Chapter Love Is a Losing Game
Love Is a Losing Game
Behind the magnificent mahogany and crystal bar in the Salle Europe lounge – one of the casino’s finest rooms – Jean-Paul, the bartender, busied himself polishing the rim of a champagne coupe.
Said to be modelled on the breasts of Marie Antoinette, each glass was made of the finest cut crystal, and every one had to be spotless.
Jean-Paul took this job very seriously.
Using a soft, white, lint-free cloth, he lightly polished the base and stem (never allow your bare hands to touch the glass!).
Then taking a second cloth, he placed the shallow bowl inside his palm, carefully cleaning the inside and outside (not too much pressure or you can break the delicate crystal!).
Before lifting each one up to the chandelier for closer inspection (it has to sparkle!).
Only when he was satisfied, did he move on to the next.
Usually, he was totally focused on the task, but that evening he was distracted by two women on the opposite side of the bar.
Dressed in satin and sequins, they were seated together on the velvet bar stools.
Heads bent close, one fair, one dark, they appeared deep in conversation.
Every so often there’d be a flurry of gesticulation – forehead slapping, clutching of chests – loud groans, deep sighs and a fair amount of cursing.
Followed by slumped shoulders and another order of drinks.
Were they a mother and daughter having an argument? A couple breaking up? Or just friends drowning their sorrows? And if so, over what? Usually, when women were angry or upset there was a man involved, but as far Jean-Paul could tell, they were alone. It was all very confusing.
As a bartender of over thirty years, Jean-Paul had learned more from working behind a bar than you can learn from any university.
He’d listened to people pour out their hearts.
He’d watched couples start and end relationships in front of him.
Been privy to surprise proposals and clandestine affairs.
Hookers, politicians, celebrities, royalty, presidents; the casino welcomed all walks of life.
It was not his job to judge; it was his job to serve drinks to them all.
Even James Bond, shaken not stirred. He’d seen and heard more than you could ever imagine, witnessed the highs and the lows, met the winners and the losers, been tipped by the rich and the poor.
He might not have fancy letters after his name or a framed certificate on his wall, but he had more insight into people than any psychiatrist.
And yet, he couldn’t suss these two out.
He continued polishing the glass.
One thing he was certain of: they were on their third round of cocktails and getting very drunk.
‘I can’t believe he got away.’
‘I can’t believe there was another exit.’
‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘Why didn’t I?’
After discovering they’d been given the slip, Flick and Maggie were back inside the casino, sitting at the bar, drowning their sorrows.
‘We came all this way for nothing.’
‘We were so close.’
‘We had one chance.’
‘And we fucked up.’
‘A rookie error.’
‘And now he’s gone and we’ve lost him.’
‘What are we going to do now?’
‘Go home. Get on with our lives. What else can we do?’
Back and forth they went, their laments louder and their sighs deeper with each round.
‘We can’t chase him around Europe as he sails around the Mediterranean on his luxury cruise—’
‘That I’ve paid for!’ finished Maggie, feeling a flash of anger. She drained the rest of her martini. ‘I didn’t even know he liked cruises!’
‘To be fair, you didn’t know a lot of things,’ Flick responded.
‘But why a cruise?’
‘Maybe it’s the all-you-can-eat buffet?’ quipped Flick, but Maggie didn’t laugh.
‘Or maybe it’s the perfect place to find his next target.
All those lonely, rich, solo travellers looking for love on the high seas.
You know, I once read an article about a wealthy widow who lived on a cruise ship for seven years—’ She broke off as she saw Maggie’s expression.
She looked upset. ‘I dunno, does it matter? We’ve lost him. ’
‘Hi, would you gorgeous ladies mind if we joined you for a drink?’
Probably not the best time to be chatted up. Maggie and Flick were oblivious to two men approaching them, until one of them spoke to Flick.
‘Yes. We would,’ snapped Flick.
In the middle of sliding onto bar stools next to them, the two men paused, their charming smiles wavering.
‘Oh . . . OK.’
‘Sorry, we’re just having a private conversation.’
Maggie smiled apologetically as they reverse-slid off the bar stools while Flick scowled.
‘Will you stop saying sorry!’ she hissed as the men beat a hasty retreat.
‘Sorry.’ Maggie hiccupped and covered her mouth. ‘I didn’t want to be rude.’
‘We’re not being rude. And, anyway, we can buy our own drinks.’
‘At these prices I’m not sure we can.’ Maggie screwed up her face and blinked, trying to bring Flick into focus as the two men slunk away. ‘Thank God your editor’s paying.’
‘Fat chance,’ muttered Flick, under her breath.
Correction: it was meant to be under her breath, but alcohol turns up the volume and Maggie heard her.
‘Oh no! Do you think the newspaper will refuse to reimburse you if they don’t get a story?’
‘The newspaper’s not paying,’ admitted Flick.
‘Can they do that?’ Maggie looked stricken.
‘Well, yes, they can, actually . . .’
‘But that’s terrible!’
‘Well, it’s not really . . .’
Flick hesitated, wondering how she could put this, how she could fudge it, or spin it, or be selective with the facts. But she’d drunk three very strong cocktails on an empty stomach. The only thing spinning was her head.
‘My editor doesn’t know I’m here,’ she confessed at last. ‘No one does.’
Well, she was always planning to tell Maggie. She’d just been waiting for the right time, only it never seemed to arrive.
Maggie frowned and shook her head as if she had water in her ears.
What Flick was saying was taking a while to compute.
Her hair had come loose from its top knot and hung in long, pale auburn waves around her face.
In her drunken state she liked to think it made her look like a pre-Raphaelite painting, but she had a feeling it just made her look a little unhinged.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said finally.
Avoiding Maggie’s gaze, Flick fiddled with the rings on her fingers. One of them was her mum’s and she twisted it around like a talisman. She wasn’t sure this was the right time, but considering everything had gone tits up, what did it matter now?
‘My editor doesn’t know I’m here. The newspaper didn’t send me.’
Maggie looked blank so Flick soldiered on.
‘When I pitched the idea to my editor, he was interested, but not enough to fly me out to Monte Carlo. So I thought I’d use my initiative and pay for my own flight and accommodation.’
There. That sounded a lot more professional than not on your nelly.
‘I was planning to come by myself. See what I could find out. And then you called.’
Silence. When Flick looked up, Maggie was still staring at her intently.
‘And you paid for my flight? And my lunch? And this dress?’
Maggie’s mind was whirring backwards, thinking of all the things they’d been spending money on, mentally adding up the whole trip. Arithmetic had never been her strong point, but it must be well over a thousand pounds, probably more.
‘But why?’
There was a pause.
‘Because it’s a good story.’ Flick raised her eyes to meet Maggie’s. ‘An important story and I wanted to be the one to tell it. Men like Theo Stratin ruin women’s lives and think they can just get away with it. I wanted to expose him. To confront him and try to get some answers.’
‘For me?’
‘For you and all the victims of romance fraud. So many feel stupid or ashamed. They don’t speak out.
I’ve read about some victims wanting to take their own lives, and it’s happening more and more .
. . If by exposing him and telling your story we can warn others, if we save one person from what he did to you and—’
Flick stopped herself, swallowing down whatever it was she going to say.
‘And I did it for me too,’ she admitted, after a moment. ‘I’m a journalist. I can’t write about jumble sales and missing cats any more. No offence, I know you’re still upset about your cat George, but I can’t . . .’
Maggie sat very still on her plush bar stool absorbing this information. The alcohol had made things spongy. She wasn’t as sharp as she should be. But still, one thing was very clear.
‘You lied to me.’
Flick blanched.
‘After everything that’s happened to me . . . that’s the one thing I can’t bear. Someone lying to me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘And now you’re saying sorry and you’ve told me to stop saying sorry.’
‘For stupid stuff, yeah, but not this. I am sorry and I should apologize, but I just knew you wouldn’t come if I told you the truth.’
The two women looked at each other.
‘And you’re probably right. I wouldn’t have done,’ admitted Maggie.
‘But don’t you understand? I can’t have people lying to me.
Not after what happened. I don’t trust anyone any more.
I don’t even trust myself any more. You can do anything, but you can’t lie to me, Flick. You’ve got to be honest with me—’
She broke off, her emotions racing as Flick’s admission sank in.
‘Is there anything else you’ve got to tell me?’
Flick paused. Now was the time to come completely clean.
‘I don’t know how we’re going to pay this bar bill,’ she confessed.
And it was at that moment the awful mess of the situation, the whole disastrous evening with all its stress and anxiety and ridiculous sequins and satin, suddenly became hysterically funny.
Who was it that said tragedy and comedy are two sides of the same coin?
They didn’t know, but unexpectedly they both burst out laughing.
On the other side of the bar, Jean-Paul the bartender paused from polishing a champagne coupe.
See. He couldn’t work them out. Couldn’t work them out all.