WINTER WONDERLAND

by Belinda Jones

‘He didn’t say anything else? Anything that could help us locate him?’

  ‘I think he’s going to be at the Bain de Neige event.’

  ‘Figures.’

  A radio bleeps and conveys a message – there’s been a sighting down by the ferry…

  The head policeman gives me his card. ‘If you remember anything else, please call us.’

  I nod and watch them leave in a state of disbelief. Did all that really happen? I stand and watch the snowflakes softly falling, catching a few on the fingertips of my gloves. And then I take a picture of the church, to prove that at least I was really here.

  A few minutes later I arrive at Auberge Saint-Antoine.

  I’ll say one thing – fake Bonhomme gives excellent directions.

  ‘Here she is!’ Annique jumps to her feet to greet me. ‘Let me show you where you can hang your coat.’

  The hotel is incredibly chic. I do like how the rich do cosy: starting with a refined colour palette – what I would describe as cranberry, crème anglaise, and soft taupe – and then adding an eccentric detail or two, in this case moose silhouette cushions and a heavy iron chain in lieu of coals in the fireplace. The bar itself has a mix of high-backed leather banquettes, clear Perspex chairs and cushiony window seats. But what secures a prime place on the website is the fact that the area is book-ended by two inviting insets with their own fireplace, shelves of books and board games and a snug sofa, just like your own bijou apartment – order a bottle of wine and a cheeseboard, drag across the velvet drape and you’re set for the night.

  Annique explains that we are in fact ordering off the bar menu as a few friends will be joining us later. The more relaxed setting suits me fine, and the more people that aren’t Gilles, the better.

  ‘Annique?’ I halt her before she heads back down the stairs.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Bonhomme in trouble with the law?’

  ‘Of course not!’ she tinkles. ‘He’s the most honourable, wholesome, delightful—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, he’s a national treasure.’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  I take a breath. ‘I just saw the police chasing him.’

  ‘Oh!’ She looks stricken. ‘So it’s true.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I heard a rumour that there is an impostor on the loose.

  ‘No!’

  She lowers her voice. ‘They call him Malhomme.’

  ‘Mal as in bad?’ I seek clarification. ‘Like Bonhomme’s bad-guy alter ego?’

  ‘Yes.’ She clicks her tongue. ‘This is not a good situation.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘Just that he is singling out the tourists – of course the locals know him too well to be fooled.’

  ‘So, for example, someone gawping at the church in Place Royale … ’

  ‘You didn’t speak to him?’ she gasps.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Well, he was kind of … flirty.’

  ‘This must not happen.’ She looks genuinely upset. ‘Bonhomme’s reputation is sacred.’

  ‘You know I once saw a guy in a Mickey Mouse costume taking a cigarette break… ’

  She gives me a dark look.

  ‘Of course this is much worse.’

  Annique begins chewing at her perfect French-Canadian manicure.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be such a downer,’ I apologise.

  ‘No, no. But I think we must report this incident.’

  ‘Well, I’ve already told the police everything.’

  ‘Everything? Every word. This is very important.’

  I look over at Gilles sitting awkwardly with Brandon.

  ‘You know you’re quite right. There is more to tell. Let’s do it right now.’

  I’m not sure if the fact that the impostor is a fan of the stuffed quail at Restaurant L’Initiale will crack the case, but you never know.

  I’m still really none the wiser about what this so-called Malhomme is up to. The police don’t want salacious stories getting out so they prefer not to give any further details. Fair enough. All we really know is that he is not behaving in a way that is ambassador-appropriate.

  ‘Ooh Brandon, what are you drinking?’ I ask as we return to the bar, admiring his pink cocktail served in a slender antler-motif flute.

  ‘French-Canadian Kiss,’ he beams. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I reply, adding for Gilles’ ears only. ‘I find it leaves a nasty aftertaste.’

  I study the menu and then order a Jalapeño Margarita, just to show how tough I am.

  ‘We’ve ordered a selection of appetisers.’ Annique invites me to dip in. ‘And there’s a fondue on the way.’

  ‘Yummy! Thank you.’ I turn back to Brandon. ‘So how did the rest of the competition go?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t win but I did get the best prize!’ He looks googly-eyed at Gilles.

  ‘Have you two had your picture taken together yet?’

  ‘No,’ he says, coyly.

  ‘Allow me!’ I take his phone and start snapping away. ‘Come on, cuddle up nice and close. That’s adorable!’

  ‘By the way, Krista,’ Gilles interrupts. ‘I think we need to set aside some time tomorrow to go through the photos for the website.’

  ‘No rush,’ I chirp. ‘I won’t be posting until I’ve viewed the whole lot, so I can get a good balance of images. Unless you’re concerned you’re not getting the shots … ’

  ‘Oh no. The quality is there.’

  ‘Good to know. And the dog-sledding should be great. You did get my message about that, Annique?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know how you did it!’

  ‘Did what?’ Gilles looks confused.

  ‘Persuade the Wolfman to let us shoot at his home.’

  ‘Oooh, the Wolfman. I think you’ve just given me the concept for my new snow sculpture!’ Brandon enthuses. ‘Is he as sexy as he sounds?’

  ‘Well he does happen to have sixteen husky puppies … ’

  ‘Goodness,’ Brandon fans himself with a napkin and then playfully nudges his date. ‘You may have a little competition there, Gilles … !’

  ‘Oh! Here’s Simone and Yves!’ Annique beckons her friends over.

  They begin asking me how I like it so far, where I’m staying …

  I explain that I managed half a night at the Hôtel de Glace, I’m currently at the Hilton and on Wednesday I’m switching to—

  ‘Auberge Place D’Armes,’ Annique helps me out.

  ‘Oh that’s so cute!’ Simone raves. ‘And you have to try their dessert with the banana cognac flambée – c’est magnifique!’

  Before long everyone has slipped into speaking French, which actually suits me fine as I am now enjoying an all-consuming relationship with the fondue. I’m just about to propose to the crusty French bread when Annique elbows me.

  ‘Do you see the man staring at you from the bar?’

  I peek up at the debonair gent with the sandy hair and Aaron Eckhart’s cleft chin and give a little snort. ‘Bless you Annique, but if he’s staring at anyone it’s you.’

  ‘No, no. I am not mistaken. I can tell the difference. Let’s invite him over.’

  ‘What? No!’ I flush.

  ‘You don’t want a little romance in Quebec?’

  I catch Gilles’ eye.

  ‘I’ve already had my fill.’

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t let one sleazy encounter put you off.’

  Gilles looks alarmed – she knows? Annique knows? I can see his mind whirring: is that what they were discussing earlier, so very intently? Is that why they disappeared?

  ‘It wasn’t just the sleaziness,’ I sigh, milking it. ‘It’s just the big lie, you know. But I’ll say something – the guy has a lot of nerve.’

  And then Annique spoils everything by leaning in and telling the others that I met Malhomme.

  ‘Tell us! Tell us!’ They clamour for a re-enactment but I don’t have the energy
to relive it all again so I excuse myself to go to the Ladies room.

  I admire the modern design and utilise the fragrant liquid soap and lotion, delaying as long as I can, and then slowly make my way back. Aware that my walk is giving away just how tipsy I am, I pause at every other glass display case, pretending to be fascinated by the sets of ancient keys and broken pottery discovered on an archaeological dig on this very site. Apparently the Price family who own this property began their life in Quebec as a Welsh logging company. Didn’t they do well?

  I’m over at the top of the stairs now, gripping tight and preparing to lower myself back down to the bar, when I see the Staring Man coming up towards me. I feel instantly self-conscious, hotter than ever and utterly unable to move. He really does have the most penetrative stare.

  As he draws level he leans close enough for me to feel his breath upon my neck and whispers, ‘See you at the Snow Bath!’

  That voice! It’s him!

  I turn around but he’s already out the door.

  I’m torn – do I chase after him? Who am I kidding, I can barely walk these streets and I’d have to get my coat and he knows every alley and cut-through …

  I place my hand over my pounding heart. Is this something else to tell the police? I could give a fairly decent description of him. As could Annique. But what if I’m wrong?

  Though I know I’m not. He gave me the very same feeling.

  But why would he be doing this? He looked so well dressed, sitting there, drinking his champagne. Is he some kind of bored playboy, I wonder?

  ‘Krista? Are you all right?’ Annique has come to rescue me.

  ‘I do feel a little woozy.’

  ‘You’ve only had one drink,’ Gilles scoffs as I lower myself onto the chair.

  ‘Well, I did have a cane-full of Caribou on the way here … ’

  ‘Arrrrgggghhh!’ they all chorus in a display of tortured empathy.

  ‘You do know what is in that?’ Brandon asks.

  ‘It’s just mulled wine, isn’t it?’

  ‘Tastes like mulled wine but in fact it’s a lethal combination of brandy, vodka, sherry and port!’

  Oh jeez.

  ‘Add the fact that you’ve come into the warm from the freezing cold … ’

  ‘ … suddenly the alcohol is moving around your bloodstream a lot quicker.’

  ‘God, I remember the time I … ’

  And so it goes, each person with their own Caribou horror story. When they have concluded, I announce, ‘I think I need to go back to the hotel.’

  ‘I’ll take you,’ Gilles leaps to his feet.

  ‘No need,’ I push him back down. Rather too firmly, perhaps. ‘If you could just get me a taxi, Annique?’

  ‘Bien sûr!’

  The taxi thankfully takes just a couple of minutes. I can’t wait to get into bed, though I probably would have held off on the dreaming if I’d known it was going to involve riding the Tornado with six cocktail-supping huskies while trying to hang onto a pot of scalding fondue.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘Now I know why they call that drink Caribou.’

  ‘And why is that?’ Laurie asks.

  ‘Because I look like a total moose.’

  I’ve got her on speakerphone in the bathroom while I assess the morning-after payback in the mirror.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad.’

  ‘Switch to Skype and I’ll show you.’

  ‘Woah!’ She reels. ‘Well, that certainly gives new meaning to “getting caned”.’

  ‘Oh don’t! A thimble-full would’ve done the trick. It was like the world’s longest shot.’

  ‘More important than ever to get the outfit right – what are you planning on wearing?’

  ‘Well it’s not like you can go for a plunging neckline in this weather. It’s either my black coat—’

  ‘Oh you don’t want to wear black today,’ Laurie shudders. ‘That’ll just accentuate the shadows.’

  ‘And actually I wore that last time. Ivory it is.’

  I just hope Annique isn’t in white today or I’m going to look like a big cream puff next to her mini milk Popsicle.

  ‘Which scarf?’ I hold up the orange ombre knit versus the plain grey fleece and then bend down to pick up the glove options. ‘Oh lord!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just another wave of nausea.’

  ‘You’d probably feel better if you were sick.’

  ‘I wish. It keeps threatening to come up but no joy so far.’

  ‘Is that Krista?’ A new voice chips in – it’s Danielle leaning in behind Laurie. ‘Gosh this is a really bad picture.’

  ‘Actually it’s a good picture – I just look this bad right now.’

  ‘So you told her?’ Danielle grimaces.

  ‘Told me what?’

  Laurie clearly pinches Danielle because she jumps back hissing, ‘I thought it might help her get closure.’

  ‘Hello! Tell me what?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just boring website stuff. Potential redesign. Nothing you need to worry about until you get back.’

  ‘Or you could tell me the truth.’

  Laurie looks uneasy.

  ‘What did she mean, get closure?’ I persist. ‘Is this to do with Andrew?’

  She sighs heavily. ‘I don’t think this is the right time to talk about this.’

  Uh oh, I’m starting to get that twisty feeling in my stomach. I swallow back the anxiety and force a breeziness to my voice …

  ‘Let’s face it,’ I begin, ‘I couldn’t feel any worse than I do already, so really it’s the ideal time.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And I’d rather know now when I’ve got lots of fun new things to distract me.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘I’ll just obsess all day if you don’t tell me.’

  Laurie clasps her hands together on the desk, taking on the look of a newsreader in a time of crisis. ‘It’s not good.’

  ‘What, has he got some girl half my age pregnant?’

  Laurie looks as if she might cry.

  ‘He hasn’t!’

  ‘She’s nineteen. Delivers sandwiches to his office.’

  ‘Oh god!’ I scramble to the bathroom and up it all comes – the Caribou, the fondue, the pain.

  When I’m done I slump beside the toilet and let the sobs take over, hands rubbing at my face, clawing at my hair. I can’t stand this! I can’t stand to feel this way – so disposable. I couldn’t provide the appropriate service and so he’s on to the next, and now they’ve got this whole life to live together and, and … the sobs overtake me again.

  ‘Oh Krista,’ I hear Laurie’s concerned voice from the phone. ‘This is why I didn’t tell you.’

  I crawl back over, covering my face with the fleece scarf. ‘I’m sorry Laurie. I don’t mean for you to witness all this.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’m glad I can be here. I just wish Danielle hadn’t put her big foot in it.’

  ‘No, it’s better I know,’ I lie, trying to pull myself together, but all I can think of is Andrew with his hand proudly on her stomach, picking out little booties and a dragonfly mobile for above the cot. It almost seems like the girl herself doesn’t matter. I don’t wonder about what she looks like or their compatibility – the fact that she is to be the mother of his child is enough. She couldn’t find a higher pedestal to be placed upon. And it was so easy for her, so effortless …

  ‘I feel so bad … ’ Laurie sighs.

  ‘Don’t. Honestly,’ I insist. ‘It was bound to happen. I mean, that’s what he wanted.’

  ‘It just doesn’t seem fair that he gets it. You wanted it too! And you would have made a wonderful mum.’

  ‘No I wouldn’t,’ I shake my head. And the tears begin to flow again. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Wait!’ Laurie protests. ‘What are you going to do?’

  The thought of having to get up and dressed and go dog-sledding with Gilles scrutinising my every move throu
gh his prying lens is just too much to bear.

  ‘Maybe I’ll just have a sick day.’

  ‘But you’re only there a week, you don’t want to waste a whole day feeling bad!’ She leans closer into the camera. ‘I know that bed looks good right now.’

  ‘It really does.’

  ‘But all that awaits you is more misery, going over and over something you’ve already cried enough tears about.’

  Enough tears. How do you know when it’s enough, I want to ask her. Why does there always feel as if there’s more?

  But instead I say, ‘You’re right.’

  ‘If you stay in bed, nothing will change. If you get up, you could have an amazing day. Besides, what was the one thing that always used to make you feel better?’

  ‘Being with my dog.’

  ‘And how many dogs does this Jacques have?’

  ‘Ninety-eight.’

  ‘Well, then wouldn’t you like to feel ninety-eight times better than you do right now?’

  ‘I would!’ I smile.

  ‘Okay. So here’s what you do: you pull on a hat and go down to breakfast looking like something from a zombie movie, you eat the closest thing they have to a greasy spoon breakfast, you come back up, get in the shower and let all thoughts of his unmentionable self go down the plughole, got it?’

  ‘Got it!’ My breathing has calmed now. That was a good pep talk.

  ‘And take one of those Vitamin C sachets.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You can turn this around and still have a good day, I know you can.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, most sincerely.

  ‘Okay. Text me your progress. Love you!’

  ‘Love you too!’

  For a good minute I clasp my phone to my chest, feeling extremely grateful to have a friend like Laurie. And then I get up and do exactly as she prescribed, fortifying myself with two helpings of the breakfast potatoes, detoxifying with green tea (in lieu of PG) and then drowning my sorrows (and my French toast) in maple syrup.

  I’m about to take my final golden-river bite when an email pops up on my phone. It’s from Laurie, entitled: Check this out!

  It opens with a photograph of a bronze statue of a husky dog with a stripe of snow along his back. It looks vaguely familiar.

  ‘Krista!!’ her email begins. ‘Do you remember this picture from my Christmas shopping trip to New York?’