Chapter 4
In the lobby, Emi is on the phone and just hanging up when she sees us, her expression much lighter.
“Antoine says hi,” she beams, “and he also said thank you for your service, and to please bail me out if anything goes very wrong.”
“I certainly hope it won’t get to that,” Nicolas says, frowning.
“You should have seen us in the first trimester,” she scoffs, patting her belly. “Your mother wasn’t even allowed to set foot in Quebec.”
“How’s Antoine?” I ask, curious about Nicolas’s twin brother.
“He’s alright, for someone stuck working the E.R. on Christmas Eve,” she shrugs. “He’s probably going to have the usual stream of drunk uncles, toys stuck somewhere they shouldn’t be, and kitchen accidents galore… He kind of loves it, though. I’ve never seen a man who thrives so much in chaos.”
“Well, lucky for you, he was thriving when you got into that ski accident,” I wink.
“I know,” she grins. “He still jokes to everyone that his wife was his hottest patient ever. My friends are never letting me forget that I nabbed a doctor while half-high on morphine. They still call him ‘the sexy intern.’”
I laugh as we make our way to the restaurant, each holding one of Nicolas’s arms. Before the restaurant itself is the bar, a large, round room with four bartenders tending to customers seated around.
Everyone in this part of the hotel is wearing a fancy outfit and sipping champagne or equally fancy-looking cocktails, which makes me feel a bit self-conscious for exactly two seconds before I decide to put the thought aside and focus on smiling.
We quickly spot Solange at the bar, busy chatting a couple’s ears off in French.
“Don’t forget,” Emi whispers. “You bail me first.”
I bite my lower lip as we walk over. I swear I’d done my best, but despite my perfect streak on Duolingo, my French is just good enough to ask where the bathroom is or order a croissant. I cannot keep up with the Quebec accent in a rapid-fire conversation.
“Maman, we’re here,” Nicolas announces.
Solange spins on her stool to face us before glancing at her watch with a frown.
“Finally,” she says. “Our reservation time was nine minutes ago!”
“Great,” Emi gives her a dry smile. “Not late enough for anyone to have poached our table, then.”
Solange gives her an annoyed expression, but turns back to the couple to bid them a “bon sejour” with her most polite smile before stepping down the barstool, her purse clutched under her elbow.
She gives Nicolas and me a stern look, her eyes wandering over our outfits.
I steel myself for some remark, but to my confusion, she speaks in French.
“Vous venez au restaurant habillés comme ca? Pour le réveillon?”
“Yes,” Nicolas immediately replies, calmly. “Comme ca.”
I feel the criticism, but I decide to act oblivious and glance at Emi instead, who gives me a shrug. I can never tell if she never learned French or if she did but acts like she didn’t to spite Solange, because I feel like she understands what is said just fine when she wants to…
“We should get going,” Nicolas simply states, pulling us toward the restaurant.
And I forget all about the glacial exchange, because again, it’s even more stunning than in the pictures.
The large bay windows give us a magical view of the snow-covered plateau around the castle, with a few people still strolling past. The restaurant itself is very fancy, too, with floor-to-ceiling wood paneling, large glass (crystal?) chandeliers all over, a large black fireplace that warms the whole room, shiny wooden floors, and a wine display that takes up the entire wall.
The furniture is all fancy: wine-colored velvet chairs, thick marble tables, and golden cutlery.
The only extra hint that it’s Christmas is the large mantel, decorated with pretty ornaments, golden ribbons, shiny white snowflakes, and thick green pine branches.
It’s definitely giving a very grand Christmas, all in its winter majesty!
“This is beautiful!” I can’t help but whisper as we take our seats.
“You like it?” Nicolas asks me with a smile.
“How could I not?!” I grin. “This is gorgeous.”
“Of course it is,” Solange scoffs, visibly still upset at our tardiness. “This restaurant is one of the best-rated and most exclusive in the city! I had to book weeks in advance to get us this table. And they have one of the best collections of wine too.”
“Yay for me,” Emi sighs, her eyes on the drink menu. “I wonder if I can have a virgin chardonnay.”
Solange gives her a glare, which Emi pretends not to see. Thankfully, our waiter comes immediately to take our orders.
“We will have the champagne, of course,” Solange declares. “Bring the bottle, three glasses, and sparkling water for the pregnant lady.”
“Ah, actually, no champagne glass for me, sorry,” I tell our waiter. “I won’t be having champagne.”
“What?” Solange’s eyes dart to me, and open wide. “Why not?”
“Oh, I just can’t drink alcohol—”
Solange suddenly slaps a hand to her chest before I can finish my sentence, and lets out a dramatic gasp.
“Oh my God, Ophelia, are you pregnant as well?!”
Oh. My. God.
I can’t believe she just said that.
I can’t believe she just said that so loudly in the restaurant!!
Oh my God! Now, absolutely everyone is looking at us, I’m mortified! God, there’s even a lady who is smiling from two tables away! I want to crawl under the snow and hide!
“Maman,” Nicolas scoffs indignantly, bringing me back to this oh-so-embarrassing ordeal.
“I-I’m not pregnant!” I blurt out. “I’m not! I’m just not much of a drinker, that’s all. …I-I’ll be happy with whatever Emi is having…”
“Really?” Solange frowns, disappointment written all over her features.
Did she just eye my stomach? Oh my God, is it because I’m wearing an oversized jumper? Do I look big? Or pregnant? This is ridiculous, I’m so embarrassed I could die!
“Ophelia isn’t much of a drinker, Maman,” Nicolas explains. “Let’s just have the smaller bottle of champagne.”
He puts a hand on my thigh under the table, trying to soothe me. Oh, I’m never going to recover from the embarrassment, I swear…
“Well, the pregnant lady and the not-pregnant one will be having your cranberry Christmas mocktail, then,” Emi grins at the waiter. “Thanks.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Bless him, our waiter quickly writes our orders with a nod, appearing entirely unfazed, and disappears as fast as he can.
Solange is frowning at me like she’s still suspicious or something.
I can’t believe she shouted about me being pregnant in the restaurant!
I want to disappear, but the Christmas buffet menu isn’t large enough to hide me and my shame… She lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I just think it’s a bit of a loss not to have proper champagne for Christmas Eve,” she says, putting her napkin on her lap.
“Lucky me,” Emi grumbles.
“I-I’m sure their mocktail will be delicious,” I force a smile.
She and I exchange a look, and she faintly shakes her head.
Because it’s Christmas Eve, they have a buffet set instead of a menu, so for a while, it’s a ball of people gingerly approaching with empty plates and returning to their seats with a bit of everything.
And there are some fantastic choices!! I’m looking forward to the desserts, so I’m holding back a bit on the savory dishes, but before I know it, my plate is already filled with smoked salmon, a mini meat sandwich, seasonal salad, shrimp, and, of course, foie gras on gingerbread toasts!
“That’s all you’re eating, Ophelia?” Solange frowns at my plate the second I put it down. “You don’t need to hold back, darling. You can diet again after the holidays are over. That’s what I always do. Two weeks of soups and hot lemon water, and it all melts away!”
I put on a brave smile, but it always stings, those not-always-subtle comments that pop up now and then, to remind me that I’m the girl who lost a few pounds.
Some will comment that I was cuter when I was chubbier, others ask how I did it (and they always get frustrated when I confess that the only change I made was switching from an unsupportive boyfriend to a caring one—but it’s true!).
Somehow, it’s worse now that I’ve lost a few pounds; people think that once it’s gone, it’s okay for them to comment on it…
or remind me to be careful, worrying like it’s any of their business whether I’ll get it back!
Really, it’s silly how nosy people are… It used to upset me so much that I’d cry if I gained weight, because I worried tons about what people would say.
“Thank you, but I’m saving room for the desserts,” I explain.
“Ophelia has been looking forward to Chef Natellier’s desserts,” Nicolas adds, taking my hand on the table this time.
I beam at my wonderful, amazing, supportive boyfriend.
The boyfriend who learned to cook and bake for me.
The boyfriend who was late to a business meeting for the first time ever because he was comforting me when I cried about not fitting into my favorite skirt anymore.
The boyfriend who suggested we throw all the scales in the house away because they upset me. I hadn’t realized how much whichever number they displayed set my mood for several days until he brought it up… and once they were gone, my moods were all mine once again.
My boyfriend, who is gently rubbing his thumb on the back of my hand, because he knows it soothes me.
“Yes,” I blush at him. “I love Chef Mina Natellier. I’ve been following her since she got that feature in my favorite baking magazine. Nicolas got me one of her degustation boxes when we visited Paris. It was heaven!”
“I’ve heard of her!” Emi smiles. “I didn’t realize she worked in Quebec City too?”
“Oh, she’s just doing a special holiday collaboration with the hotel,” I explain. “I don’t think she’ll be here, but she’s designed their new desserts especially for this!”
“I’m looking forward to it as well,” Nicolas adds.