The Wish List (26 page)

Given the lack of time and planning for this trip, I was unable to purchase an array of stylish winter gear. What I
should
be wearing is the chic get-up minor European royals swan about
in on the slopes of Klosters.

Instead, I have been forced to dig out the C&A salopettes I last wore at the age of fourteen on a school ski trip – and team them with lots and lots of layers. That’s
lots
. My attire must have a tog rating similar to the loft insulation they use in the Kremlin during especially harsh winters and, as a result, I am struggling to make full use of my
limbs.

Our guide is an unremittingly jolly chap called Magnús and, apart from the 66 North snow gear, he looks in every other way like a Viking: tall, broad, with tufts of dark blond hair and
the air of a man who, if required, could be admirably handy with an axe.

Despite it being nine a.m. when we leave Reykjavik, the city is in darkness and will remain so for some time. It’s snowing heavily – and horizontally; the roads are treacherous and
visibility is so bad we might as well be driving through custard.

Magnús is unfazed. ‘Conditions on the glacier were like this yesterday, but we still let people to go out on the snowmobiles. We didn’t lose
anybody
, not one.
Yesterday was a
good day
,’ he grins, giving the unnerving impression that not all days are.

En route to the glacier, we stop at frozen lakes and roaring waterfalls – and as Matt sets about taking photographs, I feel as though I’m in a David Attenborough film, in an icy
wilderness that’s completely removed from the real world.
My
real world.

The final stretch of the journey takes us deep into the heart of the country, towards the Langjökull Glacier. And the conditions here make everything else until this point feel like a trip
to Disneyland. Even the massive tyres of our vehicle now struggle to grip the packed-down snow as we drive past hazard signs and press on, with nothing but bitter whiteness visible through the
windows.

I’m trying hard to look calm and collected – determined to suppress my inner wimp – although it doesn’t help that even the Emergency Calls Only sign on my mobile has now
disappeared.

‘You okay?’ Matt asks, as the jeep suddenly slides down into a small ditch and I let out a whoop like a swan attempting to sing ‘I Will Always Love You’ on karaoke.

‘Fine!’

‘It’s a bit scary first time, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ I say breezily, as my stomach churns with unmitigated fear.

It stops snowing briefly as we finally reach our oasis – a series of huts and hangars in the middle of pure white nowhere. In parts, the snow goes up to our waists.

My only previous experience of a snowmobile is the one owned by my Barbie. It was bubblegum pink and she had a snazzy snowsuit that matched, complete with fur-lined high heels.

This one is rather different. Like the forty or so other novice snowmobilers I’m handed a petrol-blue snowsuit – like the clobber you’d see on a Kwik Fit fitter – along
with a balaclava and large black helmet.

‘They’re not going to fire me out of a cannon, are they?’ I mutter.

Matt smiles. ‘It’ll be far more fun than that, I promise.’

Our snowmobile instruction takes about four minutes, which strikes me as being on the short side.

I can barely hear anything through my helmet: I just have to watch the instructor twiddling various knobs and hope they’re not overly important. The only bit I do catch is this: whenever
the snowmobile turns, you have to ‘lift your ass off the seat and push it to the side’.

‘Are you going to have a go at driving?’ Matt offers, as we head to the snowmobile. ‘I don’t mind sitting on the back if you’d like to.’

‘Oh, you know what – I’ll let you do it,’ I reply, as if I’ve given the alternative a second’s consideration.

‘Sure?’

I hesitate, feeling a flicker of indecision. Aren’t I meant to be trying to get braver? I grit my teeth and give the only answer I’m capable of: ‘I’m sure.’

We set off on the snowmobile, following the tracks in front of us, and I grip the bars on the back so hard my wrists burn.

‘Remember, when we turn, you need to move your bum too, okay?’ Matt shouts back at me as it begins to snow again. I drop my visor, but instantly realise it offers zero visibility, so
abandon the idea.

‘It’d be a lot easier if we didn’t bother turning – how about that?’

He laughs. ‘That would involve never going back. And there’s a gin and tonic waiting for you at the hotel, remember?’

The first ten minutes involve little more on my part than burying my head into Matt’s back and trying to stop the driving snow slashing my eyeballs.

There is only one moment when I’m required to do anything – and I do not cover myself in glory.

‘Okay, Emma –
turn
!’ Matt announces, out of the blue – at which point the instructor’s words ping into my head.
My ass. I need to move my ass!
Determined that I won’t approach this with the same trepidation I felt at the polo, I raise my bum with gusto and swing it to the side of the snowmobile hard and fast enough to make
absolutely certain my nine-and-a-half stones in weight are contributing everything they’ve got.

And they would have done – if I’d swung the right way.

It’s only as Matt leans confidently to the right that I realise which way I was
supposed
to go, by which stage it’s too late. If luck was on my side, I’d get away with
this.

Sadly, it isn’t – and neither is whatever gravitational law of physics is involved as Matt, the snowmobile and I are pulled flat into the snow.

The whine of the dying engine rings in my ears as I realise we’ve left a shape in the snow like when Wile E. Coyote falls off a cliff.

‘Sorry,’ I splutter, spitting out mouthfuls of snow.

‘It’s all right, it happens all the time,’ Matt replies, standing and pulling up the snowmobile as an instructor races to our aid.

‘Is that true?’ I ask, as he grabs me by the hand.

The instructor goes to check the engine, but not before slapping Matt on the back and saying, with an enormous grin, ‘I
knew
that’d happen to you one day, my
friend!’

For the next ten minutes the snowmobiling seems even more treacherous than before; at least, that’s how it feels after my blooper.

Then something changes.

‘Emma,’ Matt shouts back to me. ‘Open your eyes.’

‘How did you know my eyes were shut?’ I ask, fluttering them open.

‘Just a hunch.’

I unbury my head and straighten my back. The snow has stopped and we can actually see. And it’s incredible. An immense mountain rises up before us into the bluest of skies, and sunlight
streams through the clouds, casting pink light on the snow.

Suddenly, my fear is gone. I feel warm. I feel elated. I feel like I’m on top of the world – and the reality is that I am, near enough.

I hear myself laughing while tears fill my eyes and an overwhelming awareness fills my head.

This is it, Emma
. This
is living.

What I really want after a day that’s flooded every nook and cranny of my body with adrenalin is to sit in a bar, savour my G&T, and work myself up to moving five or
so steps to the restaurant over the road for dinner.

But the drink is only a stop-gap.

After a brief return to the hotel room to freshen up and refuel on bar snacks, we’re going out in search of the Northern Lights. No matter how fatigued I am, I’m not going to miss
this for the world. Even if I’m fully aware that I
might
.

As I’m due to fly home tomorrow, tonight is my one and only chance to see the Aurora Borealis and, although conditions are perfect, the guide tells us there’s still only a fifty per
cent chance they’ll appear. The universe does not boast an ‘on’ switch for this particular phenomenon.

So we get on a bus, with fifty or so others all dressed in clothing comparable in thickness to a Sealy mattress, and we drive. And drive. Then we get out and look at the sky. But they’re
not there, so we get in and drive again. Then get out and look at the sky. And so on, and so on, until it is quarter to midnight, minus seven degrees and I am one thousand per cent confident that I
will never regain the use of my fingers and toes.

‘They’ll be calling us back in soon,’ Matt says, as we gaze at a sky bursting with stars, but devoid of anything that looks remotely like the Northern Lights. ‘I’m
afraid I don’t think it’s going to happen.’

Matt turns to me and gives me a nudge. ‘Never mind,’ he says sympathetically.

‘Yeah,’ I reply philosophically.

He frowns. ‘You must be really disappointed.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly – it’s been an amazing trip anyway,’ I say truthfully.

‘Shame about your list, though.’

‘I’ve done things on this trip I couldn’t even have dreamed about when we wrote the list.’ I suddenly start shivering, a proper dramatic shiver that makes my teeth
chatter as if they’ve been wound up.

‘It’s bloody freezing, isn’t it?’ he laughs.

‘Er . . . yes.’ I grin. I look up at him as he puts his arm round my shoulders and squeezes me into him. I stiffen at first, unable to work out how I’m supposed to react.

Then I can only go with how I feel. And my God, does it feel good. Heat spreads through my body and I snuggle my icy cheek into his shoulder, feeling safe and dangerous at the same time.

When the guide starts calling everyone back to the coach, we turn to look at each other.

‘Guys! Come on!’

Matt doesn’t move and neither do I.

Swirls of hot breath shimmer between us as our faces edge closer. I tell myself that if he kisses me I won’t stop him. I haven’t got it in me. I close my eyes sleepily and can feel
the warmth from his mouth on my skin as everything around us falls silent.

Sightseers clambering onto coaches. Engines springing into life. Guides shouting instructions. I know they’re happening but can hear none of it over the thunder of my racing heart as our
lips meet – almost.

‘
Guys!
’

Matt pulls away with a start. ‘Look,’ he says.

I gaze up at the sky and there they are. The lights aren’t as bright as I know they can be, but they’re definitely there: a pale green swirl dancing in the blackness like a silk
scarf.

‘It’s beautiful.’

Matt smiles. ‘Not the strongest display but . . . hey, you’ve seen them. This trip was worth doing after all.’

‘Yes,’ I whisper, glancing at him. ‘It was definitely worth doing.’

There is only one thing to do when I get back to the room: shave my legs.

I dive into the bathroom and flip open the lid of the bin, only to realise that the maid has been in and emptied it.

‘
Noooo!
’ I shriek, in a way that would be justified from someone whose village had been burned to the ground by marauding outlaws.

‘Everything all right?’ Matt asks through the door.

‘Oh . . . um – yes. I won’t be long,’ I cough, rifling through my cosmetic bag in desperation.

I am in luck. Sort of.

There is a razor that’s been used several times already and should’ve been discarded long ago; it’s rusting at the edges and boasts several stray hairs sprouting out of the
side.

‘I’ll go down to the bar to get us a drink before it closes,’ Matt says. It is now one thirty in the morning.

‘O-kayee!’ I reply, just as the door shuts.

Now, I’m not an obsessive reader of beauty pages, but I’m absolutely certain that hair removal with an implement that boasts a percentage of corrosion similar to that found in a
scrap-metal yard is not recommended practice.

Every movement makes me wince. No matter how slowly I take it, this is doing my skin no good at all. So, with nothing to lose, I decide to adopt the approach recommended when removing a plaster
– doing it as quickly as possible in a hope that it lessens the pain.

It doesn’t. The result is that, as I tug on my skinny jeans, the limbs underneath belong in a scene from
Reservoir Dogs
.

Dinner last night was strange and I can’t say tonight’s nightcap is entirely normal either. But in a totally different way. I can’t think of a single day
I’ve spent in the company of another human being that I’ve enjoyed more.

It’s as if all the best bits of the time we’ve ever spent together – the coffee, the play times with the kids, the barbecues – have been condensed into this perfect,
distilled twenty-four hours.

So why is something so enjoyable so weird? It’s weird because as I sit here laughing, chatting and having the time of my life, it’s in the knowledge that I’m letting myself
fall for this man, if I haven’t already.

And, despite how bad and mad that is – in the light of the fact that I have a boyfriend – the experience is so intoxicating I can’t stop myself.

‘Will you go out again tomorrow to see if you can photograph the lights?’ I ask Matt as we sit in the bar next to a flickering fire.

‘Yep – they weren’t really strong enough tonight, so I’ve got another six hours on a freezing coach. Lucky old me.’

‘Ah, you’ll cope,’ I laugh.

‘I’m sure. I’m certainly having more fun than I had last time I was here,’ he says, then stops suddenly, as if he’s blurted out something he shouldn’t have
said.

I glance at him awkwardly. ‘Oh?’

He picks up the cocktail menu and scans it, clearly trying to work out how to avoid continuing. Only, now I want him to continue.

‘What happened last time?’

He swallows. ‘I was here with Allison. It was when we weren’t getting along so well.’

I bite my lip and scan
my
cocktail menu. ‘Is your divorce close yet?’

‘It’ll be a few months before it’s finalised,’ he replies.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,’ I mutter, trying to think of something to lighten the mood.

‘It’s fine . . .’ he says, taking a sip of his drink. ‘I mean, it’s fine you asking about it. It’s not fine
generally
.’

I’m unable to think of anything to say. He registers my unease.