Chapter 1

The final year at school there had been the annual ski trip for the upper school. Amelie had been severely pissed off at not being allowed to go but she went the following year. There were rumours of who got off with whom, there always are on mixed ski trips. Amelie was not in the rumour mill, after having publicly explained to Derek Fletcher that he should only ask for anal sex from a girl if he was willing to take it up his own arse too; the girls loved that, and the boys left her alone after that. Back to this story:

The following year, the Gunstones were planning for their annual skiing trip. They went every year, Abigail had been skiing since she was three; she was so good that she could explain what a half-stem-Christie was convincingly as if she knew exactly (which she did – the ski school in Austria had still used terms like that). She wore ski pants like she was born to them and she could float down the blues, blast down the reds, and show a lot of gung-ho men how blacks were meant to be skied. On the slopes, she was her father’s pride and joy for being able to keep up with him; and he wasn’t one of those chauvinist types who always had to be best, he would come back delighted to tell his wife how Abi had bested him on the last broad blue after the lifts had shut. His wife was, without fail, waiting at the ‘Mouton Bleu’ or the ‘Augille Chaud’ or any cafe in any resort that served the best coffee. She enjoyed skiing, and she enjoyed relaxing.

The Crafts didn’t do winter holidays, and if they had done, it would have been winter sun, not snow and cold and clouds and cramp. Rupert had loved the skiing trip and was looking for ways to go again. Mary and Amelie both had enjoyed it as much for the apres-ski as the skiing itself; though Amelie was (as usual) very happy with the way she looked in her ski wear. They had both had salopettes because they were cheaper (actually it was the same pair since they went in different years). Mary looked good; Amelie looked like sex on a stick. “How does she do that? You could put her into a plastic bin liner and she’d look sexy.” Mary had said when Amelie tried them on. Her mother’s response had been: “Mary, your dad is in the room.” For the first time, he began to realise that his little poppet, Amelie, might actually be a flower who might attract some male bees. That realisation came a bit too late ... a lot too late since Rupert had taken (been offered and accepted) her virginity at fifteen, three years ago.

It might have helped that dear old pedestrian Mr Craft had been introduced to a few variations by his wife after she had been on a Girl Guide outward bound trip with the three girls and Rupert as an emergency sailing instructor. What happened on that week has been documented elsewhere, but Mr and Mrs Craft are delighted with their new baby and both are satisfied (in their own minds) that they are both the parents. But now he was beginning to realise that teenage girls may not be the innocent daughters he had fondly imagined. Had Mary ‘done the deed’ he had asked his wife. She had feigned ignorance and said he should ask her, knowing he never would; but implied that of course she had. Actually Mary and Amelie were more celibate than many of their friends. They were, like Abigail, happy to have sex when the opportunity arose, but not desperate to please some spotty Herbert who wanted sexy pictures or videos sent to his phone that he could share around. They were well-adjusted in a maladjusted world, and that came across as innocence to the fathers at least.

“Listen, Rupe. I’ve an idea how to all go skiing and reduce the cost. If I persuade Mumsy that we could try somewhere new, so not the usual all catered chalet? Say a trip to a big French resort with lots of self-catering. Then we could all go together and Dad could pay for me at least, and the self-catering would be cheaper and -”

“I love you dearly Abigail, truly – No, not like that! Shut up!” one of his friends was making squishy noises with a finger in his balled up wrist – if he only knew how far below the truth that was. “No, I mean it, but I will not share with your parents, no. Sorry.”