The Art of Deception. Louise Mangos

here is our pretty Greek seaside girl. A little diversion on her way to the summer sun.’

      Matt threw his arm casually across my shoulder, the weight of it implying possessiveness. Despite acknowledging the possible effects of alcohol, a flush crept up my throat at his familiarity.

      ‘Bonsoir, Mathieu,’ I said.

      ‘What have you been doing with yourself today?’ he asked. ‘How did you like nature’s last gift of winter to us? There were a few happy powder hounds on the mountain today.’

      ‘It would have been great to be able to ski. Perhaps next season,’ I said cautiously, not wishing to imply that I might rashly have made my mind up to stay a little longer. ‘I had a pleasant walk around town. I’m not really prepared for wintry conditions. Today was a test for the soaking capacity of my socks.’

      I pointed down to my sodden sneakers.

      ‘Inappropriate footwear, huh?’ Matt patted me on my shoulder. ‘The slush will probably be gone by tomorrow. This little cold front was unexpected.’

      The barman greeted me warmly with a tip of his head. His eyes moved away and cast Matt a steely look as he ordered us beers. Clutching our bottles in one hand, Matt returned the barman’s stare and then turned away, putting his body between me and the bar. He placed his other hand firmly on my elbow, and guided me with a little more force than necessary towards the corner.

      He pointed to a bench where we could sit and talk. I glanced back to the barman before allowing myself to be led away. I could only think that his reaction was due to jealousy. I had to stop myself grinning broadly. Matt had forsaken his colleagues and their entertainment for me. As far as I was concerned, it was game on.

      * * *

      When I moved into the hostel’s staff accommodation, I enjoyed the camaraderie of my room-mates. But while they were all winding up for the end of the season, for me it felt like a beginning.

      On the first evening after work, I was lying on my bed reading a novel borrowed from the hostel library. Anne, the receptionist, burst through the door with a bag of items she had purchased from the local épicerie.

      ‘I see you have thrilling plans for this evening,’ she said not unkindly, pointing her chin at my book. ‘Well I’m going to change them. I don’t feel like going to the bar tonight before dinner, but I need some wine and I don’t want to drink alone.’

      She pulled a bottle from the bag with a packet of pretzels and a tub of olives.

      ‘My boyfriend and his mother are disagreeing over one of my pieces, and I’ve left them to it.’

      I fetched two glasses from the shelf in the bathroom and brought them back to the dorm. As Anne emptied the rest of her bag, I studied the posters tacked to the wall above her bed. A Hodler print hung next to a photo of a Giacometti sculpture; one of his classic tall thin bronze men. Beyond them she had pinned up her own photos of the surrounding mountains, glowing with sunsets or sunrises, and one spectacular shot of a sea of cloud filling the valley against a striking purple sky.

      ‘You’re an artist?’ I asked over the noise of the pretzel packet being opened and the lid screeching off the plastic olive container.

      ‘If you consider photography an art.’

      She handed me the bottle of wine and a corkscrew.

      ‘Of course,’ I said.

      ‘I love contemporary Swiss artists, as you can see. A salute to my fellow countrymen. Photography is more my own passion, a hobby inspired by our environment. My boyfriend François’ father owns the Grand Hotel in the village where he works, and they recently agreed to hang some of my photos in one of their conference rooms. But they don’t seem to want my advice as to which ones. It was as though I wasn’t even there,’ she said crossly. ‘Are you also interested in art?’

      She nodded towards the posters on the wall, curiosity quashing her irritation.

      ‘I was halfway through a fine arts degree when I dropped out of university and decided to travel. It’s backfired really. My parents obviously weren’t happy, and I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking them to fund a trip, but I can’t believe how quickly the money I earned from Saturday and holiday jobs seems to have slipped like water through my fingers.’

      I opened the bottle, poured some wine into our two glasses, and took a handful of pretzels Anne offered me as we sat on our beds facing the windows. The setting sun cast a pinkish glow on the toothy ridge of the Dents du Midi. She reached for her camera on the shelf by the bed and tucked it beside her, waiting for the perfect alpenglow.

      ‘Then it’s good they hired you at the hostel. But it’s poor pay for cleaning work. Your funds won’t last long in this country. I’m a bit better off on a receptionist’s salary, especially after the peanuts I earned when I travelled in the States. Bon appétit,’ she said as she offered me the pot of olives and popped one in her mouth.

      ‘You speak excellent English.’

      ‘The multilingual skills of the Swiss, I guess. What made you give up studying art?’

      ‘I don’t know really. I love my art, but I had the feeling I’d never be able to find a job I would enjoy. Plus I’ve always had this secret dream to travel abroad, and wanted to do it before getting bogged down with a career.’

      ‘I can’t wait to get out of this room,’ said Anne, looking around at the three rumpled beds and a jumble of mismatched furniture. ‘They want me to stay on for the next couple of seasons. But there’s only so long you can spend living in a dorm. I’ve saved up enough money to rent my own flat. It’ll be so much easier for François and me. Will you look for another job in the village, or move on from here?’

      ‘I’m not sure. It depends.’ I turned to a poster. ‘Your photos are beautiful.’

      It depends on Matt, I had wanted to say, but now found it hard to admit that an impulsive decision might be based on the outcome of meeting one person. Anne’s mention of her boyfriend made the heat rise to my face.

      When we had finished the bottle of wine, she showed me some more of her photographs. I swirled the last of the Valaisan gamay in the glass tumbler.

      ‘Do you know Mathieu, the ski instructor? The local guy?’ The wine had loosened my tongue, and I blushed as I said his name.

      Anne’s smile didn’t touch her eyes. ‘Has he been flirting with you? He’s a looker. I don’t know him very well. Only that he often comes to the bar. He had … He and François don’t get on, something to do with a group of students François’ dad had to ban from the hotel after a rowdy night out in their college years. They don’t mix in the same social circles.’ Anne hesitated. ‘And I find his attitude a little arrogant for my liking. Plus, I’ve heard he’s … I would be careful.’ Anne bit her lip.

      I wasn’t sure whether my heart beat a little faster at the mention of his name or hearing the edge to Anne’s comments. Before I could dig further, she took her camera and opened the dorm window to click a few shots of the view, and I felt too awkward to ask her to elaborate.

      ‘Come on, I’m starving,’ she said, snapping the cover onto her lens. ‘Let’s see what chef has for the workers tonight.’

      * * *

      My life revolved around the hostel and the bar for the remainder of the week until I received my pay packet. The whole time I was stripping beds, scrubbing floors and cleaning windows, I couldn’t stop thinking about Matt. The drudge work I was doing was worth every cobweb and dust ball if it meant I could see him at the end of each day. The anticipation of our budding romance was delicious. I relished the apprehensive thrill of not knowing whether he would be there when I walked into the bar. Or the expectation every time the door opened to admit new customers, and the powerful heated rush when he finally appeared on the threshold. I was behaving like a besotted teenager.

      But he always came.