One by One

by Ruth Ware

It’s strange. Snow is so white on the ground, but when it’s falling, it looks gray against the sky. It might as well be ash.

It overlooks the peaks and ridges of the Alps, a panorama so breathtaking that even though I live here now, I still find myself stopping mid-stride on certain days, almost winded by its beauty. Today the visibility is poor, the clouds are low, and there’s too much snow in the air. But on a good day you can see almost to Lake Geneva. Behind us, to the northeast of the chalet, rises the Dame Blanche, the mountain that forms the highest peak of the St. Antoine valley, overshadowing everything.

Not that I can talk. I’m putting on my own act. We all are on some level, I suppose. That’s one of the joys of coming here, to a place like this, where everyone is passing through. You get to have a fresh start.

Eva van den Berg, cofounder. Topher St. Clair-Bridges, cofounder. Rik Adeyemi, head of beans. Elliot Cross, chief nerd.” Danny snorts out his soup through his nose, but I carry on. “Miranda Khan, friends czar. Inigo Ryder, Topher’s ‘boss.’ Ani Cresswell, chief Eva-tamer. Tiger-Blue Esposito, head of cool. Carl Foster, lawman.”

trying to formulate something unquantifiable into words. “The whole point is the connection. You’re actually listening to the same thing at the same moment as they are—beat for beat. You know that wherever she is in the world, Lady Gaga is listening to the exact same thing you are. It’s like”—inspiration strikes, and his face lights up—“it’s like, you know when you’re first going out with someone, and you’re sharing a set of headphones, one earpiece in their ear, one earpiece in yours?”

like that. You and Lady Gaga, sharing her earphones. It’s really powerful. When you’re lying there in bed, and they switch off, and you know that somewhere they’re probably doing the exact same thing as you, rolling over, falling asleep… it’s pretty intimate, you know? But it’s not just celebrities. If you’re in a long-distance relationship, say, you can snoop your bloke and listen to the same song at the same time.

derision,

Eva and Topher I’ve got already. Carl Foster, the guy who slipped in the snow, is a stocky white man in his forties with a buzz cut and a pugnacious expression, but he’s cheerfully downing champagne in a way that suggests he’s not brooding on the moment outside the door. Judging by her surname, Miranda Khan is probably the very elegant Asian woman over by the stairs.

Her uneasiness is in sharp contrast to the rest of the group, who are already laughing and refilling their glasses, in defiance of the advice about acclimating to altitude. But it’s not just her body language that sets her apart—it’s everything. She’s the only one wearing clothes that look more H&M than D&G,

She reminds me of a bird too, but not a fluffy little chick. There is nothing cute about her. This woman looks more like an owl—a hunted, panicked owl caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

beckons to the young Jude Law look-alike. As he comes closer the likeness fades, but the impression of startling good looks only intensifies. He has olive skin; sharp, Slavic cheekbones; and the most extraordinary topaz-blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

vin chaud,

I should be used to it. Used to them forgetting about me, taking me for granted, ignoring me. I had a whole year of that at Snoop. A year of people going out for drinks after work and not inviting me. Twelve months of “Oh, Liz, would you reserve a table for four at Mirabelle?” and knowing that that four didn’t include me. One full year of invisibility. And I was fine with that—more than fine, actually. I was quite comfortable.

I have always known that we were operating on different levels. But it would be nice if I could go down to dinner looking like I belong in the same room with the others.

“But that’s what they always say!” The words burst from me, in spite of myself. “They say, ‘Oh, just wear whatever you want,’ and then when you turn up there’s some secret dress code that everyone seems to know apart from me. I go too smart and they’re all in jeans and I look like I’ve tried way too hard, or I wear something casual and they’re all in suits and dresses. It’s like everyone else has the key to this and I don’t!”

There is a definite gilded quality to this group. Nothing’s going to touch them.

This is a bramble gin martini, or on the left is a marmalade old-fashioned.”

She gives me a beguiling smile, showing very white, even teeth and a dimple in her peach-soft cheek. Her voice is throaty—reminding me of a cat’s purr, and her odd name seems suddenly rather apt.

Who is this woman? Why are they so keen to keep her happy? It’s almost like… I frown, wondering. It’s almost like they’re afraid of her. But that’s absurd.

It is an atmosphere I haven’t felt for nearly three years. Money. Privilege. Ambition.

bespoke

“Happy?” Topher rounds on him. “Happy? At this rate we’ll be lucky to come out of it with everyone alive.”

honesty bar

Armagnac

Can I get you anything else? Cheese? Coffee? Petits fours? Danny makes these incredibly moreish chocolate-dipped prunes that go really well with a glass of brandy.”

Rik looks at Miranda and raises one eyebrow, in a kind of wordless exchange that speaks more about their relationship than anything physical. There is something going on here. They are more than just colleagues, whether they realize that themselves or not.

I was working days at KPMG and nights at Snoop, and right at the bottom of my overdraft.

And then out of nowhere, little Liz pipes up that her grandmother just died and left her ten thousand pounds. And she says she’ll put it into the company. Only she wants security. Not interest—she wants shares in the company, and not just any shares—but voting shares. Well, we left it to the lawyers to argue the split, but the end result was thirty percent shares to Topher, thirty percent to Eva, nineteen to Elliot, nineteen to me, and two percent to Liz.”

“Two percent?” Miranda says. “Of a company that hadn’t raised any capital and was barely solvent? It doesn’t sound like much security for ten grand.” “Some people might agree,” Rik says dryly. “But she’s getting the last laugh. That ten grand will be worth around twelve million if the buyout goes ahead.”

cajoling,

jaded

bircher muesli

Her tone is sharp and unapologetically annoyed. It’s the voice of someone used to saying “Jump” and getting the answer “How high?” Which doesn’t bother me in itself—in some ways I prefer people who are clear about their expectations, rather than smiling at you all week and then giving you a shitty write-up on their feedback forms.

It takes me a beat, then I realize he’s referring to me, at the same time as Miranda hisses, “She’s called Erin,” in Topher’s direction. I smile, trying to convey that I don’t mind. Irene, Eileen, Emma—it’s all the same. When you’re staff, you’re not really a person.

ably.

indicative

acquiescence

mollifying

I swallow. There is something hard stuck in my throat, and I realize that I haven’t spoken since I got up this morning. No one talked to me at breakfast. No one asked my opinion at the meeting. I don’t know if I can trust my voice when I speak.

solvent,”

azure

salopettes

Why do I always seem to end up being this person—the person everyone else’s fun hinges on, the person who’s required to make a decision. I can feel myself shrinking beneath their gaze—but I have no choice.

The weather is too poor for that. All the sensible French are huddled in cafés having vin chaud and raclette,

But fear can make people amazingly resilient.

precipice

chagrin

belligerent.

monied.

tact