WINTER WONDERLAND by Belinda Jones Page A

at least I was really here.
    A few minutes later I arrive at Auberge Saint-Antoine.
    I’ll say one thing – fake Bonhomme gives excellent directions.

    ‘Here she is!’ Annique jumps to her feet to greet me. ‘Let me show you where you can hang your coat.’
    The hotel is incredibly chic. I do like how the rich do cosy: starting with a refined colour palette – what I would describe as cranberry, crème anglaise, and soft taupe – and then adding an eccentric detail or two, in this case moose silhouette cushions and a heavy iron chain in lieu of coals in the fireplace. The bar itself has a mix of high-backed leather banquettes, clear Perspex chairs and cushiony window seats. But what secures a prime place on the website is the fact that the area is book-ended by two inviting insets with their own fireplace, shelves of books and board games and a snug sofa, just like your own bijou apartment – order a bottle of wine and a cheeseboard, drag across the velvet drape and you’re set for the night.
    Annique explains that we are in fact ordering off the bar menu as a few friends will be joining us later. The more relaxed setting suits me fine, and the more people that aren’t Gilles, the better.
    ‘Annique?’ I halt her before she heads back down the stairs.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Is Bonhomme in trouble with the law?’
    ‘Of course not!’ she tinkles. ‘He’s the most honourable, wholesome, delightful—’
    ‘Yes, yes, I know, he’s a national treasure.’
    ‘Why do you ask?’
    I take a breath. ‘I just saw the police chasing him.’
    ‘Oh!’ She looks stricken. ‘So it’s true.’
    ‘What is?’
    ‘I heard a rumour that there is an impostor on the loose.
    ‘No!’
    She lowers her voice. ‘They call him Malhomme.’
    ‘Mal as in bad?’ I seek clarification. ‘Like Bonhomme’s bad-guy alter ego?’
    ‘Yes.’ She clicks her tongue. ‘This is not a good situation.’
    ‘What do you know about it?’
    ‘Just that he is singling out the tourists – of course the locals know him too well to be fooled.’
    ‘So, for example, someone gawping at the church in Place Royale … ’
    ‘You didn’t speak to him?’ she gasps.
    ‘I did.’
    ‘What did he say?’
    ‘Well, he was kind of … flirty .’
    ‘This must not happen.’ She looks genuinely upset. ‘Bonhomme’s reputation is sacred.’
    ‘You know I once saw a guy in a Mickey Mouse costume taking a cigarette break… ’
    She gives me a dark look.
    ‘Of course this is much worse.’
    Annique begins chewing at her perfect French-Canadian manicure.
    ‘I didn’t mean to be such a downer,’ I apologise.
    ‘No, no. But I think we must report this incident.’
    ‘Well, I’ve already told the police everything.’
    ‘Everything? Every word. This is very important.’
    I look over at Gilles sitting awkwardly with Brandon.
    ‘You know you’re quite right. There is more to tell. Let’s do it right now.’
    I’m not sure if the fact that the impostor is a fan of the stuffed quail at Restaurant L’Initiale will crack the case, but you never know.
    I’m still really none the wiser about what this so-called Malhomme is up to. The police don’t want salacious stories getting out so they prefer not to give any further details. Fair enough. All we really know is that he is not behaving in a way that is ambassador-appropriate.
    ‘Ooh Brandon, what are you drinking?’ I ask as we return to the bar, admiring his pink cocktail served in a slender antler-motif flute.
    ‘French-Canadian Kiss,’ he beams. ‘Want one?’
    ‘No thanks,’ I reply, adding for Gilles’ ears only. ‘I find it leaves a nasty aftertaste.’
    I study the menu and then order a Jalapeño Margarita, just to show how tough I am.
    ‘We’ve ordered a selection of appetisers.’ Annique invites me to dip in. ‘And there’s a fondue on the way.’
    ‘Yummy! Thank you.’ I turn back to Brandon. ‘So how did the rest of the competition go?’
    ‘Well, I didn’t win but I