The Art of Deception. Louise Mangos

beyond simple courtship, but with indignation that she thought Matt had not yet met the ‘right girl’. I looked down and sliced into a wild-mushroom raviolo on my plate. This was turning out to be harder than I had thought. The stereotype of a boyfriend’s acerbic mother. I already felt sorry for Marie-Claire’s husband, having to put up with all this family snobbery.

      ‘When did Matt first become interested in sailing?’ I asked to change the subject, continuing Mimi’s habit of talking about him as though he wasn’t there.

      Having used the yacht as his trump card when trying to impress the girls, I wanted to find out whether Matt had been telling the truth in the bar on the night we met.

      ‘Natasha’s sister, Matt’s Aunt Alesha, moved to London when she finished her schooling in Geneva to study economics at LSE,’ said Didier. ‘Unfortunately she died of cancer a few years ago, but she left Mathieu a handsome sum of money in her will on the one condition that he buy himself a sailing boat, to continue her legacy.’

      ‘Alexandra …’ Natasha glared pointedly at Didier. She definitely had a thing against the use of diminutives. Ironic that everyone called her Mimi and she didn’t seem to mind. ‘… was one of the first female students of her generation at the school. She married a London financier who was a great yachtsman, and they used to take Mathieu sailing with them on the Solent during the summer months. They had no children of their own, and became very fond of young Mathieu.’

      I guessed we were skirting back to the subject of succession.

      No matter the tack of our discussions, every conversation returned to Matt during the evening. It was as if he wasn’t actually there, although he appeared to be basking in their passive attention. It was a relief to keep my own history to a minimum. After the initial questions about where I came from, what my parents did, and the awkward quandary about my forsaken studies – taking a gap year out seemed to be the most comfortable explanation, giving Natasha the satisfaction of thinking I might one day leave and return to my academics – they remained entirely incurious as to my feelings or ambitions.

      ‘You’ve never mentioned your sister before,’ I said as Matt took me home that evening.

      ‘You never asked.’

      ‘I thought it would be natural …’

      ‘I’m sorry, Lucie, I don’t want to talk about her, okay?’

      It was hard to believe he had been so open and forthcoming about his family a couple of weeks before in the fondue restaurant. The encounter with his parents left us both feeling uncomfortable.

      We kissed briefly outside the door to Anne’s apartment before Matt turned to leave, and I watched his back for a few seconds before letting myself in.

      * * *

      Matt’s mother Natasha never warmed to me, even after I had been initiated into one of her traditional Russian evenings several weeks later.

      It was Didier’s birthday, and the first time I had been invited to the chalet. A heavy tablecloth adorned with richly embroidered silk tassels was flung onto the massive round table in the middle of the dining room. There were eight of us in total, including two other couples, friends of Didier and Natasha. A variety of Russian delicacies covered the table – blinis, rollmops, pirozhki with different vegetable and meat fillings, salty fish and caviar dishes.

      ‘A stunning spread, Natasha.’

      Matt’s mother tipped her head to one side, acknowledging my compliment. I expected ‘Please, call me Mrs Favre’ to slide from her tongue, such was her supercilious look. I could see it was going to take some diplomacy to worm my way into this woman’s icy heart. Although at that stage I already wondered if I’d ever want to. It was possible she thought only a superwoman would be the perfect match for her son.

      ‘Thank you, my dear. There are some bourgeois Russian traditions we don’t want to see disappear. I usually prepare food like this to celebrate Maslenitsa before Lent, but any special occasion deserves some flair, and Didier’s birthday is a good excuse.’ She smiled at her husband as he appeared from the kitchen, a bottle of Moskovskaya in his hand, vapour flowing off the frosting glass.

      ‘Prepare your plates, help yourselves to food,’ Natasha urged as Didier carefully poured the viscous vodka into eight pewter shot glasses sitting on a wooden tray. Conversation lulled as everyone watched Didier’s steady hand.

      ‘I couldn’t help noticing those icons on your wall,’ I said, as Natasha ceremoniously passed the tray around the table to the guests. Her hand shook slightly as I spoke, vodka shivering in the tiny frosted goblets. I looked at her.

      ‘Those old things. They are merely copies. A sentimental reminder of my parents’ plight. Like the Russian dolls.’ Her eyes indicated a set of cheap yellow painted dolls regimented over the wide lintel of the kitchen door.

      My gaze was drawn back to the icons hanging in the corridor leading to the entrance hall, directly in my line of vision.

      ‘They’re very handsome copies. A great example of Orthodox art. Wonderful to have a few of your cultural roots displayed in the home,’ I said to Matt.

      Natasha cleared her throat, taking the last glass of vodka from the tray.

      ‘Quick, before it warms! Here’s to my wonderful husband, Didier, many happy returns. Vashe zdorovie!’

      She threw her head back, emptied her glass. Warm lips seared the cold pewter as the oily vodka slipped down our throats.

      ‘Eat, eat!’ urged Natasha, and we followed the drink with a mouthful of food to soak up the wickedness of the alcohol.

      She claimed we could drink all night like this and never wake up with a hangover, but even in my youthful resilience, I never quite believed her. Once the first bottle of vodka had gone, a second appeared from the freezer, and Natasha brought out a heavy tureen of borscht, tender beef strips in a well-seasoned beetroot and cabbage broth.

      Towards the end of the evening, Didier told the story of the first time he set eyes on Natasha at an art exhibition in Geneva. The vodka caused his tongue to sweeten and eyes to moisten. He turned to me and began to talk about the latest book he was writing. Natasha’s eyes flashed at him as he was halfway through describing an adventure in her youth, and his sentence petered out. He changed the subject, passing the tray to collect our glasses for another round, leaving me to ponder what secrets Natasha had in her steely past.

      On the way home afterwards, I asked Matt about his mother’s Russian background.

      ‘Mimi’s got a bit of a thing about the old country. I don’t know why really. She’s more Swiss than most Swiss people. But there’s a pride in her that doesn’t come from the Alps. Something deeper. She has a fiery character. Since the dissolution of communist Russia, they’ve wanted to travel back … But anyway, why the interest in her background?’ Matt asked, a little irritated.

      I thought of the icons on the wall, the traditional fare at the table. I shrugged. ‘Curious, I guess. Have you ever been there?’

      Matt shook his head. ‘Papa’s only started researching for his latest book recently, but they’re planning to travel there soon.’

      ‘Sounds like a great plot location for a historic romance.’

      ‘He says he wants to write about the experiences of Mimi’s family before the revolution. Mimi’s not keen, keeps telling him to let sleeping dogs lie.’ I looked at him curiously. ‘I don’t really know what she means, the revolution happened more than a generation ago. She’s proud, but I think she’s scared of something. She continues to look for links to her roots though. Maybe she feels like she never quite belonged in this Western society.’ Matt stopped, as though he thought he was maligning his mother.

      ‘I thought she fitted in well here, considering the cosmopolitan nature of Switzerland’s population,’ I said when he didn’t continue.

      ‘Mm. Maybe. You should hear my sister talk about