At the end of dinner she stood up to make an announcement. The room fell silent. “I’m glad you’re all here this weekend, because I have something I’d like to share with you. Will you come into the sitting room with me?”
Everyone exchanged baffled looks but did as she requested. Harris had already placed a tray of tea and coffee on the table in the corner. The family settled on the sofas and chairs, and Tom switched on the television. Antoinette gave him the disc. “I received this on Tuesday, but didn’t want to watch it alone. It’s the last footage of George before he was killed. Julius Beecher sent it to me as he was skiing with him the week before.” She wrung her hands anxiously. “I’m not sure whether it’s a good idea or a bad idea, but now I have it, I feel compelled to watch it. Perhaps it will reassure us all that George was taken doing something he loved.”
Phaedra suddenly felt nauseous. Anything to do with Julius Beecher now made her intensely suspicious. She folded her arms to dull the noise of her thumping heart and hoped her fears were wrong. As the DVD came on she felt her hands begin to sweat, and the knot in the pit of her stomach grew tight again. No one said a word. They watched as George’s jovial face materialized on the TV screen—rugged, handsome, and happy. Antoinette put a tissue to her eye and sniffed.
“Julius, will you switch that thing off!” George said, then laughed, his teeth white against the black of his helmet and the deep tan of his skin. He then turned and skied off down a narrow couloir, where David, Tom, and Phaedra had skied a few weeks before. His style was strong and effortless, as if skiing were as easy as walking. The slope was extremely steep, but George hopped down, his powerful body moving through the snow like a young athlete. He reached the bottom and whooped with joy, pushing his goggles up onto his helmet, taking deep breaths. He waved at Julius and shouted something inaudible. Andy, his regular guide, followed after, as adept as George, his red ski suit bright in the glare of the snow.
Julius then turned the camera on himself. “So here we are again, George, Andy, and me, doing what we do best. It’s a warm four degrees, but the snow is great on the north slopes and there’s a lot to be had. It’s not for the fainthearted, but that’s what George likes best. Better get on, the boss is shouting at me.” He gave a cheesy grin, his round face pink and shiny. The screen went black only to come to life again a moment later on another part of the mountain.
The family watched, mesmerized, as George teased Julius playfully, spoke to the camera, and larked about. No one dared look at anyone else for fear of catching tears that might be infectious. There was a great deal of footage—of them climbing and drinking sloe gin at the top from George’s silver hip flask, descending formidable slopes and skiing over smooth meadows into the village of Serneus. Antoinette bit her fingernails as she watched her husband enjoying himself, unaware that as little as a week later he’d be dead.
Tom took his mother’s hand. She smiled at him gratefully, then turned her glistening eyes back to the TV screen. Phaedra felt like crying as well, but she was too scared. Her jaw was so stiff it had begun to ache. She had a horrid feeling that those clouds she had sensed earlier were now closing in.
Once again Julius turned the camera on himself. “Here we are now at the top of the Gameinde Boden. It’s been a long climb but worth every step, for there below us are miles of virgin slopes. Oh, it’s going to be good!” he exclaimed excitedly. Then in the background George’s voice could be heard on the telephone.
At first it didn’t sound significant. His voice was muffled against the wind and Julius’s cheerful chatter. But then the wind dropped, and Julius got distracted by something Andy was pointing at. “Darling, I love you,” George was saying. Once again Julius’s voice spoke over George’s so it was impossible to hear what George said next. Tom grinned at his mother, assuming he was speaking to her, but Antoinette had frozen as if she were made of ice. “It’s as simple as that . . .” George continued. “No, my darling, as I said, I was going to tell you but I didn’t want to spoil what we have . . . I was going to tell you, I promise. Nothing changes the way I feel about you . . . No, you’re wrong, you are more than that . . . You have to forgive me . . .” He was begging, clearly distressed. “Please, darling, forgive me . . .”
The room suddenly turned cold, and everyone sat petrified with shock, unable to tear their eyes off the screen. Rosamunde looked at her sister, whose face was as pale as uncooked dough.