go now. Cheerio."
"Bye..." Mog said, watching as the brat sped off effortlessly to catch up her classmates.
As Mog stared forlornly at her ski boots, wondering how she was going to get through another nine days of this, the blurred man with the oddly familiar voice glided to a halt beside her. "How are you getting on with those skis?" he enquired.
Mog considered that her ungainly seated pose, one ski attached, one detached, with snow over her jacket, and bobble-hat at an angle, should have provided enough visual evidence on its own to satisfy his query. But, for politeness, and through gratitude for his earlier assistance, she replied: "They keep coming off. And the more they come off, the wetter my arse is getting."
"Oh dear," he said. "Let's have a look at the bindings, perhaps they're too slack. It's best not to have them too tight though -- the ski is supposed to detach when you fall, that's what stops you breaking a leg." He tweaked the screw adjustments. "There, see how that feels."
"Thank you, but please don't waste time on me -- looks like you've got your work cut out already with that lot," Mog remarked, nodding towards the school group who were now out of sight down the slope.
"Oh, it's OK," he reassured her. "I'm on rearguard patrol duty. As long as they stick to the piste, I can mop up any stragglers. Was that Lizzie you were talking to?"
"Yes. I don't think she could understand how anyone could be as incompetent as me."
He smiled. "Oh, I'm sorry. She does rabbit a bit. I hope she didn't bend your ear too much. I'll make sure you get down, they'll be closing the runs soon. There's just a steepish bit over this brow where you need to make a couple of turns, then you can shush down to the lift station."
"Shush?" thought Mog. "Shush? What planet was this alien from?"
4/9
A wet, cold, bruised, aching and embarrassed Mog checked in her skis and boots at the hire shop, and joined the queue for the dual-chair lift final descent to the hotel, finding herself behind the bevy of noisy schoolgirls. The one called Elizabeth was in-line to board the next chair, the 'rearguard patrol' teacher with the oddly familiar voice in accompaniment. But, much against the rules, and to the vocal chagrin of the Spanish lift attendant, the 'niña estúpida' suddenly bolted forward and jumped alongside her two friends who occupied the chair already departed. Rearguard patrolman was not amused.
