WINTER WONDERLAND (2 page)

In the meantime she has something better than a mere man – she has Manhattan.

New York City, that is her true passion. And because it’s such a popular destination for our readers she does bimonthly updates, using up all her holidays to visit and keep current with club, restaurant and shopping trends. I’m telling you, she could give the concierge at The Gramercy Park Hotel a run for his money.

She also has a particular knack for finding great subjects for our ‘Man of the World’ slot, which is basically some local hottie quizzed about the highlights of his native city. Laurie adds a different Big Apple Boy on every trip. She says that’s all she needs right now – a five-minute street flirtation to put a spring in her step and keep her in the game.

But for me, she wants more.

‘We can’t let another year go by in which Andrew is the last person you kissed. This has to change. And I think Canada is just the place.’

‘You do?’

‘Well, they are so famously
nice
, aren’t they? I think it’s time you kissed a nice man, Krista.’

It would certainly be a novelty.

Let’s just say this isn’t the coldest bed I’ve ever lain in. Even before Andrew left there was a palpable chill between us. He used to lie so far over on his side you’d think the phrase ‘If you’re not living on the edge you’re taking up too much room’ was his new motto. I would lie there on my back, letting the tears slide down the side of my face and seep into the pillow, wondering how it came to be that my life hurt so much.

The worst of it was remembering how it used to be. In the beginning he was so warm and yielding, wrapping himself around me, holding me so tight, telling me I had given his life purpose. I was precious to him then. His ‘only love’. Now he was switched off, shut down and armour-plated.

In some ways I don’t blame him for leaving. Technically it was my fault, if beyond my control. There’s only one other person who knows the real reason, and that’s Laurie. Mostly because I’m still trying to come to terms with it myself. But also because it turns out to be quite the taboo – if you say it out loud in conversation the other person immediately feels wrong-footed and awkward. I guess that’s why they invented the phrase ‘irreconcilable differences’. What a neat little blanket statement that is.

Blankets! I remember blankets! I start to fidget. At least my feet are toasty – the £28 I blew on mohair socks turns out to be the best money I ever spent. If I could just pull one of them up and over my entire body, I’d be fine.

What is bothering me the most right now is my nose. It’s as if all the cold in all of Quebec is concentrated in that small pink triangle. I keep pinching at it, afraid I’m getting frostbite.

Okay. It’s time to sleep. Just relax. Hands back down by my sides. Surrender to it…

And then something changes. I feel a warm breath pass over my face. A distinct aroma of men’s cologne – classic, expensive, with a top note of bergamot. I open my eyes to find a stunning man – seemingly direct from the catwalk of Christian Dior’s Winter Collection – looming over me.

I’d say I freeze but that’s a given.

‘Allow me.’ He eases back the hood of my sleeping bag and then begins to gently fan my hair onto the pillow.

Is this room service? Because right now I’d rather have the chocolate on the pillow and the little card with tomorrow’s weather report.

He’s speaking to me in French which, though profoundly alluring, means I should probably get a translation before Heat-Generating Male Escort shows up on my hotel bill. Especially since he is now reaching under his coat, foraging at groin level.

‘
Excusez -moi
,’ I jump in.

‘
Oui?
’ He raises a brow.

‘Who
are
you?’

‘Gilles.’ He says with a sense of ‘But of course you know me – everyone knows Gilles.’

‘Gilles … ?’

‘Gilles Pelois.’

Helpful.

He gives me a slightly impatient, ‘So now can we get down to it?’ look and reaches down his waistband. I try to tear my eyes away but I can’t. I’m mildly disappointed to see him pull out a camera.

‘You’re the photographer?’

‘
Evidemment!
’

‘I wasn’t expecting you until the morning.’

‘You didn’t get my message?’

‘You keep your camera down your trousers?’ I counter.

‘To keep it warm, so the lens doesn’t fog up.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘And no, I didn’t get any messages. Possibly because I didn’t charge my phone …’

I hook it up from the base of my sleeping bag and he takes it directly from my hands, pulls off the sleek battery life-extender from his phone and slots mine in. It dings to life.

‘Now you can check.’

‘It’s okay,’ I squirm. ‘I believe you.’ (I know we really wanted this shot – it’s the thing everyone wants to know, ‘
How the hell can you sleep in a hotel made of ice?
’
)
‘I just wish you could’ve knocked first.’

‘On what?’

He has a point. He also has his camera pointed at me.

‘At least give me a moment to fix my make-up!’ I fluster.

‘No-no-no!’ He halts me. ‘Please. Stay as you are.’

‘Really?’

‘Trust me. I have a special filter.’

‘You mean the lens cap?’

‘
Les dames
,’ he shakes his head. Which I suppose is the equivalent of a Brit huffing, ‘Women!’

‘What do you want me to do?’ I ask, though my options are limited, straight-jacketed as I am into the sleeping bag.

‘Can you bring your arms out for a minute? And turn over onto your stomach. Let your hair fall forward.’

He arranges it so my front layers are partly covering my right eye.

‘Now, just look up at me, no need to smile. Just look as if you are awakening from a dream … ’

‘You know this is for a travel website, right?’

‘Yes but we can still make a little er … ’ He searches for the right word.

‘Yes?’

‘Art!’

‘Oh.’

He begins snapping, but when he asks me to blow a goodnight kiss at the camera I return to my senses. ‘I think I should probably be sitting up with a mug of cocoa.’

‘And a woolly hat on your head?’ he scoffs.

‘Yes!’ I roll over and reach into the black storage bag. ‘See I have one here with a big pompom!’

His face falls. ‘You don’t want to look beautiful?’

‘Well, it’s not really the goal.’

‘It’s not?’ He looks shocked.

‘No. It is more of a light-hearted thing.’

‘But it is a kind of advertisement, yes?’

‘I suppose so, but not like one with a model.
Obviously.
This is about real people. You know, friendly! Having fun.’

He is silent for a moment, as if mentally letting go of any notion of placing individual crystals on each of my eyelashes.

‘I am used to photographing fashion models.’

‘Well then,’ I grimace, ‘it’s going to be a helluva week for you.’

‘Pardon?’

I turn onto my side. ‘Reportage? Do you know that term?’

‘It is a French word.’

‘Oh. Well. That’s good.’

‘You want me to tell the story of your visit with pictures.’

‘Yes, more documentary, less fashion.’

‘I need a drink.’

He reaches behind him, burrows in one of the many bags he has brought with him and pulls out an entire bottle of Domaine Pinnacle ice cider.

‘I still have my glass from the bar!’ I cheer, reaching for it, but it has already frozen to the table. ‘Oh!’

‘Don’t worry.’ He sits close beside me. ‘We can share.’

‘After you,’ I say, wanting to make sure he’s in on this too.

‘
Salut!
’

Wow. That was a big glug.

‘It won’t affect your work?’ I ask, a little concerned when I see that it is 12 per cent proof.

‘I’ll set the camera to auto-focus.’

Suddenly I feel like laughing – this is so surreal. Getting tipsy with a stranger in what is basically a designer igloo.

‘Are you willing to experiment a little?’ he asks.

‘What exactly do you have in mind?’ I reply with caution, wondering if my last mega-slug was a good idea.

‘We don’t have to use these shots for the website, but I had a few ideas before I knew … ’

‘Before you knew what?’

‘You know, the style you were looking for.’

‘Right … ’

He goes over to the most voluminous of his bags and pulls out a huge white duvet and a selection of puffy pillows.

‘You brought your own bedding?’ I splutter.

‘I thought it would look like you are sleeping beneath a layer of snow.’

‘Is this silk?’

He nods. ‘They told me cotton is a bad word here.’

I can’t help but chuckle.

‘We could use this to contrast the fantasy of sleeping in an ice hotel versus the reality.’

Not an entirely bad idea – more Ice Princess, less orange Popsicle.

‘Travel is a fantasy anyway, isn’t it?’ he says as he dresses the bed. ‘An escape from reality. Or at the very least a new reality.’

‘Yes it is,’ I sigh, surprised to find myself on the same wavelength.

May I remind you that he speaks with a French accent?

It must be the combination of jet lag, ice cider and Gilles’ decidedly unchilly bedside manner because, right now, as I pose for him, I feel like a young Brigitte Bardot, all tousle-haired and winsome. I even have the little gap between my teeth. Which I always hated until I saw the episode of
America’s Next Top Model
in which Tyra got one of the beauties to exaggerate her gap, courtesy of a dentist’s buzz saw.

Just thinking about it makes me shudder.

‘You are cold?’

No sooner has he spoken than his hands are upon my shoulders, deftly snuggling the sleeping bag back up around my jaw.

‘May I generate some friction?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’

He pulls my silkworm form against his chest, places his arms around me and rubs vigorously. It is helping, even if it leaves me at a disadvantage – if he chose to kiss me now I wouldn’t be able to stop him. But would I even want to? I twist my head so I can take a closer look at him.

‘I like your nose.’ It’s sleekly elegant with the cutest little dip at the tip.

He gives me a quizzical look.

‘At least I would be admiring it if I were photographing you. But I’m not. It’s the other way around.’

I let my head drop down, both to break eye contact and to hide my blush, but now I’m inadvertently nuzzling his neck.

That’s when I notice the pace of the rubbing slowing and the intensity lightening until he is just holding me and smoothing my back.

Despite all the layers between us, this feels incredibly intimate. It’s been a while.

But then he sits back and tilts his head in contemplation. I should feel self-conscious, like he can see every flaw, but instead he’s looking at me in
that
way – as if he can only see beauty. How do men do that?

‘Ready for some more pictures?’

I nod but really I’m not. I have something else in mind. I reach behind my head, kneading the pillow between my fingers.

‘Goose down?’

He nods in confirmation.

‘Pillow fight?’

His brow furrows, seemingly unsure of my meaning.

But before I can explain, he has grabbed the nearest pillow, swiping at me with one hand, clicking the camera with the other.

‘You little tyke!’ I exclaim.

Eager to retaliate, I grab my own marshmallowy weapon and start thrashing and lunging, giving him such a clip around the head that I send his fleece hat flying, revealing some seriously mussed-up two-tone hair. He looks as if this could be a problem.

‘Wait!’ He holds up his hand.

I watch him set up his tripod, switch the camera to automatic and then launch into me again. This time I react with high-pitched squealing and find myself up on my feet, sleeping bag now dropped around my ankles as I get thwacked on the calves, knees and, ultimately, bottom. He’s laughing now – possibly at the sight of me in my thermals, but also like someone remembering how much he used to enjoy playing. Before he realised how handsome and cool he was.

We biff and thud and muffle and swing at each other until the air fills with white. Just like snow.

‘
C’est magnifique!
’ he gasps, snatching at the feathers.

And then he stops and adds a few to my hair, removes the one caught at the side of my mouth and then brushes its silky tip along my bottom lip.

I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the rise and fall of my chest. And our inhale and exhale – exchanging apple-flavoured breath for breath … I can’t tell if he is assessing me for decorative purposes, framing his next shot, or if he is really moving closer. It’s all I can do to stop myself reaching for him. But then his lips are upon mine and the room starts to spin, pirouetting around my head as I succumb to his kisses. Our every move punctuated by the pssht-click of the camera.

‘We have to stop!’ he pulls away suddenly.

‘We do?’ I pant. ‘Of course we do. Terribly unprofessional. If that’s what you mean?’

I can’t read his expression. Especially not now that he has turned away from me and is scrabbling to pack up his kit.