Forging ahead with fictional endeavours: ~ Write a life on a page and hurry not to its grave; abhor not the coming age, for eternal is the next page. ~ Read what you will, I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I do writing.

Playing hard to get

ski

Quick edit: This is my 100 post apparently! Woo!

Today photo and prompt has been borrowed from Adrian Lilly.  By chance I had been re-reading an older short story (Bring me a souvenir) of mine with plans to rewrite it, as a result I had a vivid image of my female lead’s reaction.  I just had to write it.  It had to be done.

Your main character is asked to go skiing by a new love interest. S/he doesn’t want to admit s/he’s never been skiing. What does s/he do?

Playing hard to get.

I realized my mistake as soon as the words left my mouth. Of all people to tell why on earth did I tell Cameron. It was my first week off since my return from England and, like a fool, I let him know. The biggest miscalculation? Giving him two weeks notice. If I were going to let my tongue slip, it should have been one my first day off. Then I wouldn’t be in this pickle now.

Most men would ask their girlfriends if they wanted to go on a ski trip first. Not Cameron, no. He just rolls up, drags me into the car and springs a surprise ski holiday on me. Not only did I not have time to pack, I had to beg Mum, as Cameron careened down the highway, to care for my animals for a week on short notice, and cancel reservations I made at a spa. Now I’m up to my ears in nagging about irresponsible travel – like I didn’t get an earful of That when I returned from my short pilgrimage. And to think she actually likes Cameron. As for Uncle Tom, he was totally going to get his ears boxed later. He was supposed to be keeping Cameron nicely contained way, way down in Sydney. What the hell is he up too, letting one of his managers fly the coop for week at the drop of a hat? Cameron, of course, was too absorbed in enjoying flying down highways to notice my grumbling and three hours in I gave up resisting and took a turn at the wheel.

I hadn’t been to the Blue Mountains before, so I can’t say I hated the idea. I also never actually got to see snow while I was in England so that was worth putting up with Cameron’s self-absorbed demands for a bit. When I finally saw the ski lodge, I was reminded that Cameron actually had reasonable taste. The facilities were modern, warm and comfortable. The scenery had been worth the 14 hours of driving and, well, Cameron’s hilarious reaction to the caravan park more then made up for my abduction. He was still not good at living the poor life. I vowed to take him camping one day; but first I had to perfect my filming technique so I could immortalize the chaos. However, I had to get through this ski trip first.

Cameron has always been surprisingly detailed orientated. I was mildly annoyed that he had brought clothes for me; they were to his taste not mine. However, I still don’t whether to be impressed or irritated that he had managed to outfit me with a complete compliment of cold weather clothing and ski gear with out checking my sizes. Afterwards I suspected Mum of helping him out; yet another reason to be irritated over her lecture on the drive over. But if that were the case, then Uncle Tom was in on it too. I did not want to touch that thought with a 10 foot pole. By the time Cameron had finished unpacking we had everything we need for the week, and them some. It was almost a shame, really, that he had missed one important detail: I’d never skied before in my life. He never asked, and I didn’t tell him.

This bring me to my current predicament, freezing my rear off at the top of a ski run. The idiot that I am, I still hadn’t told him. Cameron had actually been trying really hard to make this a romantic trip; if I so much as saw wine again I would puke. Cameron’s conceptions of a ‘normal’ holiday activity was also hopelessly skewed. I had tried to broach the subject the night before, but all that earnt me was 101 tales of his various schoolmates’ escapes and sinking feeling that I could never fit into his circle. A second attempt brought the realisation that to Cameron the notion of someone not learning to ski was alien, so I gave up. Now, here I am, stood on top of a steep looking ski run that Cameron joked was meant for beginners. There was a ski instructor behind us giving pointers so it may not have been the sarcasm I took his words for. I stared down the slope, the very idea of sweeping down that slide made icicles form in my underwear. And there Cameron was asking me what was wrong? Seriously? Isn’t obvious from the look of pure terror on my face?? This is where I snapped. Cameron received the full brunt of my shoulder as I pushed him down the slope, shouting after him “I can’t ski, you bastard.” He, however, was clearly an expert as he managed to right himself from the dangerous spin downwards into a graceful curve around the run. I gritted my teeth in annoyance, spun around and stomped with great difficulty to the instructor; who had been watching the whole incident with a raised eyebrow. I didn’t even have to explain, he simply started with the basics and by the time a forlorn-looking Cameron made his way back up via the ski lifts, I was shooting down on my own.

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