Читать книгу No One Cancels Christmas: The most laugh out loud romantic comedy this Christmas! - Zara Stoneley, Zara Stoneley - Страница 15

Do not believe any magazine article or blog that tells you packing for a week in the Canadian Rockies is easy. That is bollocks. They have never done it. Or they have servants who do it for them.

I am totally exhausted. Winter holidays in minus thirty degrees are not the same as summer scorchio ones in Spain. If they tell you that all you have to do is roll your clothes up and they will fit miraculously into one small bag (which works on my normal trips), it is a lie. It is as much of a lie as somebody telling you that if you go back and face your past it will help you make a better future.

I am a travel-light-with-a-rucksack type of girl; I do not have stuff. Well, I didn’t until now. The sheer volume of stuff (and totally scary amount of money I have spent) is enough to give a person like me a panic attack. The only way I have managed to cope with this has been by repeatedly telling myself that it is an investment; in the business, in my future.

My normal backpack has room for flip-flops, shorts, skinny vests and bikinis, but I am now officially a lug-the-massive-suitcase type of traveller. Even on a good day, seeing my bed strewn with the type of clothes I would never normally be seen dead in, apart from the gorgeous leopard-skin base layer, would be a nightmare.

And today is not a good day.

I stare at the enormous pile of colourful clothes, and my stomach feels all hollow and empty.

Sam told me, with the authority of a girl who went on school ski-ing trips, that I needed ‘Jeans, base layers, ear warmers, hat, gloves, mittens, snow-boots, socks, neck warmer, sunscreen, chapstick and moisturiser,’ she’d taken a deep breath, ‘minimum.’ So that is what we bought. The minimum. Which is rather a lot.

My main find had been what looked like leopard skin print pyjamas (but turned out to be a base layer), although they nearly didn’t make the grade. I had gone shopping, fully intending to project a businesslike image that would show Will Armstrong just who he was dealing with. Then I remembered the real ‘me’. I am not the type of person who dresses to impress a jerk who is out to ruin my business. Sod convention. I am not padded-ski-slope-princess, I am blue-haired leopard! And I think my inner big cat needs to be unleashed if I am to survive.

Sam had rolled her eyes. ‘I suppose it is one way of getting Will Armstrong onside.’ Which was worrying. I do not want him to think I am even more unprofessional than he already does. He will think rude flippant emails, and seductive base layers are all I have to offer. He will think I am no threat whatsoever. He will destroy our business as well as his own.

Leopard-skin sexiness was what Callum would have loved. But I’m not going with Callum for a cosy Christmas, I’m going on my own. I’m on a mission. Then it hit me, all I needed was a serious top layer. He will not be peeling away my layers, so it’s only the top bits that count, surely?

Unless I have a crashing fall on the slopes, and have to be unpeeled by medics, while Mr Armstrong stands on the sidelines, tutting and saying, ‘Why should I listen to a girl like that? She knows nothing’. Oh to hell with businesslike; I need to do this my way. I need to make sure Will bloody Armstrong meets the real deal, I’m not going to pretend I’m something I’m not, just to impress him.

But I do need him to take me seriously.

There’s a little shimmy deep in my stomach, a bit like when you’re poised at the top of the big dipper and know there’s no turning back. I’m not scared of him. Okay, maybe I am a bit; well, not scared of him, more scared of what’s going to happen. I don’t want him to ruin the resort. I don’t want to get there and find he’s trampled over my memories with his big snow-boots. It’s important I get this right, but it’s also important I do it my way. Something tells me that if I don’t he’ll just head me off, like he’s deflected all the emails and crap reviews.

I shove a pair of massive pink knickers (that Sam insisted on) into a corner of the bag. By the time anybody gets all these bloody layers off, sex will be the last thing they’ll have on their mind. How does anybody get a quickie out there?

Then it suddenly dawns on me that I may have found the key to Mr Armstrong’s lack of cooperation. Maybe the poor man just needs unwrapping, and beneath the layers I will find a soft centre.

Or maybe not.

Today I am biker boots, thick black tights, denim shorts and a T-shirt I found in the charity shop. ‘Life’s a Mountain, Not a beach’ is emblazoned across the front and it seemed strangely appropriate when I saw it. A bargain buy at two quid, as opposed to the several hundred quid price tags which I’ve just spotted on some of this clobber.

I feel a bit queasy. My bank balance is not fit for ‘designer’ it is more ‘buy one, get one free’. But I do want to look the part. And I am determined to show Aunt Lynn that I am up for this. One, because the business will one day be mine, and two because she’s leaving me at Christmas and I am not, repeat NOT going to let it get to me.