The Art of Deception. Louise Mangos

I was looking for a few days’ work. I had heard this resort, easily accessible on my Eurorail pass, was a good place to try. Amsterdam and Paris had sucked the money out of my wallet faster than any pickpocket. This guy didn’t need to know I was flat broke.

      ‘I was originally on my way to Greece for the summer. I know that’s a long way from here, but I’m getting a bit short of cash.’

      ‘Mm. The Med. Sounds romantic. Unfortunately you have arrived at the end of the season. There won’t be many jobs available. People will be heading off soon, travelling south, perhaps to the same beach you are dreaming about. Some of us will stay here though; we have to work.’

      The barman slid a bottle of Cardinal across the bar, a slight frown on his face. My new companion took a sip from the beer.

      ‘You’re lucky to live in such a beautiful place. What do you do outside the ski season?’ I asked as I glanced at the barman, now moving away to serve another customer.

      ‘I teach French at the international college. Pays the bills.’

      He sidled in to sit on a recently vacated barstool in one smooth move, his body filling the space at my side, and he reached into his jacket pocket. He took a ready-rolled cigarette from a pouch of Drum, and lit the tatty end with a loud click of his Zippo. He noted my surprise.

      ‘One of the few bars that still allows smokers,’ he said, studying me intently through a swirl of blue smoke. No one else in the bar was smoking. He waved at a spark rising from a burning curl of tobacco, and studied me through creased eyes.

      My face flushed hot and my belly flipped. A magnetism kept my eyes locked on his, despite the commotion around us.

      And then he coughed, the harshness of the smoke catching in his throat, making his eyes smart. We both burst out laughing, his slick seduction technique exposed. I saw the barman roll his eyes as he served another client at the end of the bar, and as he returned, he leaned over.

      ‘Buddy, you know the rules. Quit being a dick.’

      My companion put his hand on my arm, pulling my attention back to him.

      ‘Should give up the stuff,’ he said, curling his fist towards his chest, cigarette still clasped between two fingers.

      ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘Tobacco should be outlawed anyway.’

      He raised his eyebrows. I blushed, and mentally kicked myself for sounding so prudish. He continued to smoke his roll-up, and I wondered which rules the barman was referring to.

      ‘So what’s your name, Pretty Travel Girl Heading for Greece?’

      He picked a sliver of tobacco from the tip of his tongue, and I couldn’t help thinking the roll-up cigarette routine was going horribly wrong for him today.

      ‘Lucie, actually Lucille, but everyone calls me Lucie.’

      ‘And my name is Matt, actually Mathieu, but everyone calls me Matt. Enchanté,’ he said, holding out his hand to shake.

      I would have commented on his patronising tone, but a physical static tick connected our palms, and we both smiled. My heartbeat spiked. He brushed a lock of brown hair, a little flattened from a day under a ski hat, away from his face. His broad shoulders hunched on one side as he leaned his elbow on the bar. He stretched his ski-honed legs either side of my barstool, and my vision of a golden beach and carefree days with suntanned beach bums slipped away.

      ‘Do you ski?’ he asked.

      With my glass to my lips, I took a sip, and shook my head.

      ‘You can always engage my services. Ask for Matt at the ski school.’

      Now that sounded like a more practised marketing tag line.

      ‘I can’t afford to ski right now, though I’d love to learn.’

      ‘Of course you don’t ski! You are from the land of sailors. Do you sail, Lucie? Is that why you are heading to the waters of the Mediterranée? Perhaps you would like to sail with me, on my boat, on Lac Léman. Mon premier lieutenant.’

      I shook my head, but not with disagreement. Did he really just say he had a boat? The concept seemed so contrary, up here on the mountain.

      ‘I used to sail very small boats – Optimists – on a man-made lake near our home as a child. And although my dad was in the navy, we never sailed on the Med.’

      I was still not entirely sure he was telling the truth about owning a boat. I might believe him more if he said he drove a Ferrari.

      ‘Actually, my little sloop is also not much bigger than a bathtub. It was bought with a small inheritance from a childless aunt. Sounds good as a chat-up line though, doesn’t it? Can I get you another?’

      I buried my smile in my glass as I emptied the warm dregs and placed it on the bar near him. My cheeks flushed in acknowledgement of the heat in the pit of my stomach.

      As we talked, other customers chatted around us, but I blocked them out, not allowing their gossip to interfere. I didn’t want this to end. I felt myself sucked into the vortex of a schoolgirl crush. Finishing his second beer, Matt reached hastily for his jacket, stood up and leaned in to me, as though he’d lost his balance.

      ‘Perhaps I will see you around, ma Lucille. It’s time to change out of my office gear,’ he said, indicating his ski uniform.

      I’d always hated my full name, thought it made me sound like a faded Sixties’ TV star, but the way he spoke made it sound like honey slipping off his tongue.

      Mathieu cast me a last curious smile as he shrugged into his jacket and wove his way through the clientele towards the exit. I frowned as I watched him leave. A wedge of disappointment remained, the warm feeling he had invoked in me already a heady memory. An air of mystery floated in his wake. Our conversation remained half-finished, as though he intended to return to it later. I wondered if he felt the same physical and emotional pull. Or was this just another day at the office?

      ‘He’s a Casanova, that one. Watch out,’ said the barman, absently drying a glass with a tea towel. I wasn’t sure whether his tone was one of wistful jealousy or a warning.

      ‘Does he really have a boat on Lake Geneva?’ I asked, ignoring the alarm bells.

      ‘Apparently.’ He shrugged. ‘Though I don’t know anyone who has ever seen it. Could be a bullshit line. Watch yourself there, young lady.’

      He moved away to stack glasses.

      The bar emptied at the end of Happy Hour, and the barman, much friendlier in Mathieu’s absence, introduced me to the manageress of the hostel.

      ‘We close next week for a month or so, but we will need extra staff for the few days it takes to spring-clean,’ she said. ‘I can hire you for the week. It will be tough work, moving furniture, lots of cleaning.’

      ‘I’m fine with that – I’d be delighted to help,’ I said, relieved to the point of making it sound like we were doing each other a favour. If I had any hope of reaching my Greek beach, I needed more than a few days of work, but this would be a start.

      ‘You can move into the staff accommodation and take your meals with the others. I know that look. I can tell you’re desperate for cash. We’ll deduct the rent from your earnings and you can set up a tab at the bar. You can take Sandra’s bed. She had to leave early. Some family emergency back in Australia. Normally we wouldn’t hire extra staff at the end of the season. You’re lucky.’

      * * *

      As I entered the bar the following evening, after a day that had magically transformed the landscape with a spring snow, my gaze was drawn to a raucous group at the bar. They were playing the inanely stupid but enticingly addictive game of spoof. It was a game I had often played in the student lounge at college. Clutched fists thrust repeatedly into a circle at each other, hands then turned to reveal the number of coins in their palms. No prizes for the