Page 34 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

And with it, so was he.

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.’