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 carefully 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.’
‘Well … ’ I tap my nails on my coffee cup. ‘I’d like to see the aurora borealis. And be part of a dog-sled race. And eat a whole maple syrup pie.’
‘One of those I can make come true right now.’
He summons the waitress but then surprises me by requesting the bill.
‘So I take it we’re not going with the maple syrup pie option?’ My heart slumps a little.
‘Come on,’ he says, throwing down a flutter of notes as he gets to his feet.
‘Th-thank you for dinner!’ I stammer after him. It really was perfect. ‘Where are we going exactly?’
‘Give me five minutes and all will be revealed.’
‘All?’ I repeat, slightly concerned.
But this time he doesn’t reply.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
No sooner are we out on the street, he turns to the left and strides confidently down the hill. Meanwhile I am still inching along, making sure I have something to grab at should I skid on the ice.
‘You’re like a little old lady,’ he laughs as he turns to check on me.
‘Oh don’t!’ I call back. ‘The other day I had an OAP help me across the street!’
‘I think we need to set up a zipline between the buildings so you can get around a bit faster.’
‘Sounds more like your style.’
He smiles as he returns to my side. ‘You know, a guy actually walked on a tightrope between the top floor of Château Frontenac and the Price Building over here …’ He points to a stunning Metropolis-style skyscraper with a Kryptonite green glow at its peak.
‘You’re kidding!’ I gawp up at where he would have tiptoed across.
‘Took him fifteen minutes. No safety net.’
‘It wasn’t you, was it?’
‘No!’ he chuckles. ‘It was a Frenchman, on official business – part of the four hundredth anniversary celebrations for the city.’
‘Ohh.’
‘But I think I might have a quicker way to transport you.’
Before I can speculate on what that might be, he bends down, throws me over his shoulder and jogs down the street with me squealing all the way.
We’re practically back at my hotel when he sets me down.
‘Oh my god!’ I grip at my heart. ‘That was crazy!’
I’m still experiencing the sensation of being jiggled upside down and grabbing at the cashmere of his coat when he takes my hand and leads me away from my auberge, towards the art deco doors of the Hotel Clarendon.
At which point I dig in my heels.
‘What are we doing here?’
‘They have a room with a particular view … ’
I know I probably should walk away but curiosity gets the better of me, and we are so close to my auberge I feel as if I have my own safety net of sorts.
‘Coming in?’
‘Yes,’ I reply. With only the faintest echo of Laurie’s caution to misbehave with the right person …
The lobby is creaky with historic charm – vintage luggage trunks, potted palms, even one of those wrought-iron reception cages. I half expect Hercule Poirot to be studying us from behind a newspaper.
‘
Bonsoir
,’ he greets the receptionist. ‘Do you have room 409 available?’
She checks and tells him yes.
He takes out a bundle of notes. ‘How much?’
‘How many nights?’
‘Just one.’
‘Er,’ I tug at his sleeve.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll only be there an hour.’
‘Oh great!’ I roll my eyes – way to make me feel like a prostitute.
‘Do you need any help with the baggage?’ the receptionist asks.
‘No I can manage her.’ He winks at me.
I go to reprimand him but realise I don’t even know his name – not that he’d even tell me his real one. Besides, he’s already at the lift.
Again I hesitate.
‘Trust me,’ he says, holding the door for me.
‘Well that’s just the problem,’ I sigh. ‘I don’t.’