WINTER WONDERLAND (20 page)

‘Ohhh. So it’s not true that people have heard wolves howling at your farm?’

He smiles. ‘Huskies howl like wolves. They’re known for it. It’s an easy mistake to make. But nothing I care to correct!’ He leans in. ‘I kind of like having that reputation. Nobody gives me any trouble.’

‘I bet!’

And then we lean back as two piping hot bone-china plates are placed before us – mine with the fresh catch of the day, his with a hazelnut-crusted pork medallion.

‘The cutlery here is so nice!’ I admire the weight and design of the silver as I take it in my hands. ‘There’s this café that my friend Laurie and I go to almost every lunchtime and they have the cheapest knives and forks with edges that dig in your hands and leave marks, so we’ve actually started bringing a set from home!’

‘That’s quite a testament to their cooking.’

‘It’s the chips,’ I tell him. ‘They do the best chips!’

‘Have you tried ours yet? The poutine?’

‘Poutine?’ I frown.

‘It is chips that are golden brown—’

‘And a little bit soft?’ I ask hopefully.’

‘Yes, the ideal chips, with gravy … ’

‘Okay.’

‘And then topped with cheese curds.’

I know I’m not pulling a pretty face now.

‘Honestly, it is so good. Will you promise to try it?’

‘I did have fries with mayonnaise once in Amsterdam.’

‘Is that a yes?’

I hesitate. I don’t want to make any false promises to Jacques, but cheese curds? Still, I trust him. ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

‘They actually have some of the best in Montreal, at La Banquise, if you have time … ’

I take out my notebook and scribble down the name.

‘They have about twenty varieties. Including Poutine Kamikaze if you’re feeling daring.’

‘I don’t have a death wish.’ Oh god! There I go again. ‘Any other recommendations?’

‘Toi, Moi et Café. That’s my favourite.’

‘You and me?’ I translate and then feel my cheeks pinken. I think it’s my favourite thing too.

‘See if Sebastien can take you there for breakfast.’

We talk a little more about food – him saying how he likes to cook for people, me saying how I like people who cook – and then comes a mini-dessert, or ‘sweet taste’, as they call it.

‘I think this is genius,’ I say as I contemplate my one perfect profiterole. ‘You don’t even have to ponder whether or not you’ll order pudding, it just arrives like a gift with your coffee. It’s so civilised!’

‘I like your definition of civilised!’

‘Well, I’ve never been one for deprivation when it comes to food.’

‘You should try the dog-sledding diet,’ he grins as he takes a sip of coffee. ‘All the girls who come to us arrive so health-conscious, and then they see how many calories get burned with the feeding and the cleaning and the tours and they realise they can eat all the pastries and cakes and second helpings the guys do and they don’t put on a pound!’

‘Sounds like heaven!’ I sigh.

‘Have you ever been married?’

For a second I’m thrown. I didn’t see that question coming.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jacques apologises. ‘I don’t mean to pry.’

‘No, no. Um.’ I try to collect myself. ‘The answer is yes. I was. But I’m not any more.’ I squirm a little. ‘This is actually quite new for me – it was just official six months ago, so I haven’t quite got my story down pat.’

‘That’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked … ’

‘It’s fine, really. What about you?’

‘Yes,’ he confirms.

‘Past tense?’

‘Past tense for nearly three years now.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s never pleasant, is it? Divorce. Was it one big thing or lots of little things?’

‘One big thing.’

‘Me too,’ I tell him.

I’m glad we don’t go any deeper at this point. I don’t want to spoil our lunch. Besides, with so many emotional landmines to negotiate, is it really such a mystery why marriages end? To me the miracle is that any survive.

And then I tilt my head. ‘I thought I read that people in Quebec didn’t really get married?’

‘It’s true. But it runs in our family. My dad has been married twice and now he’s looking for wife number three!’

I give a little chuckle. ‘That’s some kind of optimist. And Sebastien?’

‘There’s a girl in Montreal, Julie. They split up when he moved back here, but they should be together.’

‘I’ll add that to my To-Do list for the trip.’

He smiles back at me. ‘Wouldn’t it be great if life was that simple?’

And then my phone bleeps. ‘Sorry!’ I cringe, feeling terribly uncouth, as though I’ve ruined a scene in
Downton Abbey
with my new-fangled technology. ‘I meant to turn it off.’

‘Go ahead and check it, it could be important.’

It’s a text. From Annique.

I look up at Jacques. ‘She has one more activity for me back at the Carnival.’

He sighs. ‘I need to get back too – check in with Sebastien and Niko.’

Neither of us moves.

And then I find my hand reaching for his across the table. ‘Thank you for bringing me here, Jacques. It was such an elegant experience.’

‘My pleasure,’ he replies, giving me a little head bow.

It’s therefore all the more of a contrast when we return to the Carnival and Annique insists I join a game of human table football, or fusball as the Americans call it.

‘So, just to be clear, because I haven’t been traumatised enough today, you want to strap me to a horizontal pole that slides from side to side and have a ball ricocheting around me.’

‘Well, hopefully you will get to kick the ball.’

‘Yes, I’m sure I’ll get a goal.’

‘It’s just so much fun,’ Annique rallies. ‘I know you’ll love it.’

‘You’re not doing it?’

‘I played the last two games and now they say I have to let someone else have a go.’

‘Really?’ I check with Gilles.

‘She’s extremely competitive.’

‘All right,’ I sigh. ‘But only because I owe you.’

I enter the green boxed-in area, put on an outsize red shirt (to show which unfortunate team has me on their side) and then get buckled and clicked into position on a yellow pole.

‘Secure?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, finding myself all too restricted.

A whistle blows, the ball is in play, cheers and jeers resonate as the two teams flounder and duck and reach and scramble. One young boy loses his footing altogether and finds himself hanging horizontally from his pole like something out of Mission Impossible. Twice I make contact with the ball – just not with an appropriate body part.

Suddenly the ball is at my feet, out of my opponent’s reach. This is my chance. I go to give it a hefty kick but my foot slides over it without making contact, at least until the way back when I send it neatly in the opposite direction and score an own goal.

‘Bravo!’ A voice cheers louder than the rest. A voice I know …

There he is! Bold as brass, leaning over the barrier at the far end. His sandy hair may be hidden beneath a hat but I’d recognise that chin anywhere …

I twist around, looking for Jacques – is he still within view? Annique is busy talking to Patrick and then I think of Gilles, with his camera …

Just as I turn his way the ball hits me in the face. I’m stunned for a moment and then recover.

‘Gilles!’ I call out to him.

‘It’s okay, I got it – great shot!’

‘No! I need you to photograph …’ I go to point out Quebec’s Most Wanted but of course he’s already on the move. I grapple with my buckle but the more I struggle and wriggle, the more trapped I become.

‘Need some help with that?’ It’s him again. Level with me now, taunting me.

It’s then I realise I’ve been calling the wrong name. ‘Niko!’ I cry. ‘Niko, Niko, here boy!’ And then I give the whistle I learned when I got my first dog.

He holds my gaze for a second. ‘I didn’t think you’d do that.’ And then he’s off.

Shortly followed by Niko and Jacques – they’re onto him!

The police are hot on
their
heels, all very Keystone Kops, skidding hither and thither, then myself (having been freed by Annique) and Gilles.

There’s no doubt I am slowing up proceedings, so Annique hails a taxi and we follow the trail all the way down to the ferry port.

‘That’s twice he’s been traced to here,’ I note.

‘We’re going to go across,’ Jacques informs me as we join him on the side of the road. ‘Do you want to join us?’

‘Can we all come?’

Jacques looks to the police chief for approval.

Obviously no man is going to turn down Annique, and Gilles has a potentially useful zoom lens, so the answer is yes.

It doesn’t occur to me until the ferry disconnects from the shore and we start moving into the frozen waters that we could be placing ourselves in peril …

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘You know, it’s not just the French-Canadian people who are nice,’ I tell Laurie. ‘They even have nice toilets on their ferries.’

‘I do worry about you sometimes.’

‘What?’

‘Aren’t you supposed to be chasing a criminal?’

‘Well, criminal is a little harsh. I’d say he’s more of a public nuisance.’

‘So why the sniffer dog and police posse?’ she challenges.

‘Well, I don’t suppose they have much else on.’

‘On account of everyone being too
nice
to break the law?’

‘Pretty much.’

Laurie groans and then asks me if I’ll be including the Quebec–Lévis ferry ride in the guide.

‘As a matter of fact, yes – you get a great new perspective of the city and it’s only four pounds for a round trip!’

‘Sort of like Quebec’s answer to the Staten Island Ferry!’

‘Exactly!’ I laugh. ‘You don’t necessarily want to get off at the destination, but it sure does make for a marvellous ride!’

Typically when New York is mentioned, Laurie starts billing and cooing and recalls some other highlight from her most recent trip, but this time she simply says, ‘Okay, well thanks for the update—’

‘Wait!’ I halt her, suddenly concerned that something is off. ‘Any news your end?’

‘Not yet.’

‘
Not yet?
’

‘I’ll let you know as soon as I know … ’

I feel a stab of nerves. ‘It’s nothing bad is it?’

‘No, no! Not at all.’ She insists. ‘Quite the opposite in fact.’

My eyes narrow. ‘You want to give me a clue?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Hmmm. All right. Well, you behave yourself.’

‘And you try to
mis
behave with the right person.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I frown.

‘I mean try to stay attracted to the nice guy and not the naughty one.’

I almost take offence for a second. But then I decide to take heed. Laurie is usually pretty savvy about my weaknesses. But if she could see Jacques now, I think, as I head back in his direction, if she could feel what I feel when I look at him, she wouldn’t even entertain such a thought.

There is nothing new to report as I rejoin the group. Niko has already had a good head-down, nose-foraging sniff of the ferry, and only supplied one false alarm with a man luring him with his packet of crisps.

The police, however, have their own bait. Me. They want me to stand on the outer deck of the ferry and lean nonchalantly over the barrier.

‘So he can have the opportunity to approach you.’

‘And tip me over the side?’ I suggest.

‘You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,’ Jacques intervenes.

‘No, I will. I’ll be fine. Where do you want me to stand?’

‘Over this way,’ the policeman directs me to the closest door.

Here I go!

I gasp as the wind whips my breath from me. And then I take a tentative peek over the edge...

The water surrounding the ferry looks more like a raggedy half-melted ice rink than a river, giving me a whole new perspective on the sinking of the
Titanic
. Just the thought of taking a dip right now all but stops my heart. I wonder how Jacques survived his fall in the lake? He must have got out pretty quick. Perhaps he climbed aboard an iceberg? These ones don’t look substantial enough – more like jagged white lilypads or panes of broken glass, jostling and grinding against each other. It’s almost as if they are part of a self-shifting puzzle, with certain pieces forcing and dominating themselves over their flimsier counterparts. Sometimes they just graze them, other times they ruck them up and churn the ice like a blended margarita.

Still no one approaches me. My only human interaction is with a woman stepping out to photograph the Quebec skyline – layer upon layer of artfully arranged buildings, the Château Frontenac raised highest on the Cap Diamant bluff, its pointy turrets now in silhouette.

‘Jesus!’ she flinches as the wind roughs her up, sending her scuttling back inside.

A minute or two more passes and then it would seem the police have given up because the others come out to join me.

‘Come on! Give us the Rose pose!’ Gilles cries, lifting his lens.

‘It’s way too cold to stand with my arms out!’ I protest, hugging myself for warmth. ‘And don’t even think about asking me to climb on the railings. How about a nice shot of me by the vending machine?’

Nobody objects to heading back inside. I get a bumper selection of chocolate bars and hand them out to the police – that’s what I remember most from the London riots in 2011: those nice people who made cups of tea for the police. Made me feel proud to be British.