"Montreal-Toronto love affair doesn't need to be secretive" – Toronto Star, May 17, 2010
A fancy hotel room. Montreal lies asleep, her black hair splayed sexily over a down pillow. Toronto is sitting next to her wearing a white hotel bathrobe and staring at an Acer laptop. Occasionally, he punches some keys and then sips a bottle of water. Montreal stirs and rolls over. "Are you awake already, chéri?" she asks softly.
"Been up since six," Toronto says, his eyes glued to the screen. "The market is getting hammered."
"Did you eat?"
"Showered, worked out, ate some All-Bran for the fibre, and showered again."
"Last night was magical, mon amour. Did you ever imagine it – us! – together?"
"Not in a million years, babe. But it all just feels so right. If feels like all this time, we've secretly been in love and didn't know it."
Montreal reaches over and grabs Toronto's bottle of water off the night table and takes a swig. His gaze on the screen does not waver. "Does it bother you that I drink your water," she asks, an air of mischief in her voice.
"Normally, yes," Toronto says. "But water washes away the anaerobic bacteria that cause morning breath." He taps a few final keys on his laptop and shuts the lid with an air of finality. "Who would have thought entitled Greek unionized workers would make the oil sands such a good investment again?" he says with a self-satisfied smile.
"You men and your money," Montreal says, sucking on her baby finger suggestively.
Toronto puts his laptop in a brown leather briefcase. "Yesterday felt like it could have gone on forever."
"But it can," Montreal says.
"You feel that way, too?" Toronto says. "I mean, about… us?"
" Mais oui."
"What was your favourite thing we did?" Toronto says, sounding boyish for the first time in decades.
" Le charcuterie at that restaurant. None of my friends in Montreal will believe I ate horse tartare in Toronto."
"That place is super-trendy right now. What did you think of Yorkdale?" Toronto asks. "They say the Apple Store generates more revenue per square foot than any equivalent mall space in Canada."
"It seemed very… American," Montreal says.
"Thank you."
"But the ROM," Montreal says. "Oh, c'est magnifique! It is so sharp and metallic looking, you almost imagine the hand of God using it to slice a tomato."
"I guess that would be good if it was supposed to be a knife," Toronto says. "But it's a museum."
Montreal examines the face of the man with whom she spent the night, as though looking at him for the first time. She puts on a skimpy silk robe and walks out to the balcony, where she sits and lights a cigarette, staring off to the horizon.
"Now, Frank Gehry on the other hand," Toronto says, following her, oblivious to her body language. " There's an architect with a brand you can market. He designs buildings people actually want to be in. Did you know he's actually from Toron–"
"Who cares about this Gary person," Montreal says. "Let's talk about us."
"Let's go downtown today," Toronto says, sounding boyish once again. "I can show you my office. It's in First Canadian Place."
" Ooh là là."
"Did you know the Bank of Montreal's operational headquarters are there?"
"But why would I, chéri?"
"I mean it just seems weird, being the Bank of Montreal and all."
"Who cares," Montreal says. She stabs her cigarette out after just two puffs and looks off to the horizon again.
"You look beautiful," Toronto says in a whispery, let's-change-the-subject tone of voice.
" Merci."
"What a wonderful robe," Toronto says, turning his gaze to the hemline barely covering Montreal's crossed legs. Montreal puts on a sultry expression.
"How did you afford it?" Toronto asks. Montreal's mouth opens in disbelief. "I mean, you have such nice clothes," Toronto stutters, backpedalling, trying to explain, "yet your economy is a total wreck. How do you pull it off? Is stuff cheaper there? Is that why you weren't interested in that sale at the Gap at Yorkdale? Am I getting ripped off?"
Montreal gets up to leave.
"Should I have offered to buy you something? Is that it?" Toronto asks. "Was that a faux-pas?"
Montreal hurls an ashtray at Toronto and storms out.
"I should have known this would be about money," Toronto shouts. He waits for a response but hears only the hotel-room door slamming shut. Toronto walks back into the hotel room and stands in front of the bed, staring wistfully at the tousled sheets. He picks up the bottle of water, sniffs it for traces of perfume, and takes a last sip. "I guess I'll be the one picking up the tab," he mumbles to no one but himself. " Quelle surprise."
Special to The Globe and Mail