WINTER WONDERLAND

by Belinda Jones

  ‘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 – excha
nging 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.

  ‘I can’t do this.’

  Is that an ‘I have a girlfriend’ can’t do this?

  I open my mouth to request clarification but nothing comes out. I just watch dumbly as the tripod is retracted, the bedding squished back into its casing, the camera tucked back down his trousers.

  ‘I will see you in the morning. In Quebec.’

  ‘Okay.’ I murmur as I watch him leave.

  And then I am alone again.

  The hush returns. And the stillness. But I can still feel his imprint on my body, still taste his kiss. And now when I breathe out I can no longer see my breath – because he has warmed the air in here. And me.

  ‘Oh my!’ I fall back onto the bed in a swoon, remembering too late that the headboard is made of ice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Throughout the night I kept catching myself thinking, ‘Is there a draught in here?’ It’s only now that I realise that my room is right by the exit. Or ‘Sortie’, as they say here. And by exit I don’t mean one of those doors with a metal bar you have to lean on to open. I mean a great gaping archway leading directly onto the snowstorm outside. And all that’s separating me from the scything winds is my door drape. Which is flapping like a flag.

  ‘Jeez Louise!’ I shudder, reaching down into my sleeping bag to check that I can still feel my body. I laugh now at the notion that I would be too hot in my clothes. I long for my fleece now, but it would mean extending an arm from my cocoon and I just can’t face it. I have to try and go back to sleep – to will myself to fall unconscious so I can make it to daylight.

  But then a new thought arises. I deny it as long as I can but the message is gaining urgency: I need a wee!

  No, no, you don’t. You just think you do.

  No, I really, really do.

  You do realise what this would entail?

  Yes.

  And you still want to go?

  More than ever.

  Who knew that the need to pee overrides all else?

  Wish I’d studied the Go Girl! website a little closer now.

  I look at my watch. 4.43 a.m. Well, I suppose it could be worse. With the jet lag this was somewhat inevitable. Of course breakfast isn’t for another hour and forty-seven minutes. It’s then I remember the mini-pouch of peanuts I stuffed in my bag from the plane. Currently in the locker in the main building, along with my suitcase. So now I have two good reasons to brave the cold. And it’s not as though it’s really going to get any warmer when the sun comes up.

  ‘Right! Here we go. I can do this!’

  I sit up and try to claw my way out of the sleeping bag, forgetting in my frenzy that the top toggle is tied too tight to release me. Nooo! I don’t want to get trapped half in, half out!

  ‘She was frozen from the waist up but her legs were still kicking!’ Then I remember the side zip and gasp as the chill rushes over me.

  ‘Wow.’ It’s actually worse than I remembered. Three times I accidentally rest my ankle on the edge of the bed only to recall that it is made of ice.

  I reach for the black waterproof storage bag and pull on my (cold) sweater and my (cold) coat and my (cold) socks and boots. And then I do a vigorous jig as if I might be able to energise some heat molecules.

  So this is it. I pause for a moment’s appreciation of my room – which come the spring simply won’t exist – and then pull back the curtain and step into the corridor. All is silent.

  I retrace my steps to the front entrance and find myself gaping at the black snow-flurried sky. Yesterday was a whisk of confetti compared to this onslaught but I can’t deny the beauty of the scene – not so much a blanket of snow covering the earth as an overstuffed duvet. I almost don’t want to disrupt the crystalline surface with my nubbed boot sole and, when I do take a step, the white engulfs me up to my thigh.

  ‘Woah!’

  I look around me. Not a soul. But the Celsius Pavilion and its hallowed bathroom facilities lure me on …

  ‘Oop!’

  That would be a step there. Not that you can tell: the snow is so deep there’s absolutely no indication of what lies beneath. I look back at my footprints/leg indents – already the wind is covering my trail. I give a little shudder and tromp boldly onwards, puffing with eagerness as I reach the toilet.

  There were times when my dog could just pee and pee and pee. Now I can relate.

  Oohh. I feel better for that.

  No sooner am I tucked in, strapped across, buttoned and zipped up than I realise I want to go again.

  ‘I can’t believe you did it!’ Laurie cheers when I call to tell her that I survived the night.

  ‘Well, half-did it.’

  ‘Listen, anything beyond an hour is a triumph in my book. I don’t like lingering too long in the frozen food aisle at Tesco.’

  ‘So you don’t think it would be a total cop-out if I left now and got a few hours’ kip at the backup hotel?’

  ‘Backup hotel?’ she queries.

  ‘It’s on the itinerary. Very considerate, actually. For those of us who aren’t interested in first-hand knowledge of cryogenics.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s going to be an improvement?’

  ‘It’s a Hilton.’

  ‘Hilton? Didn’t they get our memo about favouring non-chain hotels?’

  ‘Apparently this one has something in particular to commend it. Right now, that would be heating … Oh!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought I might have dreamt this but … ’ I pull a feather out from my collar. ‘Last night a stunningly handsome man with a French accent came to my room.’

  ‘I thought they might provide a hot-water bottle but that’s even better! What did he want?’

  ‘Well, for a few minutes he wanted me.’

  And then I tell her the whole story. From initial sniping to pillow fighting to apple-flavour kisses.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘I know.’ I sigh. ‘I just wish I was never going to see him again!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Oh you know how quickly last night’s bliss becomes morning-after mortification.’

  ‘A story as old as time,’ Laurie concurs.

  ‘I’ve got to spend a whole week working alongside him and I can’t bear it if he’s all awkward and regretful.’

  ‘I can see how it would have been preferable to have had a week-long flirtation culminating in a night of passion before the flight home,’ she concedes. ‘Not that I’m complaining, because the fact that you’ve kissed someone other than your ex-husband is a major breakthrough.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘But I thought we decided you were going to hook up with a Canadian Mountie or one of those bendy people from Cirque du Soleil?’

  ‘Well, it turns out that Mounties are a rare breed in Quebec and Cirque du Soleil HQ is in Montreal, which is about three hours west of here.’

  ‘Hmm, might be worth a trip for a side story – most of our readers would be flying into there initially and we could offer a two-centre holiday.’

  ‘Oh I do like a two-centre!’

  ‘Like Manhattan and the Hamptons!’ Laurie coos. ‘One fine day … ’

  Laurie is convinced that her future husband is waiting for her in the Hamptons. All she needs is an invitation to one of those summer mansion shares and everything will fall into place … I’m actually working on a lead for that at
the moment but I haven’t mentioned it because I don’t want to get her too excited in case it comes to nothing. Speaking of which …

  ‘What do you make of Gilles’ parting words: “I can’t do this!”’

  ‘Hard to say,’ she replies. ‘I suppose the obvious interpretation is that there is another woman. Or maybe he’s physically incapable of following through … ’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I think this is basically one of those “prepare for the worst, expect the best” scenarios.’

  ‘And how does that translate in practical terms?’

  ‘You’re going to have to set aside any romantic notions until you are clear on his situation. The last thing you want to do is turn up with an expression that says, “What was that last night and where do we go from here?”’

  ‘Even though those would be two perfectly natural queries.’

  ‘You need to detach from the outcome,’ she affirms. ‘At least for this first meeting. Go neutral. No wariness, no neediness, not even a trace of curiosity.’

  ‘What does that leave me with?’

  ‘Hopefully your dignity.’

  I’m not convinced.

  ‘Anyway, you’ll know within the first few seconds how it’s going to go – either his eyes will light up at the sight of you or he’ll get all awkward and avoid your gaze.’

  ‘I suspect the latter.’

  ‘Either way, you mustn’t be awkward.’

  ‘So basically, act like it never happened?’

  ‘Well, there are basically three ways to go with this.’ She proposes. ‘One, you could be defiantly upbeat. Nothing to be embarrassed about! You have this effect on men all the time.’

  I splutter so hard I look as if I’m giving myself the Heimlich manoeuvre. ‘Number two?’

  ‘You have a secret knowingness to you.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I cringe. ‘Whenever I try to look enigmatic I just end up looking confused. Number three?’

  ‘There’s this word … ’ She’s silent for a moment, trying to recall it. ‘I know! Beatific!’ She cheers. ‘You want to look beatific!’

  ‘Remind me … ’

  ‘Serene and sort of “above” whatever he throws at you. So if he’s all fretful and squirmy you just rise above it all and give him the royal pardon.’