I SNEAK THROUGH THE shiny marble lobby of the King Edward Hotel, mindful of the fact that the last time I was here, I was pounced on by Russian tourists and forced to do embarrassing peace-sign selfies with their teenage daughter. This time, I have thought ahead, donning oversized sunglasses and a floppy sunhat that obscures almost my entire head. Granted, these are odd accoutrements for a December evening but, I tell myself, people will just think I'm a Canadian celebrity hiding from the spotlight — although it's a pretty small spotlight when you're a Canadian celebrity. Unless you're Dan Levy who's having quite a moment these days. But anyway, I would hope not to be mistaken for a man, no matter how adorable and funny he may be. I'd much rather be mistaken for Catherine O'Hara! Yes. I am channelling my inner Catherine O'Hara as I step out of the lobby and into the gilded dining room.
The host doesn't seem at all perturbed by my incognito disguise and pleasantly walks me to my table. Justine, because she is rich and important, is running late of course. The host informs me that Ms. Carvil has ordered a bottle of fine Dom Perignon which will arrive presently.
I nod under my hat and await my champagne.
Even though I remain annoyed at the encroachment on my personal time (especially when I could be creating tiny, fanciful hors d' oeuvres out of puff pastry in preparation for tomorrow's family party), I am — just slightly — looking forward to a slap-up dinner at Carvil Foods' expense. I've already scanned the menu on my phone and decided to order all the most delicious (and expensive) things:
Malpeque Oysters from PEI
Escargots de Bourgogne
Braised wild hen with fresh black truffle shavings, new potatoes and buttery garlic rapini
... and a 'flight of housemade ice creams' that promises a sensation of unusual flavours at the chef's pleasure (!!)
The distinctive Dom label arrives at the table, presented on the arm of a stringy-looking, elderly waiter.
"Madame," he says, deftly uncorking the bottle without taking anyone's eye out or spilling a drop. The straw-coloured liquid bubbles up the sides of the crystal flute in front of me and he gently crunches the bottle into the waiting ice bucket.
"My name is Tortoise and it's my pleasure to serve you this evening."
I peer up at him. Did he really say 'tortoise'? I decide I'd better clarify.
"I'm sorry, your name was...?"
"Curtis, ma'am."
Ah, that makes more sense. My floppy hat must be getting in the way of my hearing. Unfortunately, now that I've thought the word tortoise, I'm going to have a hard time not calling him that in my mind.
"Right. Thanks Curtis." I say carefully.
He nods and shuffles off, leaving me to sip my (delicious!) champagne and take discrete selfies to send to Buddy. He hates to miss out on champagne and will be seething with jealousy that I got invited to this luxe dinner and he didn't. I've got a different sort of treat in mind for him, but he doesn't know about it yet.
I'm on my second glass of Dom, and halfway through a basket of warm, salty breads when Justine finally arrives.
She breaks away from the host and clacks hurriedly over to the table.
"Alice!" she frets, leaning down to pop an unexpectedly familiar kiss on my cheek. "So sorry. So, so sorry. Got caught in one of those dreadful meetings of the board that just goes on and on and—"
"No, I'm sorry!" I reply automatically.
She pauses, amused. "What are you sorry for?"
I think for a moment. "Um. I don't know? The board meeting? It just popped out of my mouth."
We both laugh.
"Do you always say the first thing that pops into your mind?"
"Usually" I reply sheepishly. "Especially when I'm nervous."
Justine looks me over intently. Her improbably perfect face rearranges itself every few moments, I notice. She breezes between mirth and knitted-eyebrow seriousness in the span of a breath. She has her serious face on now.
"Alice, I don't quite know how to tell you this—"
Oh no. Is the whole deal falling through? Which, actually, I'd be fine with. But would I still get to order that flight of ice creams?
"—but it's not midsummer in Cannes. Would you mind taking off the hat so I can actually see who I'm having supper with?"
"Oh, right, sorry," I say, plucking the hat off and depositing it on the bench beside me.
"And the glasses," Justine reaches straight across the table and pulls them gently from my face. "There! That's better. How are we supposed to get to know each other if I'm only looking at a reflection of myself?"
While all this was going on, Tortoise had shuffled over to the table and discreetly filled Justine's glass.
"There, now—" she lifts her glass and we clink our crystal flutes sonorously together. Tiing. "Cheers. To new business ventures and to new friends."
As nice as she seems to be, I'm wise enough to know that someone like Justine Carvil does not become friends with someone like me. I decide to make the most of a great dinner and make sure we leave here as allies, if not actual friends.
3 HOURS LATER, laughter sends champagne fizzing into my sinuses and I try to hold it in with my lipstick-covered linen napkin.
"You did NOT!" I screech, admittedly, somewhat drunk now that we've finished our second bottle.
"I'm telling you Alice, you should have SEEN THEIR FACES." Justine slaps the tablecloth and lifts her glass, laughing, only to find it empty. "Shoot. We finished it. Should we get another?" She asks with a naughty face.
"Tortoise! Another bottle see vu play!" I call haughtily across the restaurant, causing Justine to fall apart in a wave of giggles.
"Did you just say Tortoise?!"
"Oh, damn, I did. I mean CURTIS!" I call out again, giggling too.
Justine is merrily shushing me. "Alice, people are looking. People are looking!"
"Pah! They're wondering what a fancy lady like you is doing with a middle-class, middle-aged, washed up—"
"—high profile social media influencer—"
"—internet joke—"
"—savvy businesswoman with a heart of gold—"
"—nearly bankrupted cafe owner which you own almost half of! Congrats to you!" I say, laughing again, lifting my empty glass and clanging it loudly against hers.
But she isn't laughing now. She's morphed from funny-silly back to serious.
"Alice, don't say that about yourself. You don't deserve it."
"I do. I do, Justine. All I had to do was keep a single tiny coffee shop afloat and I couldn't even manage to do that. Now I've had to sell most of our interest to an evil corporate empire—" I slap my hand across my mouth.
"No offense taken, I'm sure," she said wryly. "Alice, hear me when I say this: You are my hero. You figured out all on your own that life — a good life, I mean, one that's worth living — needs to have purpose. You risked everything and redefined yours. I spend day after day in boardrooms, patting the hand of my ego-driven brother, pandering to surface level corporate megalomaniacs like Eloise—"
"That woman!" I interject, making a face.
"Right? And I know I'm not happy. But Daddy put us in charge, together, me and Joss. If I leave and go do something I really want to do, my brother will drive the whole thing into a hell spiral. So I'm just... stuck."
"Oh, Justine," I reach for her hand and give it a squeeze, the room tipping slightly around us.
"But that's why you're my hero. So don't say those things about yourself."
Justine reaches for her empty glass again, so I shout, "Tortoise! Where's that fresh bottle? And put this one on MY tab!!"
Justine whispers, "Oh god, no, Alice! That stuff's $800 a bottle. This one's on my brother!" Then she guffaws in a very unladylike way and lifts a scoop of my melting flight of ice cream into her mouth.
Really, really like Justine, I think drunkenly. Is my new bess' friend after Vivian. Am going to invite her to sacred Christmas Eve family whatsit. She will LOVE it.
"Justine — wait! I have a verrrrrie good idea!"
She accidentally knocks a spoon off the side of the table and erupts in laughter again, trying to fish it out from under my chair with her fancy Louboutin shoe.
"Justine, I want to invite you and your brother to my Chrissuseve whassit. It's going to be fun. You can meet my mother and her internet Romeo who is either Tom Selleck or an actual conman or, possibly, my actual father, I can't tell yet."
"Your father is Tom Selleck? That makes SO MUCH SENSE!" She yelps, delighted. "Oh, Tortoise! There you are! Pour us some more champagne, my good man!"
But before I can clarify about not being Tom Selleck's daughter, my phone starts pinging rudely and urgently from under my hat, on the bench beside me.
"If that's Joss," Justine says. "Tellim to bugger off. You don't work for him yet."
I pull the phone out and see a series of texts from Maeve. Uh oh. Something's the matter at home. I try to focus my eyes and decipher the string of nonsense.
<Dad's acting really weird.
<Super weird. And I think it's my fault?
<We went to Union Bar because he thought he was going to find you and Joss there. I told him you weren't because I already knew those flowers were from Jules. I just didn't want to have to explain all that yet.
<By the way, Jules is here and she's staying for Christmas. I hope that's okay.
<And I might be into girls. I hope that's okay too.
<... then again, I'm not really into anyone. Ack. I don't know. Just want you to be aware there's something between me and Jules. Maybe. Sort of.
<Anyway I'm sorry about it because now Dad has totally flipped out. He's on the Peleton, eating a whole bag of McDonald's cheeseburgers at the same time.
<It's like he's completely broken down. I can't tell if he's sweating or crying.
<Mum, are you getting these?
<It's not normal for a grown man to cry, eat burgers and Peloton at the same time! I googled it.
<Mum, when are you coming home?
"Shit," I say, looking regretfully at the new $800 bottle of champagne that has just been opened. "Justine, it seems there's a situation at home and I have to get back there as soon as possible."
"Oh no! Nothing serious, I hope!"
"I'm not sure. My husband might be having a midlife crisis."
"Ohhh," she says, disappointed, "That does sound serious. Of course, you should go! I'll call you a car. Here," She plucks my hat off the bench and hides the full champagne bottle underneath it. "Take this with you. I've never met a crisis that champagne couldn't solve!"
I hug her gratefully, promise to send her details about the Christmas party, and rush out toward the street to meet Justine's driver.