The Art of Deception

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 eliminated victors, but shots of the Swiss schnapps Pomme for the losers, the grimaces on their faces at the harshness and raw strength of the alcohol a prize in itself for the onlookers.

‘Ah, 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.