"They can get by without you," he said.I walked to me ajoining bathroom and flicked on the showerlight and vent. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was frazzled and would need to be washed, really washed. There were hickeys on my neck. 'What are you, sixteen?' I thought, rubbing the bruises anxiously. I got in the shower.The water spilled down my hair and over my shoulders. I felt like a new woman. I soaped up my arms, my legs. The suds gathered in the drain by my feet.Through the marbled glass I saw Maxwell's pink figure in the doorway."So, maybe I'll come in for a nooner," he said."A what?" You know, a massage. During my lunch."So he hadn't called out. Why did he offer to spend the day before? Was he hoping I'd just skip work for him on the spot? Maybe it was just a brief fantasy of his, a lie. I knew it wasn't."Oh, okay," I said."If that's okay with you."It's not that I don't like seeing Maxwell at work anymore. But now that I know him on the outside. Jesus, now that I've. Tomorrow. You can see him there when you return stateside. The doc said he'd be out of the cast in six to eight weeks."An hour later, I rode up the aerial cable from Stechelberg to the Schilthorn, a very tall and very steep Alp. At the top was the Piz Gloria restaurant, almost a monument to a 1969 James Bond film that featured scenes around the restaurant and a daring ski run down the mountain – a very steep mountain. We were using the same mountain, but downplaying the use of the same scenery as the forty-plus year old Bond movie. My philosophy about this was that imitation was a great form of flattery to that earlier effort.Mark and a couple of the production crew stood with me and explained what they wanted me to do. "As you push off here, you'll see blue paint here and there on the snow. Try to overrun those benchmarks with your skis. Those marks have been strategically placed to mark a perfect path for your run, plus they'll keep you out of trouble. We have cameramen hidden all.
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