‘That has to be nigh on unbearable.’ I concur.
We sit for a moment in silence. And then I say:
‘You know one thing I know for sure?’
He looks warily up at me. ‘What’s that?’
‘Breakfast is on me.’
I don’t know that I’ve seen a more cheerful-looking breakfast platter. My two bright white boiled eggs are sitting in crayon-coloured cups, my toast soldiers are golden crispy strips of ciabatta, the melon (both orange gala and green honeydew) comes in smiley slices, there’s a heap of roasted breakfast potatoes, a mini-portion of baked beans, a triangle of cheese and – the pièce de résistance – a baked apple with shiny puckered skin!
My stomach groans with longing.
‘I have to take a picture of this.’
‘I’ve never understood why people do that.’
‘That’s because everything is so beautifully presented here, you’re spoiled. You want to spend a bit of time in England, where most things arrive in a hope-for-the-best dollop.’
‘You know one of your chefs has a restaurant here.’
‘One of my chefs?’
‘Gordon Ramsay. His restaurant Laurier is just across the street.’
‘Have you eaten there?’
‘No, but I know he has fish and chips on the menu as well as poutine.’
Oh the dreaded poutine! I can’t help but grimace.
‘You know you’ve got to try it. It’s the signature dish of Quebec.’
Mercifully our conversation is interrupted by the barista coming out from behind the counter. It seems he’s an old friend of Sebastien’s and the two chat intensely in French while I sit back with my baklava latte. I kid you not – honeyed latte, flavoured with four syrups (three nut and one lemon), topped with whipped cream and cinnamon.
I’m telling you, I could practically move to Montreal on the basis of this café alone.
It’s not just the menu – I love the mix of people in here; all ages appear through the curtains shrouding the front door to take a seat at one of the tarnished copper tables. The floor is wooden, the ceiling dark-beamed, and the coffee has its own silver-scooped filing system behind the bar. I like how the special roasts – from Yemen Mocha Mattari to Jamaican Blue Mountain – are listed on a gold-framed blackboard. I like how the waitress remains smiley and attentive despite the crush and I really like the look of the chocolate gateaux in the glass display case …
Maybe I’ll come back later for a slice and a slurp of Tea-quila Sunset – Darjeeling tea with orange juice, triple sec and golden rum. Wow.
But for now it’s time to move on.
We’re just heading out through the door, with me using two hands to carry my tummy, when I remember:
‘Didn’t we have to bring your dad some coffee?’
‘He won’t drink it from here,’ Sebastien replies. ‘He’s purely an Olimpico guy.’
‘Olimpico as in the Olympics?’
‘Well, it’s really more of a spectator sport place. You’ll see. But you do know we held the Olympic Games here in 1976?’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ I say, though of course I didn’t.
‘Are you keeping up with the Kardashians?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Kim Kardashian’s stepdad Bruce Jenner won gold here that year.’
‘I didn’t even know he was an athlete.’
‘Decathlete,’ he specifies.
‘You’re pretty good with all your facts and figures … ’ I smile.
‘Well my dad’s last girlfriend was a schoolteacher.’
‘Busy man.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You know, with the women.’
Sebastien stops suddenly. ‘Have you slept with more than three men?’
‘What?’
‘You think because he’s been married twice and had one other girlfriend that makes him some kind of player?’
‘Oh. No. I’m sorry.’ This is awful. Why do I keep upsetting him like this? ‘I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful.’
‘He was with my mother for seventeen years, Jacques’ mother for twelve. Can you match that?’
‘No,’ I say quietly, following him across the road. I’m sticking to neutral subjects from now on. Observations about the city and the range of enticing shops, including this rather unusual furniture store …
‘Oh look!’ I try to jolly things along. ‘This sofa cover is made entirely of jeans!’
No response.
He really is ultra-protective of his family members. Ordinarily that would be an admirable trait; he just seems to take the form of barbed wire while doing so.
‘I think I’m going to have a quick nose in this bookshop while you’re in the café,’ I say as he opens the door to Olimpico, all Italian flags and football on TV.
He looks over to Librairie L’Écume des Jours and sighs mournfully, ‘I used to go there with Julie … ’
‘I just can’t win with him,’ I complain to Laurie when I sneakily dial her from the street corner. ‘One minute we seem to be getting along fine, and then he’ll flare up and take offence at the merest thing.’
‘In my experience people who behave like that – all mad at the world – are typically mad at themselves.’
‘Hurt people hurt people,’ I confirm.
‘Right. And I understand that the solution seems so obvious to you – “Move back to Montreal and resume your life!”’
‘Yes!’
‘But he’s so blocked, seeing what he’s missing might just piss him off more.’
‘Oh great.’
‘Hang in there. Give him a bit of space. And pick out a cool book for me.’
Laurie and I have this thing that whenever I travel abroad I buy her a book in a foreign language that she will never read but that has a totally intriguing cover or title.
I’m spoilt for choice here:
‘LA LIBERTÉ N’EST PAS UNE MARQUE DE YOGOURT.’
‘ÊTES-VOUS MARIÉE À UN PSYCHOPATHE?’
I even rather like the look of one of those ‘For Dummies’ titles in French.
‘LE SAXOPHONE POUR LES NULS.’
And then I inadvertently find myself in the maternity section, immediately drawn to a book with a cartoon of a mother holding her little bundle of joy up in the air – as vomit spews out of his mouth in a fountain-like arc towards her face.
Though I may not be able to translate all the captions and speech bubbles, the cartoons are easily understood. On the left page we have La Rêve: a slim, pony-tailed woman power-walking with her babystroller in the park. On the right we have La Réalité: A woman slouched on her couch in front of the TV, hand in a bag of crisps. And then I discover the French word for pregnancy – la grossesse! How could a country so chic have a word like that for women in their prime? Or perhaps that’s how they feel when they can no longer fit into their petite Chanel suits.
As I flick through the pages, I am reminded just how much I idealise being a mum. When you are denied something it’s all too easy to focus on all the picture-perfect moments – all that dimply glee and squidgy cuddling – and overlook the daily slog. I don’t even have the basics of domesticity down – my fridge magnet says it all: I understand the concept of cooking and cleaning. Just not as it applies to me. And I’m certainly not the type who could pop a kiddiwink in a backpack and continue about my business. If I’m really, really honest about the kind of mother I would have been, the truth is probably chaotic, exhausted, with finger-paint on my T-shirt and assorted cereals in my hair.
‘Ready?’ Sebastien leans his head in.
I fluster a little as I prop the book back on the shelf, hoping he hasn’t seen the title, and hurry to his side.
‘What’s in the bag?’ I ask as we head back to the car.
‘Biscotti,’ he replies. ‘It’s my dad’s favourite.’
I go to make a comment about him having strong teeth, but that would probably imply that I’m surprised that a man his age can still
crunch and thus be construed as an insult, so I say nothing.
What I think, however, is this: Oh my god, I’m about to meet the parent!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘I really like this neighbourhood,’ I tell Sebastien as I eye the cute terraced houses with their quirky roof adornments, jutting balconies and twiddly ironwork. ‘Is this where you grew up?’
‘Right here.’ Sebastien pulls into a parking spot outside a big redbrick building with angular bay windows, and honks his horn.
Seconds later a handsome, rather robust-looking man appears at the top of the exterior staircase.
‘That’s your dad?’ I peer up at him.
‘You sound surprised.’
‘He’s so young-looking.’
‘He’s only fifty-six.’
‘I suppose it was all the talk of him visiting the physio … ’ Honestly I was expecting someone frail and entirely reliant on his stick. Here he is grinning down at me like some fair-haired Alec Baldwin.
‘Bonjour Krista! Bonjour!’
He knows my name?
‘What do you think of my staircase?’
I look back at Sebastien. ‘Is that a traditional Montreal greeting?’
‘Tell him you think it’s curvaceous.’
‘What?’
‘Do it. He’ll love it.’
I take a breath. ‘It’s wonderfully curvaceous!’ I call up to him.
‘Yes yes!’ he claps his hands together. ‘That’s right, come on up.’
‘Was that the secret password?’ I frown.
‘It just tickles him because it’s irreverent.’
Sebastien explains that, back in the day, the church insisted all buildings had outside staircases so everyone’s comings and goings could be witnessed – no covert activity.
‘But then the residents got creative with the designs and the sensual curves were considered too provocative—’
‘You’re joking!’
‘I am not. So they said all the staircases had to be covered up and boxed in.’
‘No!’
‘But now, in these more liberated days, they have been exposed again.’
‘Gosh. Every city has its story, huh?’
His father reappears on the top step. ‘What does a person have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?’
I suppose, after seeing what he did to Jacques’ office, I should have guessed that Mr Dufour would not go the minimalist route with his home decor. Every inch of wall and shelf space is housing some award, ribbon, trophy or celebratory photo. There is even a framed ice hockey jersey – red, white and blue.
‘Montreal Canadiens,’ I read the plaque. ‘You used to play?’
‘Not me,’ Sebastien replies. ‘My dad. Still does.’
‘Not professionally any more, just with friends,’ he explains as he returns from the kitchen with a team mug to pour his Olimpico coffee into. ‘That’s how I messed up my damn knee.’
‘Dad was their star player back in the day,’ Sebastien mumbles dutifully. ‘Centre forward.’
‘I just liked being called “offensive”,’ he teases. ‘Did you bring the biscotti?’
Sebastien slides the paper bag across the table.
‘Krista you have to try this!’
‘Oh I couldn’t take another bite. I totally overdid it at breakfast.’
He snaps me off a piece regardless. ‘For later.’
‘Thank you!’
‘So,’ he turns to Sebastien. ‘How does it feel to be back in Montreal?’
He shifts in his chair. ‘All right I guess.’
‘That’s it?’
Sebastien shrugs.
‘Lucky he’s not writing for your website,’ Mr Dufour winks at me.
They make some more smalltalk. Sebastien not really giving anything away, possibly because I am here, and then Mr Dufour says:
‘You know, I was helping Mr Tremblay across the street draw up his will and I want you to know that when I die I’m leaving this place to you.’
Sebastien looks uncomfortable. ‘Me and Jacques.’
‘No, Jacques already has a home. Your home is here.’ He sighs. ‘When are you coming home, son?’
‘Dad we’ve been through this … ’ Sebastien squirms.
‘He worries too much.’ Mr Dufour addresses me. ‘And I worry about him worrying.’ He shakes his head. ‘What a fine pair.’ He takes a sip of coffee. ‘So how is Jacques?’
‘He’s okay—’
‘I was talking to Krista.’
At which point Sebastien decides that he needs to sort a few items in his old room.
I wait until he closes the door behind him before I reply.
‘I think he’s wonderful. I mean, I only met him four days ago so I can’t give you a comprehensive review … ’
‘No, but you can give me the most up-to-date unbiased opinion.’
‘Well, then I’d say he’s doing very well. All things considered.’
‘How is his pain level?’
I hesitate. ‘You mean emotional pain?’
He nods.
‘It’s present,’ I say quietly.
‘Palpable?’
‘Yes.’ I can’t lie. ‘You can see it in his eyes.’
Mr Dufour hangs his head. ‘I wish there was something I could do to ease it. But you can’t hurry those kind of feelings along.’
‘No.’
‘Sometimes I think Sebastien is overreacting and other times … I just don’t know.’
I feel a twinge of concern. Is Jacques more troubled than I know?
He smiles suddenly. ‘He has certainly sounded brighter since he met you.’
‘Really?’ I just know I’m flushing pink now. ‘I feel the same way.’
‘Sometimes a stranger can do more than family.’
‘I hope you don’t think I’m intruding.’ Now I’m worrying!
‘Not at all.’ He reaches for my hand. ‘I don’t give pieces of my biscotti away to just anyone.’
I smile back at him. ‘Citron-pistachio?’
‘Go on, taste it!’
I’m just splintering into it when there is an almighty crash from the other room – an avalanche of books falling? A decade of things shoved onto the top shelf now unleashed?
‘Dad!’ Sebastien calls out.
Mr Dufour rolls his eyes. ‘For someone so graceful in the air he sure can be clumsy on dry land.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Make yourself at home.’
By which I take him to mean ‘Feel free to snoop.’ So I do.
Of course I am initially scanning for pictures of Jacques. And there are plenty, all of which leave me with a sloppy look of longing on my face. Except perhaps the group photo where he appears to be partnered with an outdoorsy-looking woman. Still, we all have our exes. Those people we used to orbit around and now avoid. I imagine walking down a long gallery of all my former loves, and I use ‘loves’ in the broadest sense of the word. As I contemplate each face I respond with a twitch or flinch or sneer or shudder and an endless mantra of ‘What was I thinking?’ But the only one it hurts to look at is Andrew. Though, I have to say, the pain feels somewhat dulled today. I heave a sigh. Wouldn’t it be nice to leave all these men behind for good? To see one face and feel only positive things. I lean closer to an image of Jacques laughing in the sunshine and feel brimful of admiration and adoration.
All I need now is the reciprocation.
I think I might help myself to a glass of water when an image of a young First Nation girl catches my eye.
Her dark hair is parted in the middle but, rather than being plaited, it is bound with suede laces. Around her neck sits a bone choker, the yoke of her dress is beaded and fringed, her delicate hands hold a collection of feathers. There’s a luminous quality to her dark eyes as she looks beyond the camera, the beginning of a smile forming on her lips. Even though she must still be in her teens she looks both poised and purposeful. Just as I take the frame in my hands, I feel Mr Dufour’s presence besi
de me.
‘Oh!’ I step back. ‘I hope you don’t mind me looking – she’s so beautiful … ’
‘That’s Jacques’ mother.’
I look up in surprise.
‘She’s just like him – not a bad bone in her body.’
‘Is she … ?’ I falter. Do I say First Nation?
‘Cree,’ he replies.
‘Wow. Stunning.’
‘Of course that’s not a recent picture. We were sixteen when that was taken.’
‘That’s when you met?’
He nods and then smiles wide: ‘She would only agree to go out with me if I could learn to spell the longest Cree chief name in history.’
I raise a brow.
‘You want to hear it?’
I nod eagerly.
He takes a deep breath and then spells out: ‘A-h-c-h-u-c-h-h-w-a-h-a-u-h-h-a-t-o-h-a-p-i-t!’
‘What?’ I hoot, insisting he writes it down. Ahchuchhwahauhhatohapit.
‘That’s dedication!’ I marvel.
‘Oh, she was worth it! Best summer of my life. I still think fondly of her.’ He sighs. ‘But you change a lot from a teenager to a man. Especially to a sportsman.’
He looks mildly regretful, like perhaps the game was not worth the sacrifice.
‘There were a lot of demands in those days, a lot of adrenalin, a lot of travel … ’
I nod, not wishing to pry too much. ‘Does she still live in Quebec?’
He nods. ‘She’s away north at the moment. Helping her mother.’
I look back at the other photographs. ‘Is Sebastien’s mother here?’
He pulls a face. ‘We’re not on quite such good terms … ’
‘But you were together nearly twenty years!’ I can’t help but blurt.
‘And they were mostly good, but things didn’t end well.’ He begins opening draws and rifling through papers. ‘She’s got to be here somewhere … ’
I smile. ‘I was just curious, there’s no need—’
‘Here!’ He holds out a snap of a blonde woman crouched beside a baby dangling from a doorway in a baby bouncer.
I can’t help but chuckle – even as a child Sebastien was catapulting skyward!
WINTER WONDERLAND Page 18