WINTER WONDERLAND (19 page)

Would he really have the nerve to show up at such a public event, knowing that everyone is looking for him?

‘Patrick! Bonjour!’ She kisses a handsome stubbly face that is a precision cross between Russell Crowe and Marti Pellow from Wet, Wet, Wet. Now that’s a name I haven’t said in a while.

‘Patrick is the PR manager for the Carnival. He is the one who arranged all our passes and our registration for this event.’

‘And a photo opportunity with Bonhomme!’ he grins, bidding me follow him.

‘Where’s Gilles?’ I ask Annique.

‘Waiting for us … ’

Indeed, he has everything prepared; all I have to do is drop my coat and step into the scene he has arranged beside Bonhomme’s Ice Palace. Just drop the coat. Unpop the poppers, unzip the zip and let go.

‘I can’t do it!’ I bleat to Annique.

‘Yes you can!’ She insists.

‘Go on, for me!’ Bonhomme encourages.

I look back at him. He’s certainly very similar to Malhomme, but probably a foot taller and his head has a different texture, akin to a million little polystyrene bubbles. I certainly don’t want to be seen to be wasting his precious time, so I scrunch up my eyes, drop my protective layer and step into the frame.

‘Our outfits match!’ Bonhomme cheers, flipping his sash.

I decide to give him a little test. ‘You do wear that quite high, don’t you?’

‘Perfect position, no?’

‘Yes,’ I smile. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘Okay!’ Gilles calls over. ‘Let’s get a hug!’

‘Ooomf!’ I gasp, as Bonhomme nearly squeezes all the cellulite out of me. ‘You’re really strong!’

‘Thank you!’

‘Got it!’ Gilles calls.

‘Can we do a quick one with Annique?’

‘Is that okay?’ She checks with Patrick.

He nods his approval and then metaphorical socks begin to blow off in every possible direction.

‘Y-you look amazing!’ Gilles’ hands are actually shaking.

Seconds later, the mad dash of the Snow Bath is underway and Annique begins the Winter Carnival version of Bo Derek’s run down the beach in the movie
10
. If she’s not in slow motion now she will be later as hundreds of spectators zoom their mini-movie in on her frolicking form.

Not having had that liqueur she promised, and not fully grasping why this is considered ‘fun’, I stand awkwardly on the sidelines as the clinically insane people throw snow in the air like it’s dollar bills and generally do everything in their power to get hypothermia.

I hate to be a party pooper but my skin is already zinging scarlet and my teeth are chattering like castanets. I did it and I’m done. But when I backtrack to grab my coat I find it gone.

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

I spin around. Gilles is nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t be carrying all our stuff and taking pictures, so he must have stashed it somewhere.

‘Holy mother of … ’ I gasp as the wind slashes at my skin. This is too much. I’ve got to get out of the cold. I start hurtling towards the nearest firepit when I feel myself yanked back.

‘What the … ? I look behind me and find a German shepherd chomped on to the end of my sash, paws dug deep in snow, pulling backwards. ‘Oh no, no, no!’ I plead, as I feel my lower layers unravelling. ‘Stop! Let go!’ I try to pull back but his grip only tightens, this time with a low growl. ‘Nice doggie, let go of the sash … ’

‘Niko!
Lâche-toi
Release!’

It’s Jacques! My saviour!
Again!

‘You’re frozen!’ he tuts. ‘Where’s your coat? Where are your friends?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t know.’

‘Well let’s call them!’

‘My phone is in my coat, I don’t know the number … ’

‘Niko stop it!’ He reprimands the dog as he stands to full height and puts his paws on my shoulder, seemingly wanting to take a chunk out of my head.

And then it dawns on me. ‘I think it might be this … ’ I can’t believe I’m actually going to take off another item of clothing, but I pull off my red toque and hand it to Niko – immediately he’s snuffling all over it.

Jacques looks confused by my hurried explanation but then quickly snaps into action. ‘Here, take my coat,’ he says, wrapping it around me (which feels good on so many levels). ‘I want you to go and warm up in the bistro here and I’ll be back in just a minute. Don’t go anywhere.’

For a makeshift food concession this is very nice – modern white chairs set around black-clothed tables, cool lighting and, over at the back, a raised area with lime-coloured sofas and an armchair that is just about to become free …

The only snag is that the line for paninis and hot coffee is an unwieldy snake. Not that I have any money on me anyway. Still, Jacques will be back any minute.

‘Beaver tail?’

‘Excuse me?’

I turn and find the waitress offering me a flattened pastry coated in maple butter icing.

‘I wish!’ I sigh longingly. ‘I didn’t order it.’

‘The gentleman asked me to send it over.’

‘What gentleman?’ I ask.

She looks back towards the counter. ‘Oh. He was just there … ’

‘Did he have … ’ My finger rises to my chin.

She nods. ‘And blond hair.’

‘Oh my god,’ I gulp, getting to my feet and looking wildly around the room. Why is he doing this? I’m getting really freaked out now. Do I dare even eat this?

I roll my eyes. Why is that even a concern to me? I’ve got far bigger things to worry about than what to do with a complimentary pastry. Like finding my clothes and figuring out why Malhomme is singling me out.

It really does smell good though – all warm and sweetly fragrant with crispy deep-fried edges.

Just one tiny bite then …

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘What is it with you two?’ Jacques asks when he returns with my coat and bag and I bring him up to speed on my encounters with Malhomme – the snowball fight at Place Royale, the Staring Man at Auberge Saint-Antoine, the toque waiting at my new hotel and now this beaver tail. In and of itself, nothing to arrest a man over, but I do seem to be a magnet for his mischief.

‘By the way, where’s Niko?’ I look around us.

‘Sebastien has him,’ Jacques explains. ‘I thought it would be a good idea to get some hot food in your system.’

I look back at the lunch queue.

‘Do you have a picture ID with you?’ he asks.

‘Um … ’

‘Driving licence, passport … ’

‘Just how far are we going?’

He smiles enigmatically. ‘Do you?’

I check in my bag. ‘I do.’

‘Okay, come with me.’

I flinch a little as we step back into the cold.

‘Don’t worry, five more minutes and all this will be forgotten.’

As we head for the nearest exit, we pass Gilles and Annique sheltering around the back of the hot tubs, apparently opting to skip lunch in favour of devouring each other.

‘Oh!’ Jacques stumbles in shock. ‘I didn’t see that coming.’

‘Really?’ I frown. ‘Can you honestly picture a more perfect physical match?’

‘It’s just … I thought he was into you.’

‘What?’ I hoot. ‘No.’

‘That’s odd, I’m usually right about this stuff.’

‘Well … ’

For a second I consider mentioning our initial frisson at the Hôtel de Glace, but why on earth would I tell him that?

‘Well?’ He looks expectantly at me.

‘Well this time you were wrong!’

Initially I think we’re cutting across the Parliament building grounds to go back to the Hilton, but then Jacques diverts up to the front door.

I hang back. ‘Do you have a quick ballot to vote on?’

He laughs. ‘Come on.’

‘We’re going inside?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought we were going for lunch.’

‘We are. Everywhere else will be too busy.’

I’m still waiting for his choice to make sense.

‘Are you a part-time politician or something?’ Perhaps this is what he does in the autumn?

‘Quebec is a democracy, and one of the ways the government likes to demonstrate that is to make their restaurant available to the public.’

‘So you can dine next to the Minister of Health?’

‘Yes,’ he shrugs. ‘Why not?’

There’s just the small matter of getting through security, which is on a par with the airport.

‘Madame, we need you to take off your coat.’

Jacques hangs his head. ‘I forgot, you haven’t had the chance to change yet.’

The only toilets available at the Carnival were Portaloos and it simply wasn’t possible to dress without trouser legs collecting slushy detritus and scarves falling into the chemical abyss.

‘What shall I do?’ I fret.

Jacques does his best to explain in French but they are insistent.

‘And the food here is really good?’ I check.

He nods.

‘Okay! Here we go!’ I pull off my Puffa and stuff it onto the conveyor belt along with my bag.

‘What are they saying?’ I blush as I wait the eternity for it to appear on the other side.

‘Just how patriotic you are.’

I give a little snort. ‘And how diplomatic you are.’

‘Here.’ He places the coat around me and guides me to the Ladies.

Even when I do get my clothes on, I wonder if I am appropriately dressed for such grand surroundings.

It’s all ornately tiled floors, everlasting staircases and jewel-bright stained-glass windows featuring coats of arms with sinewy lions and ermin-trimmed crowns.

And to think that I was angling for a panini on a paper plate.

I notice now that Jacques is wearing a nice blue check shirt under his round neck sweater. He looks almost bookish, which is all the more appealing knowing the rugged man that lies beneath.

Together we ascend the glossy wooden staircase to Le Parlementaire restaurant. The dining room, inspired by the Parisian beaux-arts period, looks more like a ballroom to me – soaring pale blue ceilings, imposing columns of cream and gold, rich blue draperies and glittering chandeliers. I feel as though I should have my hair piled high and embedded with jewels. Reassuringly the maître d’ doesn’t bat an eyelid at our rather more casual attire. Instead he shows us to a lovely table by the window, impeccably set with navy and ivory china accented with gold fleur-de-lys. I take a seat on the striped velvet chair and then just
marvel
.

I wish I could count this as a date because it would make a great ‘first lunch together’ story. It’s not every menu that opens with a welcome note from the President of the National Assembly.

We order the three-course table d’hôte for just £12 – this is so going on my list of Uniquely Quebec experiences.

The soup, together with a gourmet version of a cheese straw, arrives swiftly, and from my first slurp of puréed country vegetables I can feel my insides thawing out.

‘So, were you always an outdoorsy kind of person?’ I ask Jacques between spoonfuls, keen to find out more about the kind of man who chooses to work al fresco in the deep midwinter.

He nods as he adds a little pepper. ‘My father was very athletic, got us into all kinds of sports, and my mother loved to be in nature whenever she could.’

‘And the dogs?’

‘That started pretty young,’ he smiles and then leans forward. ‘We had this neighbour who was not kind to his dog.’

‘Oh no.’

‘He was always on a chain, always barking. Everyone was afraid of him, said he was old and mean, just like his owner. But I knew he just wanted to be free. And maybe eat something better than scraps from the garbage can. So. When the summer holidays came I would sneak over after the guy left for work and I’d take off his collar and use some garden rope as a leash and I would walk him. Every day.’

‘You weren’t afraid?’

‘I knew he wasn’t a bad dog. I’d be crazy too if you chained me up twenty-four hours a day. I was a little kid and he was gentle with me. He wasn’t as strong as he looked anyway – he didn’t have any muscle tone because he wasn’t getting any exercise. But that started to change. We’d walk and walk, then if it was too hot we’d hang out in the garage and I would do my reading and he would sleep with his chin on my foot … ’

‘That’s so lovely!’ I pang.

‘And then one day I went over there and I guess the owner was home from work and I didn’t realise … ’

‘Yikes!’ I flinch. ‘What did he say?’

‘He told me that if I took the dog one more time, all the barking and the complaints and the vet bills and the cost of food would be my problem.’

My eyebrows rise. ‘Really?’

‘Best punishment I ever had!’ he grins.

‘And your parents were okay with you taking him in?’

He nods. ‘Barney was part of the family by then.’

‘Barney?’ I smile.

‘We renamed him. The owner had called him Cujo.’

‘God, what’s wrong with people?’ I despair.

‘I know,’ he shakes his head. ‘I only had him a few years, he
was
old, but he was the sweetest company.’

‘And how great that the last years of his life were the best – it’s not often that way round.’

Jacques nods and then looks wistful.

I tense slightly, aware that we have paused on the subject of death. He must have lost so many dogs over the years, as well, of course, as Rémy.

‘And then the sledding aspect?’ I try to move the conversation on.

Jacques’ gaze returns to me. ‘My dad took me on my sixth birthday. I told him that day, “This is going to be my job when I’m a grown-up. This is what I want to do.”’

‘And you did!’

‘Was it the same way for you and your writing?’ he asks.

I think for a moment. ‘I can’t really remember a time when I wasn’t writing. It was just the thing I did that felt most like me.’

‘So no confusion over what to do with your life?’

‘No.’

‘You must be a natural.’

‘I don’t know about that – I’ve never found it easy. But I think that’s just the way of it. And there are great perks – like now, doing the research, that’s the best!’ And then my eyes narrow. ‘Which brings me to a question … ’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you really the Wolfman? Have you tamed wolves?’

He laughs. ‘No. I’ve certainly had dogs that resembled wolves, and who’s to say there wasn’t a little mix along the line, but typically wolves attack dogs.’