The One We Fell in Love With (34 page)

Right now, though, I feel cold.

I shiver and go back inside, sliding the door shut behind me before crawling onto the sofa and pulling a thick, woolly blanket up to my neck.

But I know that nothing I do will make me warm.

It’s been a week since I left England. I stayed in Paris for a few days, trying to soak up the atmosphere and prepare myself for what lay ahead. Then I took a train down to Saint Gervais
and caught the Mont Blanc Express up through the valley to Chamonix, staring out of the window at the imposing mountains growing gradually bigger with each mile, heightening the tension that I
would soon arrive at the town where Phoebe felt so at home.

From my position on the sofa I stare up at the mountains again, scarcely able to believe that my dad and sister used to climb them. The melting ice cascading down the rocks looks like a white
waterfall, as though God has upended a carton of milk on them. It is absolutely breathtaking. I feel a pang of homesickness and wish Mum, Eliza or Angus were here with me to share this experience.
Or Toby...

Reaching over to the coffee table, I pick up Phoebe’s purple diary and her iPhone with the headphones still attached. I plug in the earpieces and press play, listening as the dreamy
strains of a song by an artist called Greta Svabo Bech waft out. Then I open the diary and begin to read. I want Phoebe’s experiences to be fresh in my mind when I go to the top of the
Aiguille du Midi tomorrow.

It’s early September, and around 20 degrees in Chamonix town centre and partly sunny. I’m wearing Phoebe’s grey hoodie and I feel snug as I stand on a bridge,
looking down at the milky green river rushing noisily below, before striding uphill to the main part of the town. Chamonix is pretty and it has a nice vibe, with people sitting on the pavement
outside restaurants and cafés. I walk down a shopping street and through a square, gazing up at the surrounding mountains. They start off green near the bottom and grow increasingly white as
they project into the sky. In places the slopes are banded with dark green pine trees, in others they’re striped with cables that carry the ski lifts, not that anyone will be skiing for a
while. Far over my head, brilliantly coloured parachutes float this way and that, attached to the nutcases who deem it a good idea to jump off a mountain.

My sister was one of those nutcases, I muse with admiration tinged with sadness. Remy took her paragliding on their first proper date.

I’m intrigued to meet this man, after everything I’ve read about him, but I’ll have to wait a few days. He’s currently with a group of mountaineers on Mont Blanc, but he
has promised to text me on his return. I hope he wasn’t too shocked to receive my email. He didn’t let on if he was.

I’ve already bought my extortionately priced Aiguille du Midi ticket – thank goodness for Mum because I never would have been able to afford to do everything I’m doing with my
meagre bakery earnings – so after a while I head back down the hill to the cable car entrance and join the queue winding inside.

When I’m standing inside a cabin packed with people, the door whooshes shut and we begin our flight away from Chamonix. I emit a squeal along with most of the other passengers as we sail
up and over the pylons, and I remember Phoebe saying that she’d never tire of the sound.

I turn to look at the girl who’s manning the car: she’s young and pretty with chocolate-brown eyes, and her straight, dark hair is partly tied back from her oval-shaped face. For a
moment I picture Phoebe in her place, with blonde hair instead of brown and wearing the same dark uniform and I have to fight back tears. I look down to see us clear the tree line, and then
we’re passing over rocks and grass and disembarking to switch cable cars at the middle station.

On the next car, I manage to secure a spot near the front and grip the handrail for support as crisp mountain air streams in through a crack in the window. Very soon the rocks below us are
covered with snow, and in the distance I can make out tiny red and orange tents on an enormous white expanse. What did Phoebe write when Dad came over and climbed Mont Blanc with her? They
weren’t
dwarfed
by the mountain, they were
microscopisized
by it. I don’t think it’s even a word in the English language, but it should be. I can see what she
meant.

The cable car breaks through the clouds to cheers of delight and I look in dazed awe at the mountain peaks protruding through the fluffy whiteness. It’s almost otherworldly – the sun
is bright and the sky is as blue as blue can be.

Our ascent becomes almost vertical and only a metre or so in front of me is a sheer rock face, too steep for even snow to cling on to, although a multitude of icicles manage it. I suddenly feel
quite dizzy with vertigo. A small group of climbers to my left are walking along a steep, narrow ridge and I can barely believe my eyes. It looks so dangerous – and Phoebe and Dad used to do
that sort of thing often!

The dizziness I’m feeling worsens as I step out of the car and follow the crowd down the stairs. I feel distinctly unsteady as I walk onto a wide metal footbridge, astonished at the low
height of the handrails on either side. Cloud hovers only ten metres below, so I have no idea how far the drop would be if I were to topple over the railings. Around me, majestic brown and grey
snow-splatted mountaintops pierce the sky, but I feel too giddy and short of breath to appreciate the view. Is this what altitude does to you? I honestly had no idea. I’ve never been this
high before in my life.

Feeling rigid with fear, I force myself to turn and study the building wrapped around one jagged peak. I find it astonishing that people managed to build up here. Who clung to the mountaintop
and hammered in that nail? Are they absolutely mental?

It occurs to me that somewhere inside that mass of man-made material is the staff apartment, and then I realise that I’m standing on the footbridge where Remy and Phoebe shared their first
kiss. I’m amazed that she felt relaxed enough to smile, let alone kiss anyone up here or stay overnight with only one colleague for company. I’d be far too scared to do that, yet she
was only eighteen and stayed up here on a fairly regular basis.

The panoramic viewing platform is at the top of the building, past the café and shop, I recall from Phoebe’s diary, but I feel too shaky to climb any higher right now. I decide to
go and take a look at the ice cave instead.

Once over the footbridge and into the tunnel, I feel slightly safer. I pause for a moment to try to compose myself, standing clear of the melting ice dripping from the ceiling. Most of the
people passing by are climbers, wearing backpacks adorned with ice axes and ropes, and harnesses around their waists, jangling with carabiners, slings, camming devices and other essential climbing
gear. Harnesses have always reminded me of oversized charm bracelets and I have a flashback to Phoebe and Dad, fully geared-up as they set off early from a campsite in Wales. Mum, Eliza and I were
huddling miserably around the campfire in the drizzle, trying to keep warm, but Dad and Phoebe were buzzing with excitement about their imminent climb. Nothing seemed to scare Phoebe. Nothing
except for falling hopelessly and uncontrollably in love with Remy.

When I read about her fears in her diary, I couldn’t believe she chose to leave him behind, that she chose home and safety instead of the rollercoaster of emotions she experienced with
him. But maybe she regretted it. Maybe that was why she was willing to risk her life to spend one more day with him.

Again, I’m curious to meet this man.

I move on from where I’m standing, and it’s not long before I reach the ice cave and beyond it the ridge where Remy and his cousin Amelie came in off the mountain.

Carved out scallop shapes give the walls around me the appearance of whipped egg white, and ahead the light is blinding as it reflects off the snowy slopes. This is the same ridge that I saw
earlier from the cable car and it looks just as steep. I feel nervous at the sight of some approaching climbers. They’re tethered together by rope, but
still
... It seems like it
would be so easy to lose their footing and slip, pulling down others with them.

The horror of Phoebe’s death hits me with the impact of a punch to the stomach and my heart starts to beat faster. The feeling intensifies, and suddenly it seems like a very real
possibility that I’m going to faint.

‘Are you okay?’ I’m vaguely aware of a young climber asking this question. I try to be brave and nod my head, but he isn’t buying it. ‘It’s the
altitude,’ he says in an American accent. ‘You should think about going back down.’

I nod again and stumble away from him, slipping on the slushy ice and snow under my feet.

‘Do you need some help?’ he calls after me.

I shake my head and feel my way out of the ice cave.

I’m still in a state of vertiginous terror as I climb back onto the cable car. I feel like I’m at the top of a very, very tall ladder and have to turn around and climb down the first
rung without losing my footing.

The cable car sets off slowly, and as we come back through the cloud, the grey rocks emerge and the air is dark and gloomy. But I feel a wave of relief that I’m on my way back down again.
I was thinking about getting off at the intermediate stop, but right now I just want to put my feet down on flat ground.

Chamonix is not particularly pretty from this height – a grey, dull stretch of buildings running all the way down the valley – but it’s a welcome sight to me.

That evening, I sit out on the balcony and try to make sense of the day I’ve had. I feel very low, like I’ve let Phoebe down by not appreciating what she loved. Her
diary descriptions are completely alien compared to my experience. The top of the Aiguille was stunning, yes, but how could I admire its beauty when my heart was in my throat and I found it
difficult to breathe?

I can see how Phoebe felt inspired here, and I understand how she wanted to be up there on top of the world, but I can’t imagine actually going through with what she did. She was
adventurous, brave and self-assured.

We couldn’t be more different.

I don’t feel as close to her tonight. And it makes me feel sad.

The valley before me is shrouded in darkness and the pine trees look black, not green. But beyond the trees, the mountains are still light in colour, the sky above blue as it fades into
night.

The reality of Phoebe dying up there suddenly hits me again, and I have to hurry back inside before I lose it.

I sob my heart out that night. At one point, Eliza’s name pops up on my Caller ID and I feel unbearably alone as I let the phone ring. She wouldn’t know how to handle me like this. I
cry myself to sleep soon afterwards.

The next morning, when I wake up, I lie there for a long time wondering if I’ve been very stupid by thinking that I could –
should
– do this. I feel
like I dreamt my trip up the mountain yesterday. I don’t want my stay to be plagued by grief and despair, so eventually I get up and resolve to pull myself together.

When I made the decision to go travelling by myself, I felt liberated. Not exactly free – the thought of what awaited me here gave me a knot in my stomach that feels a long way from
unravelling – but I knew it would do me good to go out on my own. The last time I felt like that was when I went to university, but between then and now I’ve lost some of my confidence
and independence. I’d like to get it back.

The purpose of this trip is to honour Phoebe, to try to keep her memory alive. I don’t want to crumble every time I visit one of her old haunts. I want to appreciate the things she saw and
respect the things that she did.

I reach for her diary and have a flick through before making a decision. Today I’m going to go on the Montenvers train to visit the grotto.

The little red train departs from Chamonix and I smile at the young family sitting opposite before turning to stare out of the window at the ferns nestled in amongst the rocks
as we chug steeply up the mountain.

Mer du Glace, France’s largest glacier, is 7km long and 200m deep, and its name translates to Sea of Ice. The grotto is dug out every summer because the glacier moves about 70m a year, and
there are hundreds of steps to walk down before you reach it. Eventually I make it into the huge, cold tunnel of ice. It’s lit by colourful lights and I take photos of the various
‘rooms’ that I pass along the way. Phoebe was right: this is totally up my street. I try not to think about how she wanted to bring both Eliza and me back here with her.

Later I head to the restaurant in the Grand Hotel for lunch. It’s an imposing rectangular granite-stone building several storeys high, but is cosy inside, with wooden-panelled interiors. I
order the
tartiflette
– a traditional Savoyard dish made with potatoes, reblochon cheese, lardons and onions. The calories are sky high, but I need comfort food right now. I’m
battling loneliness – and grief.

I wish I could have persuaded Eliza to come. I remember that she called me last night and I send her a quick, breezy text to tell her what I’m up to. I’d love to talk to her, but
politeness gets the better of me – I’d feel too rude having a conversation on my phone in the middle of a restaurant.

We do talk to each other that night, while I’m sitting outside on the balcony with a glass of wine in my hand.

‘It’s stunning here,’ I tell her. ‘I can see why Phoebe was so drawn to the mountains.’

‘You’re not planning on moving, are you?’ she asks with alarm.

I laugh. ‘No. This is her place, not mine, but it is beautiful.’

‘Is it hard?’ she asks quietly.

‘A little,’ I admit.

We both fall silent. She doesn’t want me to elaborate, and I don’t want to burden her with my tales of woe.

‘I wish you were here,’ I say.

‘I’m glad I’m not,’ she replies indignantly, making me smile again. ‘Where are you at the moment?’ she asks.

‘On the balcony, looking up at the mountains. They’re only a few hundred metres away, across a valley dotted with chalets and a hell of a lot of pine trees. It’s getting dark
now, but you can see the top of the Aiguille du Midi from here.’