WINTER WONDERLAND

by Belinda Jones

  We were actually due to dine here the evening I diverted Annique to Wendake, doing us out of lobster night at the buffet. Right now I’d settle for a chai latte – apparently there’s a Starbucks within these walls; it’s just a matter of locating it.

  ‘Hello you!’

  A large, long-haired, pink-tongued dog greets me as I push through the polished brass doors from the main courtyard. He has no lead and seems to consider himself to be in charge of the lobby area – a grand affair with dark wood panelling warmed by glowing candelabra and gold-patterned rugs. I look around for his owner and find hotel employee Genevieve smiling at me.

  ‘This is Santol. He’s our dog concierge.’

  ‘Ohh!’ I smile back at her. ‘Is it okay to … ’ I go to kneel beside him.

  ‘Oh yes, he loves the attention!’

  It feels so good to rummage around his wavy black fur and flip his floppy ears. Even more of a tonic than a chai!

  ‘What is he?’

  ‘Bernese Mountain Dog crossed with Labrador Retriever – so Labernese.’

  ‘Really? I haven’t heard that one before!’

  ‘He’s also a former guide dog.’

  ‘That’s so lovely!’ I run my hands over his pure white toes. ‘What a nice welcome to the hotel!’

  ‘He’s certainly a disarming presence,’ she agrees. ‘We’ve had businessmen in suits lying on the floor with him before now!’

  At which point Santol rolls over, offering up his vast expanse of tummy. He makes me feel so good I nearly buy the soft toy version of him in the gift shop. Instead I purchase some healing paw balm – my thinking being that, if I ever do get to see Jacques again, I could make it a present to Sibérie, since she was my first dog encounter here in Quebec. Maybe that could be excuse enough to go there tomorrow – I just wanted to come and see the dogs one last time, have one last mush!

  At least I still have the dog-sledding race to look forward to. Although it would be more fun if Jacques was racing. I wonder if there’s any possibility he is considering doing it now? Not that everything is suddenly fixed after last night but maybe his attitude has changed? He could race in Rémy’s honour now. And any prize money could go into a little fund for Rene.

  There I go, meddling again. Planning out someone else’s life when I should be focussing on my own. Ordinarily I’m pulled forward with thoughts of my next trip. But now I think, ‘How can anywhere compare to how I feel here?’

  I pause for a moment and watch an elderly woman making handmade Carnival sashes – the craftwork is authentic and the price reflects the hours of painstaking finger labour. I see a father purchasing a set for his entire family. There’s certainly some old money in this place – gotta love these grand dame hotels, they will endure.

  Dropping down to the lower level, I nose around a shop with furs dyed in regal hues from scarlet to pansy purple to midnight blue, and then I locate Starbucks.

  I’m perusing the hotel leaflet I picked up in Reception while waiting to place my order when it occurs to me, ‘Why have the very same chai latte that I can have in fifty-eight countries in the world, when I could be having a unique Winston Churchill martini in the Saint-Laurent Bar while sitting beside the fire?’

  As the man himself once said: ‘I am easily satisfied with the very best.’

  I sit there for nearly an hour, staring into the yellow flames, watching the logs crack and ashes crumble. It’s a comforting place to be and I focus on being pleased for Laurie. We can still Skype. She can carry me on her iPhone when she goes to her local café and we can chat away. I mustn’t be sad about this. I don’t want to spoil it for her.

  ‘Oh Laurie! This is so fabulous!’ I text her. ‘I’m so happy for you!’

  With my second martini the distinction between fantasy and reality blurs further. I am no longer just a girl with an uncertain future, visiting this city for a few days – this is my world. It’s luxurious and cosy and steeped in history. When I’m done the barman directs me to the terrace restaurant to take a look at the collection of Fifties ski posters and a photograph of Grace Kelly when she was guest of honour at the Carnival in 1969. Her ballgown is a frillier, flouncier version of the gold extravaganza she wore in To Catch A Thief and, as I ascend the (highly curvaceous) marble staircase, I imagine myself to be skimming the steps with shimmering fabric.

  Pausing halfway I wonder if I might do a little twirl while no one is looking, and that’s when a man in a long camel coat and dandy moustache comes clattering down the stairs like something from an old movie himself.

  That aftershave … I inhale as he passes.

  He’s already on the last step when I hear him say, ‘Not going to set the dogs on me this time?’

  I spin around. The sly tone of voice is unmistakable, but everything else is unrecognisable – the cut and tint of his hair, the addition of a moustache, his now dark brown eyes.

  ‘H-how do you do that?’ I step towards him.

  ‘You think your Wolfman is the only person who can have different-coloured irises?’

  ‘But your chin, the dimple is gone … ’

  ‘It was never there in the first place.’ He grins. ‘I shaded it in – people focus on a detail, so that day they remember me as the light-haired man with the cleft chin. Today I am the dark-haired man with the moustache! I can go wherever I please.’

  ‘But why reveal yourself to me?’ I falter. Especially after the last scenario, I think to myself, with more than a twinge of guilt.

  ‘By the time you report me I’ll change again. I am not a man of limited resource.’

  I find myself reaching for the handrail to steady myself. This is all a bit much.

  And then I look back at him. ‘That day at the ferry, where did you go?’

  ‘Into the water.’

  Before I can say, ‘I knew it! I knew I saw a flipper!’

  He says, ‘No. I’m joking. I have a place down there at the port. I just went home.’

  I can’t help but snort. ‘You really are audacious!’

  He shrugs. ‘So where to now?’

  My stomach growls in response.

  ‘Dinner.’ He nods with a smile. ‘Where?’

  ‘Well,’ I begin, already forgetting that I should be calling the police. ‘I wanted to check out the Voodoo Grill—’

  ‘Oh to be young and fashionable.’

  ‘I think my readers would like it.’

  ‘Ah yes, your Va-Va-Vacationers.’

  Of course he knows already. Probably Googled me when he worked out my name from the hotel registration.

  ‘It’s a good choice, the food is surprisingly high quality for a place that plays music so loud. And there’s an Anglophile waitress with a regal demeanour that will take special care of you once she hears your accent.’

  He really does know this city inside out.

  ‘Where I really want to go is Aux Anciens Canadiens,’ I venture. ‘But I suppose you’ll say it’s really touristy … ’

  ‘Do tourists go there?: yes. But I hear the Quebec meat pie is unmatched.’ And then he gives me a sideways look. ‘Of course, I’d recommend Restaurant L’Initiale, but now you can’t get a table for all the policeman eating the stuffed quail.’

  I don’t mean to laugh out loud but I do. He does have a certain charm.

  Then, in a surprisingly humanising move, his stomach growls.

  We look at each other.

  And before I know it, I hear myself inviting the closest thing Quebec has to an outlaw to join me for dinner …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Aux Anciens Canadiens wins on proximity, just a scurry and a sneeze from the château.

  There’s a storybook quality to the dinky whitewashed stone building with its pointy scarlet roof. And I consider it rather daring that they have both an ice sculpture and a firepit, one either side of the front door.

  Inside has a country feel, with blue check tablecloths and waitresses in peasant outfits with black bodices and white puff
sleeves.

  We’re barely situated in our wooden booth and our order is in.

  ‘She will have the pea soup grand-mère, Quebec meat pie and, for dessert, the maple syrup pie. And I will have the onion soup au gratin, the Lac Saint-Jean pie with wild meats and the fudge dessert.’

  I’m about to protest at the presumption of his ordering for me when he says, ‘That way we get to try all the classic dishes on the menu.’ Which actually seems like a really good plan.

  ‘So.’ He leans across the table to me. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Go ahead what?’

  ‘I know there’s a question you are burning to ask.’

  ‘One question?’ I scoff.

  ‘Well, which of the many is most pressing?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I muse. ‘I’m torn between asking you why you do what you do and what you look like when you’re being yourself.’

  He shrugs. ‘Not so very different – it’s not like I’m wearing a prosthetic nose or anything.’

  ‘So you say … ’ I narrow my eyes at him.

  He laughs. ‘Of course the moustache is stick-on.’ His hand goes to his upper lip. ‘Do you want me to peel it off?’

  ‘Only if you think it’s going to end up floating in your soup.’

  He laughs again.

  ‘Tell me.’ I’m leaning in now. ‘What did you look like when you were a little boy?’

  He thinks for a minute and then says, ‘Basically a little surfer dude in a Harry Potter blazer.’

  ‘You were blond?’

  ‘White blond,’ he confirms. ‘And I never wanted it cut.’

  ‘Posh school?’

  ‘The poshest.’

  ‘Rich parents?’

  ‘The richest.’

  I study him for a moment. ‘And you’ve been acting up since you were a child?’

  ‘I suppose you could call it that. I just didn’t like to be cooped up in the classroom, going over and over the same stuff – I got it the first time! I wanted to be outside. Pretty much doing anything I could to piss my father off.’

  ‘And why would you want to do that?’

  There’s a flare of annoyance in his eyes now. ‘If you met him, you’d know.’

  ‘I’m sure your therapist has told you that you were just trying to get his attention.’

  ‘What makes you think I’ve got a therapist?’

  ‘Well,’ I take a sip of the wine he has selected. ‘You seem to like mystery and intrigue and I would imagine you are your own biggest puzzle.’

  ‘Merci,’ he says as the soup is set before us. ‘Eat it while it’s hot.’ In other words, I’m not responding to that.

  Both the pea and the onion soup have that lovely homemade quality that makes it feel like a tonic. Though apparently for me it is acting as a truth serum.

  ‘You know if you’re still waiting for your dad’s approval, I think you’re wasting your time.’

  The soup catches in the back of his throat.

  I quickly hand him his glass of water. ‘I don’t mean to sound harsh but I’ve seen it before on these rehab shows, rich kids of all ages turning to drugs because their dad was too busy making millions to take the time to validate them. If it hasn’t happened yet, it’s never going to happen.’

  ‘Why would you say that?’ He looks genuinely shocked.

  ‘Aside from the fact that my tongue has been loosened by alcohol?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, firstly I don’t want to see you self-destruct.’

  ‘And why would you care if I did?’

  ‘It’s my weakness,’ I reply. ‘I’m just made that way.’

  ‘And secondly?’

  ‘Because if you can accept that it’s never going to happen, that he’s never going to tell you what you want to hear, it will set you free. Why waste your life wanting something you can’t have?’ I mop up the last of my pea soup with a ragged corner of bread. ‘Besides, there’s someone whose opinion is way more important.’

  ‘Please don’t say God.’

  ‘Yours. It matters the most what you think of yourself.’

  ‘And what do you think of yourself?’ He turns the tables on me.

  I think for a moment and then say, ‘Let me put it this way. My mother thinks I’m a gadabout. That I’m on a fruitless quest. That wherever you go, there you are – so what’s the point in leaving the house? She thinks I’ve got nothing to show for my travels. Nothing external or material anyway. Meanwhile, I think I’m an adventurer. I believe travel broadens the mind. It inspires me and makes me fall in love with the world all over again. So who is right?’

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you that she’s got you all wrong?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter because that’s not the point – my lesson is to let go of wanting her approval and her lesson is to accept my choices.’

  He blinks back at me.

  ‘And yes, I’ve watched a lot of Oprah Winfrey.’

  ‘Is it partly true though,’ he ventures, ‘that you travel to escape?’

  ‘I travel to discover,’ I tell him. ‘And to stop me becoming jaded or stuck in a rut.’

  ‘And bored?’ he asks. ‘That’s my major affliction.’

  ‘Have you been to India?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Africa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think you must be doing it wrong,’ I decide.

  Finally a smile from him. ‘I’ve bungee-d and abseiled and free-dived on virtually every continent but I’ve been doing the adrenalin junkie thing so long it’s getting harder and harder for me to get a high.’

  ‘Have you tried drugs?’

  ‘Is that your suggestion?’ he splutters.

  ‘Noooo!’ I exclaim, horrified. ‘I just thought you might have a predisposition for them.’

  ‘I do. Which is why I don’t take them.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. Oooh red cabbage! I love red cabbage!’

  ‘It doesn’t take much to make you happy, does it?’

  My first forkful of pie makes me a whole lot happier. You can keep your fancily presented fare drizzled with this and wafted with that: give me flavour! And melt-in-your-mouth flaky pastry.

  ‘It’s actually kind of like a Cornish pasty, only more refined. Have you ever had one of those?’

  He nods. ‘I spent a week surfing in Newquay.’

  ‘What did you think of England?’

  ‘You guys are funny.’ He gets a gleam in his eye. ‘And not as polite as people say.’

  ‘Oh, our days of being the epitome of good manners are long gone.’ I tut. ‘I think that’s one of the reasons I like it here so much. It feels so much more genteel.’

  ‘What a sensitive soul you are,’ he teases. ‘It’s too genteel for me. I need more passion.’

  ‘And challenge?’ I say, as an idea starts to form. ‘Have you ever been fully absorbed in a project?’

  ‘Well,’ he pauses. ‘If you can call my current activities a project, I do get a kick out of planning the details and logistics. Taste this … ’

  He pushes his plate towards me.

  ‘But how long does that last?’ I persist. ‘A few months?’

  ‘More like weeks. I work fast. ADD fast.’

  ‘You know there’s a medication for that?’

  ‘Yes, but I keep thinking there must be something out there that could captivate me … ’

  I sit forward, my heart palpitating with excitement. ‘I think I might have that something. Real life-or-death stuff.’

  He looks curious but not convinced. ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘I don’t want to say.’

  ‘Why not?’ He looks bewildered.

  ‘Because I think it’s perfect and you’ll only pick holes in it.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘Because I can’t explain it properly right now. I don’t have all the facts and figures in my head. You’d have to read about it for yourself. There’s a website … ’ I take out a pen and ca
refully write out the address for him.

  He reaches to take the scrap of paper from me but I hold back.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Not yet?’

  ‘I’ll give it to you when we part. So you can contemplate it when you are by yourself, no distractions.’

  His eyes narrow at me. ‘Are you going to try this pie?’

  I smile and take a forkful. ‘Mmm, that’s good too,’ I enthuse. ‘Just don’t tell me what the wild meats are.’

  Another glass of wine and the talk turns to romance. It seems apparent that the only woman who could truly hold his attention is Angelina Jolie. And she’s already taken. Although, I have to say, I think the exotic creatures speaking in tongues at the Cirque du Soleil training facility could give him a run for his money. But I don’t mention them at this juncture because they are all part of my masterplan.

  Meanwhile he neatly pegs me as a woman who goes for ‘fixer-upper’ men. I am slightly on edge, wondering if he’s going to reference Jacques again after his earlier ‘your Wolfman’ comment. But he leaves well alone. And it actually occurs to me that Jacques is not so much of a troubled soul as someone who is suffering circumstantial pain. Which is different. He’s obviously quite together in every other way. And he’s found his passion, unlike the man sitting before me, constantly questing for a new high.

  We find one rather sooner than we might think – albeit of the sugar variety – with the arrival of dessert …

  After the first bite of maple syrup pie I am loathe to trade with his fudge pie, although they are actually quite similar – like treacle tart or pecan pie without the pecans.

  If I had a dollop of Devon clotted cream on top I could die happy. And I say as much.

  ‘Nothing left to do?’ He asks me. ‘Before you ingest that fatal blob of cream?’

  I titter. ‘Of course. I still have dreams.’

  ‘Such as … ’

  I think of the one nearest to my heart – the fantasy of husky-sledding, maple-syrup tapping, summer picnics and autumn travels with Jacques.

  ‘That seems like a good one,’ he comments. ‘Judging by the look on your face.’

  I heave a wistful sigh. ‘I’m trying to stop wishing for things that I can’t have because then it’s a wasted wish.’

  ‘All right, then tell me what you think might be possible.’