The Art of Deception. Louise Mangos

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      Fatima knows and respects this, but cannot contain her rage, despite being aware I can hear her, somewhat muffled, behind the wall. Motherhood for her is still fresh. The fear of separation has become a raw terror that something will happen to Adnan in her absence. I understand that, and can identify with it.

      It’s a love like no other.

      * * *

       Seven years ago

      Settling on a high stool, I nursed a glass of cheap draft beer, watching the bustle of the après-ski crowd reflected in the mirror behind the bar. A figure in a red ski-school jacket, a folded ten-franc note clasped between his fingers, pushed his way between me and the customer at my side. The young man rested his hand on the polished wood. I bit back a retort as his elbow pressed against my shoulder. He leaned in, and I drew back, expecting him to address the barman.

      ‘We are all vagabonds, you know.’ His silky deep voice spoke English, almost a whisper at my temple, his breath warm on the shell of my ear. The hint of a French lilt sent a tingle down my spine. I turned, and instead of delivering admonishment, smiled into a pair of mesmerising grey-blue eyes.

      ‘You are new in town, yes?’ he asked.

      ‘Just arrived,’ I confirmed. ‘Couldn’t hitch a lift, so I rode the cog railway up from the valley. Bit freaky, didn’t know if the rickety thing was going to make it, with all that clunking and straining.’

      ‘That rack is over a hundred years old. You took a journey on a classic piece of Chablais transport history. What brings you here?’

      ‘A bit of an unscheduled stop, really. I’m backpacking through Europe and read about this village in a student travel guide. Plus a college friend once told me about this bar.’

      I hesitated. In reality 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 СКАЧАТЬ