WINTER WONDERLAND (4 page)

‘For polar bears?’

‘Oh we had everything here – kangaroos, rhinoceros, flamingos … ’

‘What, was this some kind of ski lodge retreat for them?’

He laughs. ‘You know it gets up to the nineties in the summer here?’

‘That doesn’t even seem possible right now.’

‘That building you were just in?’

I nod.

‘That used to be the ape enclosure.’

I have a little chuckle.

‘Obviously they cleaned it up.’

‘Oh yes, it was immaculate.’

He tells me that when the zoo closed, the animals were rehoused and the Hôtel de Glace took over the site. That was six years ago and he’s worked here every season since.

This is unfathomable to me – to choose to be cold every day for three months of the year? He doesn’t even have the heat on in his truck.

‘Oh this isn’t cold.’

I raise an eyebrow.

‘I was in the Canadian armed forces before this, spent six months at the North Pole and that was minus forty degrees and dark twenty-four hours a day.’

Well that certainly puts things in perspective.

‘But why did they need soldiers at the North Pole?’

‘It was a weather station.’

‘They don’t have machines that can track that kind of thing?’

‘They do now,’ he confirms. ‘Back then there were two hundred of us on that base.’

‘God, I can’t even imagine.’

‘Oh it was quite something – we used to have ropes strung between the buildings—’

‘To feel your way along in the dark?’

‘So the winds wouldn’t take you. If it was a Condition Two we weren’t allowed outside at all.’

‘You mean you could literally get blown away into the snowy wasteland, never to be seen again?’ I gasp.

‘Oh yes, there was nothing out there, no Eskimos, not a single caribou, just snow… ’

‘Well now I feel like a big wuss.’

He smiles. ‘You know the best thing about it?’

‘There was something good?’

‘The bread.’

‘The bread?’ I repeat.

‘All our food would get dropped in by cargo plane and there wasn’t room for the hundreds of loaves we needed so they would deliver flour and the cook would make it fresh – oh it was sooo good.’

I blink at him in amazement. Thirty or forty years on it still gives him pleasure to remember that bread! I want to hug him!

‘Your taxi is here.’

We’ve pulled around to the front now, to where my adventure began last night. I feel almost reluctant to leave now; he’s made me want to brave it a little longer. What’s so great about heat and carpeting anyway? But in I bundle.

The taxi is stiflingly warm and I soon find myself drifting in and out of sleep. There’s little to see but white anyway. At one point I notice buildings made of stone and a run of shops denoting civilisation. But it seems a little drab after the neon Jello-shot lighting of the Hôtel de Glace. I close my eyes once more and when I open them again I am at the Hilton, propelling myself through a revolving door into a vast, modern lobby – all geometric lines and low, squared-off seating.

‘You come from the Hôtel de Glace?’ the redhead on Reception asks me.

‘Is it that obvious?’ I ask, wondering if we all get a similarly tweaked look.

She points to the big laminated tag on my coat.

‘Oh, that!’

‘Did you sleep?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Well you will here … ’

And with that she gives me the key to a room with a pillow-topped kingsize bed and a heating dial that I rack past 30°C so I can quietly oven-bake myself until morning.

‘Oh my god, I’m so hot!’ I awake in a suffocating sweat and can’t get out of my synthetic swaddlings quickly enough.

As I stand there naked, glistening and panting, my phone bleeps a text.

‘
Meet me on the 23rd floor at 9 am and don’t look out the window!
’

Oh my gosh! He’s here! In the building! I quickly cover myself up, as if he can somehow see me.

And then I look at the bedside clock. One hour. One hour to shower, put on my make-up and find a facial expression that convincingly conveys complete ease with myself and the outcome of our upcoming encounter.

Where’s a Botox needle when you need one?

CHAPTER THREE

As our initial meeting is within the confines of the hotel, I can get away with skinny jeans and my favourite fuzzy peach sweater – the one with the outsized, off-the-shoulder collar. We’ve had such a mild winter back home it’s actually quite fun to get into chunky knits.

When my hair goes right, all sleep deprivation is zapped in favour of anticipation. I know I told Laurie that I’d rather not see him again, but that was primarily because he seemed to have got such an intense bout of kisser’s remorse. Of course I still don’t know which way this is going to go, but his text had a certain playfulness to it that makes me optimistic. With every ding of the lift my excitement heightens …

Twenty-three! This is me.

I emerge and look around. Which way now?

‘Krista?’

I look up and see a woman in winter-white ski pants. White! Her sand-gold coat is trimmed with real fur, her hair shimmering honey blonde, framing her delicately bronzed, pout-perfect face. She introduces herself as my tour guide, Annique. I can feel my sweater pilling and sagging just looking at her. She is exactly the kind of woman Gilles would like to photograph.

‘You got my message!’

‘I-I did.’ I gulp back the disappointment. It was from
her
. ‘Is it just us?’

‘For now. Gilles wanted to get some photographs of the Carnival attractions before it open but he will join us shortly.’

‘Okay … ’

‘I thought you might like a little breakfast first,
non?
’

‘Oh yes, thank you.’

‘We can visit the executive lounge … ’ She slides her card at the door and invites me to enter ahead of her.

Though I expected to only have eyes for the croissants, I am immediately dazzled by the panorama that greets me: a broad icy river expanding out to sea, distant snowy cliffs, an ancient city wall laying a protective arm around a dainty Old Town dominated by a copper-topped castle, all turrets and towers and make-a-wish spires …

Looking down all I can see are the footprint traces of the residents, but something tells me they wear bells on their curly-toed shoes, velvet monogrammed tunics and billowing satin capes as they scurry along cobbled streets, sprinkling icing sugar on every available surface.

‘Wow,’ I breathe.

Yesterday I was the Ice Princess, today I am the Snow Queen, surveying my fairytale kingdom from atop a glass tower.

Annique smiles proudly. ‘Welcome to Quebec!’

‘Now I know why you chose this hotel’ I laugh. ‘What a vantage point!’

It certainly sets me straight on why I am here. Never mind any personal shenanigans, this is a dream destination for Va-Va-Vacation! Who wouldn’t be enchanted? Already I want everyone to come here, for everyone to feel the wonder I am feeling right now.

‘Why don’t we take a table by the window and I can point out to you the highlights?’

I am grateful for her direction.

‘Over to our left we have the port.’ She points to where even the sturdiest of cargo ships appear to be held in an ice-vice – locked into the frozen waters of ‘the famous Saint Lawrence River.’

I find myself squinting, trying to discern where the snowy banks end and the icy water begins, though a distant bridge is a clue.

Over yonder a factory puffs smoke as if pumping out fluffy white clouds to decorate the silky blue sky. Winter can be as monochrome as newsprint but here there is a warmth to the vista – the Christmas-card-perfect rows of terraced houses bring rusty red, butterscotch, sage green and duck-egg blue to the scene.

In front of them, what would be a football pitch back in England is home to a game of ice hockey. Little padded figures gliding hither and thither – such graceful motions for such a manly sport. I can almost hear the swish-swishing as they score the ice with their blades, the clash of their wooden sticks. Any minute now a triple salchow …

‘Is that a real castle?’ I point towards the focal point of the city.

‘That is Château Frontenac. One of the most photographed buildings in the world. Now a Fairmont hotel. We shall dine there later in the week.’

‘What’s going on with the roof?’ It seems to be curiously bi-coloured.

‘They are replacing the old copper with new.’

‘Oh but I love that powdery green!’

‘Well, have a good look now - it takes about a hundred years to oxidise!’

Before I can get too upset, Annique directs my attention to a yet more prestigious building … An elegant quadrant with a tall clock tower sporting an iron crown at its peak and, atop that, the flag of Quebec – clear blue with a white cross and four white fleur-de-lys.

‘That is our Parliament.’

‘Gosh.’ I gasp. ‘And the Carnival grounds are right beside that?’

She nods. ‘The Carnival is good for the city. For tourism but also for morale. Something to look forward to after Christmas. You can’t be pinning all your hopes on summer coming here – it’s too long of a wait!’ She laughs.

‘I think that’s such a good idea,’ I tell her. ‘It’s what we all want – something to look forward to.’

‘Well, you can complain about the cold weather and hide inside or you can get out and enjoy all the advantages of it – the skiing, snow-shoeing, tobogganing … Oh!’ She reaches into her bag. ‘I must give you this.’

She hands me a tiny snowman figurine or ‘effigy’, designed to dangle from your coat zipper.

‘You need to wear this all the time, so you can come and go as you please at the Carnival.’

I study him closer – he has a floppy red hat, a jazzy waist sash, a big smile and
legs …

‘Well, he has to be able to ice-skate and dance … ’ Annique reasons.

‘But of course.’

‘This is Bonhomme,’ she explains. ‘He is the ambassador of the Quebec Winter Carnival. You will meet the real version later – he is seven foot tall!’

When she tells me he’s been representing the Carnival for fifty-seven years, I ask how they always manage to find a man that tall to wear the suit.

She looks scandalised. ‘This is not a man in a costume. Bonhomme is Bonhomme.’

I look around to see if any executive children are eavesdropping – is that why she’s being so protective? But no, she is sincere – Bonhomme is Bonhomme. And woe betide anyone who tells you different.

‘Is it okay if I take some pictures?’ I go from window-panel to window-panel, trying to capture every detail from the old-fashioned globe streetlamps to the festive clusters of fir trees until, finally, my gaze comes to rest on Annique.

She really is very nice. And stylish.

‘I like your earrings!’ I say, noticing the dainty charms hanging from her fine gold hoops.

‘
Merci!
’

‘And your boots.’

And your metabolism, I think to myself as I take in both her naturally slim physique and the pile of pastries she has amassed.

‘We will walk a lot today.’ She smiles. ‘We need fuel!’

I’m halfway to the breakfast bar when I turn back. ‘Mind if I take a snap of your outfit to show my friend?’

She obliges by getting to her feet and striking a Giselle-esque pose.

‘Thank you!' I say, sending it directly to Laurie with the caption: ‘This is what I’m up against.’

And then I stuff a whole croissant in my mouth, cross my eyes and send that self-portrait with the title, ‘Who would you choose?’

Naturally this is precisely when Gilles walks in. I dart behind the glass shelving to give myself a chance to dislodge the croissant and have a discreet coughing fit as the pastry flakes catch in my throat.

All I can see of him is a partial side view. But I have a clear line on Annique. As I busy myself with the coffee machine, I watch her fluff her hair and then rise up to meet him, kissing him on both cheeks. He says something and she reaches up to give him an all too lingering caress of his face.

The coffee cup in my hand starts rattling on its saucer.

They’re together. She is the reason that he said, ‘I can’t do this.’