Mother Nature's Members' Club

As the last afternoon sunshine cascaded into the valley, Adam assumed an inelegant squat position and quivered in his skis. A couple of wide, slicing turns across the mountain lay behind him. The next pivot would tip him onto the steeper terrain across which his legs, loose change and dignity had splayed earlier that afternoon. He whispered through clenched teeth at his ski boots ‘just blooming turn’. But as he slid tentatively on, the points of his two skis locked together. He had to reel backwards to regain balance. Every pound of his flesh wobbled with fright. Panting, he lifted his goggles for a moment. The incomparable beauty of the Swiss Alps, contours glistening under a perfect bluebird sky, seemed to mock him. It was Mother Nature’s members' club - and he was starting to realise that he may never meet the criteria.

Sarah had avoided his last fall with an almost imperceptible eye roll. To give them their dues, she and her university friends had taken turns to help him up. They had waited for him to roll at snail’s pace around each corner to ensure he didn’t slide over the edge to his death. By this point their pitying looks had shredded his ego more deeply than the tracks they carved speeding away from him. They’d be sipping Aperol in Sarah’s grandparents’ chalet by now, and chortling at how her dalliance with their local organic barista was slowing down their ski holidays. Give him an afternoon pint in the cafe’s vegetable garden back in Leeds any day of the week. Bonding over her artisanal coffee orders, Sarah had met him in his world and now he felt a pang of shame to be trembling on the beginners’ slopes of hers. Swamped in her cousin’s ski jacket, he was out of his depth.

Toes wincing in borrowed ski boots, Adam had stayed still for too long. The cold was rattling his legs now and the afternoon was ageing. No sooner had he gathered the resolve to shuffle towards the edge of the piste, when all of a sudden, he was thrown to the ground with a sledgehammer force, closely followed by a spray of French expletives. He recognised the word ‘beginners’ amidst the torrent. Adam ate snow, but managed to press himself up just in time to see the boulder of a man in a khaki jacket, who had just collided with him, throw up his middle finger and glare before turning away to bomb it down the mountain. The descending sun glinted from the man’s bald head. Adam felt extremely vindicated about the dangers of skiing but there was no one around to commiserate with.

As he clambered upright, he noticed something, a black object protruding from a pile of snow on the other side of the piste. Had the angry man dropped it in the crash? Curiosity compelled Adam into movement. He finally turned in his skis and wobbled across the piste. His gloves grasped clumsily in the pile of snow. It was a notebook. Turning it over in bemusement, Adam dusted powder from the smooth cover. It appeared intact and undamaged by its immersion. ‘What the...’ Adam removed a glove with his teeth and slid open the book’s elastic binding. The inside cover bore a name, Sylvie Lagman, and an address in Verbier. He thumbed through the ivory pages, finding that only a few were marked, with dates and other addresses in the town in a neat script. Towards the back there were a couple of sketches, of buildings mostly, and a couple that he recognised as the Alpine view surrounding him. Adam did not want to unduly pre-judge the helmetless ruffian as artless, but some instinct convinced him that he was certainly not the original owner of this notebook.

Adam’s curiosity grew stronger. Who was Sylvie Lagman, and how had her notebook ended up in the hands of a character even scruffier and less compatible with the Verbier surroundings than Adam? The first question was for google: 'Sylvie Lagman Verbier Switzerland’. His eyes widened as multiple hits appeared: ‘Lagman Bank Group’. He jumped when Sarah’s photo suddenly appeared on the screen and his ringtone sounded. 'Adam where the **** are you, do I need to send help'. 'No...ah...don’t worry darling I’m…' he felt panic course through him and tried not to sound any more feeble than she already seemed to think he was. He looked down at the notebook, then out over the dusky valley where the lights of Verbier were starting to glow and felt his resolve triumph over the embarrassment, 'I’m…I am...I am sorting it out. I’ll be there…later.' Adam zipped the notebook safely in his jacket pocket. For the first time since leaving England, he knew what he had to do; with a task in hand, he was not drowning but waving in Verbier's social strata. He pulled his gloves back on and made an exemplary descent.

Finally at the foot of the mountain, Adam clicked off his skis and hoisted them over his shoulder. He barely felt their weight. Filled with purpose he almost ran into the little town. The sharpness of the January night air and the sound of revellers spilling out of après-ski bars made him feel alive. Peering into the glow of yellow street lights he saw that thick snow lined the streets and glittering icicles decorated chalet roofs. He knew what to do. He would return the notebook to Sylvie Lagman, heir to Lagman Bank Group, and stroll home a hero. He would explain to Sarah and her sporting friends that he had spent the afternoon assisting a neighbour so prestigious that the reflected glory might elevate him to their standing. Adam wondered if Sylvie Lagman would thank him for remedying the inconvenience of being parted from her notebook, or in fact if he had even solved a crime. Either way, he felt purposeful - the Adam of his carefully curated vegetable garden overtaking the Adam shaken by snowy vertigo and the pitying smiles of privileged students.

Adam stood in the gardens of a huge chalet made of wood and glass. A light was on upstairs. He dropped his skis and poles and crunched the last few steps through the snow. The notebook did not specify a door code. He pressed the bell. Adam started to feel the tremors return to his legs. What was he actually doing bothering this high profile person at their Verbier holiday home on a cold January evening. Could he be arrested for this? He shivered. Suddenly, an almighty crack. He heard it before he felt it. The impact of the ski pole ricocheted on the back of his skull. Something tightened around his neck, and his feet lifted off the ground. His back slammed against the wooden slats of the chalet window. He lost consciousness for a couple of seconds. When his eyes flickered open he flailed in shock. A black beanie covered the bald head, but there was no mistaking the glare of the huge man who had crashed into Adam on the slopes, the man who had lost the notebook. Broken English 'Where…is…the…book?' Adam could not breathe, let alone move, and he indicated as such. The bald man lessened his grip. Adam debated producing the book. He had no horse in this race and now greatly regretted getting involved. But he had come this far now. “Uhh, what book?” It was worth a try. The man’s features swivelled into rage as if in slow motion. With one hand on Adam’s throat he raised the other fist in a threatening gesture.

Light poured out into the garden and a gentle voice, 'Bonsoir?' In a flash the bald man’s eyes widened. He dropped Adam as if his neck had suddenly become a boiling surface, and was gone. “Help” Adam croaked. He fumbled in his pocket for the notebook and shuffled towards the light with the prize extended towards its owner.

When Adam next felt lucid, he was on a sofa, partly covered by a woollen blanket. He blinked blearily. His nose twitched. 'Here, hot Swiss chocolate,' said a lightly accented voice. He sipped from the steaming mug, and as vitality flowed back through his veins, it occurred to him to feel incredibly awkward that he had intruded upon the crime-free evening of this distinguished lady. 'Thank you for returning my notebook.' 'S’no problem Adam mumbled. 'How did you come to have it?' She asked the question lightly, thought the subtext would determine whether he was as welcome as he currently felt. As Adam told her about the crash on the slopes, he looked up and took in the linen dress, the light golden chain at her throat, the (presumably) obscenely expensive little watch on her wrist. Her piercing blue eyes were set amidst warm smile lines, and did not break contact with his while he described the afternoon's collision. Under their unwavering gaze, his story poured out. Maybe the whack with the ski pole had dislodged his marbles or at least any sense of etiquette. He was deep in the back story of his admiration for Sarah, and his hope that if he one day owned that organic cafe, rather than just working shifts, he could hold his head up high amongst her affluent friends. 'And so that’s how I came to be petrified half way up a mountain, where I found your book. And I have to ask,” Adam had lost all filter now, 'what the blooming hell is so great about those doodles, and your address book, that some crazy thug would beat me up for it? What did he want with your book in the first place?'

Sylvie sighed, tilted her face to the side for a moment, and then walked over to the other side of the room where a whiskey decanter sat on another small table. She poured two glasses. She walked slowly back across the room and sat on the other end of the sofa. 'You might need this, Adam isn't it?' Sylvie explained that the clients of her bank required utmost discretion. By the time her gentle voice had skirted across tales of battles with hackers, unmasking criminals and competitors disguised as staff members and the years of discretion and loyalty that must be proved before employees could learn a fraction of the client information that she was privy to, his eyes were wide. 'To alleviate the pressure there are certain…personal rendezvous…and in the wrong hands the details could have put some uncomfortable pressure on me.' Adam was unsure if he'd imagined the wink of her blue eye, as he remembered the neat notebook entries. 'And my drawings, well Adam, this little book assures me I still have an artistic bone. As I lunched this afternoon at a champagne bar just above your clash with our nasty friend, I sketched the perfect day in my notebook. It was pinched from right under my nose.'

'You, Adam, had no reason to help me or my business, but today you have bravely protected both. I have my notebook back, and CCTV footage to allow me to deal with my little problem. I owe you two gifts in return.' The manicured hand on his arm quieted his protest. 'First, will be a compensatory cheque from me personally for $20,000 - I hope that you will open your little cafe and grow your garden. The second is a piece of advice. If the girlfriend does not recognise what you are capable of, piste or no piste, let her go.' Adam didn't know whether it was the sugary chocolate, the head blow or the generous wisdom to which the road of his giddy resolve had led. His face creased into a smile wider than its very muscles could recall. Sylvie stood up 'We will book you a flight to England tomorrow. Just remember Adam, that when it comes to class, money alone does not put you in first.'