“Good to meet you,” I say. “I’m Erin, your chalet host for the week. Champagne?”

“Well, since you insist…” He takes a glass of champagne off the tray and knocks it back in one. I make a mental note that next time I prepour drinks for this party, I’ll use prosecco. There is no way they’ll be able to taste the difference, throwing them back like that.

“Thanks.” He replaces the empty glass on the tray and stares around him. “Great location, by the way.”

“Thanks, we like it,” I say. The others are coming up behind him now. A stunningly beautiful woman with caramel-tanned skin and white-blond hair is picking her way through the snow.

“Eva van den Berg,” Topher says as she comes level with us, “my partner in crime.”

“Hi, Eva,” I say. “We’re delighted to welcome your group to Chalet Perce-Neige. Do you want to leave your bags here and head inside to warm up?”

“Thanks, that would be great,” Eva says. When she speaks there’s a tinge of something not quite English in her inflection.

Behind her one of the men slips in the snow and launches into a grumbling rant under his breath, and she says, quite carelessly over her shoulder, “Do shut the fuck up, Carl.”

I blink, but Carl doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary and simply rolls his eyes, picks himself up, and follows his colleagues into the warmth.

Inside the lobby a fire is roaring in the big enameled wood burner. The guests shake the snow off their coats and rub their hands in front of the fire. I set down the tray of glasses within easy reach and unfurl the list of guests and room numbers. I glance around the room, mentally trying to match people to names.

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. She’s wearing six-inch heels and she’s talking to the guy with the Krug, who’s swapped the empty bottle for a full glass along the way.

“Oh, Rik,” I hear her say, a touch of flirtation in her voice. “You would say that.”

Rik Adeyemi. I put another mental tick on my list of names. Okay, so that’s five of them. The four remaining guests are more of a puzzle. There’s a slim woman in her midtwenties with ombré tips to her short hair, holding, for some reason, a rolled-up yoga mat under her arm. There’s a boy in his early twenties with a strong resemblance to a young Jude Law. He seems to be American from what I heard of his accent when he took a glass of champagne. Behind him is a girl with fluffy yellow hair that cannot possibly be her real shade. It’s the color of buttercups and the texture of dandelion fluff. She is wearing huge round spectacles and looking wonderingly around the lobby, and combined with her hair, the impression is of a particularly adorable baby chick. She must be either Ani or Tiger. She’s about the furthest thing from a tiger I could possibly imagine, so I put her down as a probable Ani.

The ninth and last guest is a tall, awkward-looking man, staring out the window with his hands in his pockets. His standoffishness compares strangely with the other guests, who are all chatting companionably with the easy back-and-forth that you get only from people who’ve worked or socialized together for a long time.

No, wait. There is one other guest who’s standing alone. A woman, in her late twenties, standing hunched in an inconspicuous corner by the fire, as if hoping no one will speak to her. She’s wearing dark clothes, and she blended into the shadows so well that I didn’t notice her at first. She’s almost… the word that comes to mind is cowering, and although it feels too strong, it’s the only one that really fits. 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, and though she’s not the only one wearing glasses, the others look like they’re wearing props provided by a Hollywood studio. Hers look like National Health Service castoffs. 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.

I’m about to go over to her, offer her a glass of champagne, when I realize there are none left on the tray. Did I put out the wrong number?

I look around again, counting. There are ten people in the lobby, not nine.

“Um… excuse me,” I say quietly to Topher, “is one of your party staying elsewhere?”

He looks uncomprehendingly at me.

“I’ve only got nine guests on the list,” I explain. “You seem to be ten. It’s not a problem exactly—we can sleep up to eighteen—but there are only nine rooms, so I’m just wondering…”

I trail off.

Topher claps a hand to his forehead and turns to Eva.

“Fuck,” his voice is very low, almost mouthing the words rather than saying them. “We forgot Liz.”

“What?” she says, rather irritably, shaking her curtain of silky hair back. She’s unwinding a long linen scarf from round her neck. “I didn’t catch what you said.”

“We forgot Liz,” he says, more emphatically this time. Her jaw drops, and she looks over her shoulder at the girl by the fireplace before mouthing a silent echoed fuck at her business partner.

Topher draws us both into a corner away from the other guests and 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.

“Inigo,” Topher hisses as the boy approaches. “Inigo, we forgot Liz.”

Inigo looks at Topher blankly for a moment and then the words sink in, and the color drains out of his cheeks.

“Oh my God.” His accent is American, Californian at a guess, though I’m not very good at placing Americans. He puts his hand over his mouth in horror. “Topher, I’m—I’m such a dick.”

“It’s not your fault,” Eva says acidly. “Topher’s the one who forgot her when he drew up the original list of names. But of all the people—”

“If you’re so damn efficient,” Topher growls between gritted teeth, “maybe you should have got Ani to do some of the legwork instead of leaving Inigo to do all the heavy lifting.”

“It’s fine—” I break in hurriedly. This isn’t going the way it was supposed to. The first day is supposed to be rest and relaxation—unwinding in the hot tub, drinking vin chaud, and appreciating Danny’s cooking. Mundane reality isn’t supposed to surface until later, when the PowerPoint presentations come out. “Honestly, we can cater for more. The only issue is how we rearrange the bedrooms. We’ve only got nine guest rooms, which means two people will have to share.”

“Let me see the list,” Topher says, frowning.