Chapter One

It was the English voice that caught our attention—the sub schoolgirl French, grappling with an order for a demi-carafe. We were close to the bar as usual: you tend to pick up most there. She was at a table in full sun—rookie mistake, one of her shoulders already going red. Fresh off the plane, always a bonus. A British Airways tag hung from the leather straps of her powder blue Longchamp bag (genuine logo, I’d checked), and the paperback in front of her, spine unbroken, was part of a three-for-two airport deal.

What other tells? New mani-pedi—the neon pink all the posh Brits were wearing that year—and on the sand next to her, a brand-new sarong, still furled in its store-packaged ribbon. Also present: signs of the mild agitation people display on the first day of a holiday, an eagerness coupled with a daunting sense of vacancy, of a big hole waiting to be filled. When Sean went to the bathroom, I kept her in my line of vision as she scrolled through her phone, then held it up, small lips pursed, for a selfie.

Debit card: L Fletcher Davies, Sean murmured, his chair sinking a little into the sand as he slipped back into his seat. Address on luggage: 11a Stanley Terrace, W11.

Lulu, I countered. I couldn’t help myself. The four letters were strung in gold on a chain around her neck.

He smiled, pleased with me, then jerked his chin at my phone, saying time to get trawling.

I looked at him: Really?

I wish I could say it was conscience that initially held me back, or at the very least foreboding. But I’d be lying. We shouldn’t even have been there. The Picasso napkin ploy had gone to plan, and Sainte-Cécile-sur-Mer would have been two days behind us. Except I’d gotten ill—some kind of virus that left me wasted and bedridden in the hotel. It was searingly hot. Music, a soft jazz, swam against the murmur and shuffle of waves. Sand slid silkily between my bare toes. I wrinkled my nose, one shoulder raised in a reluctant shrug. But I’d gotten the mood wrong. His smile had gone. Ali, he said, and I could feel the cold of him like steel across my cheek.

It wasn’t the money. There was enough in the hotel safe to get us where we wanted, even—a new, dangerous thought—go our separate ways. No, my hesitation was the problem; he’d taken it personally. He liked us to be in sync. Two parts of the same smoothly functioning machine.

And, maybe, he was right. She was the perfect mark. Tourists usually are. The south of France may not be India, where eighty rupees pass through a person’s fingers as easily as eight, and where you could say I’d become who I was. But a fish out of water is a fish out of water whatever water it’s out of. Isolation makes mugs of us all. We all make our worst decisions when we have a lot on our mind.

I adjusted the strings on my bikini top, pulling the knot so tight it bit at my neck. I’d been for a swim, and the towel between me and the wooden seat was damp. I tasted salt on my lips, felt the loss of the heat-heavy afternoon. It was me who’d begged for one last day on the beach. I’d been holed up in the hotel room. I wanted to be out in the sun. Maybe I’d snag a Jet Ski. Maybe even get to read the book I’d found on a train: the Trojan siege told from the perspective of the women. I forced myself to smile, hold his gaze. It was one of his tests. After a few long seconds, his jaw relaxed and he gave a small nod. Was that even a wink? I felt a flood of relief. My hands, I realized, were shaking.

I picked up my phone and got to work. Facebook, Insta. Didn’t take long to find what we needed. A double-barreled surname is a gift.

Sean flapped open his newspaper—a four-day-old Sunday Times. I could feel his eyes on me above the pages as I got to my feet.

Raoul’s was one of several casual bars that fringed this small crescent bay—sand under foot, director’s chairs, umbrellas, a bustling trade of goat cheese salad and steak haché carried aloft on oval trays. It was drawing close to lunchtime and the tables were filling up, sun-dazed adults wandering up from the beach, trailing towels and small kids. Boats were moored out on the buoys now, their occupants swimming or bobbing ashore, pushing their dry clothes ahead of them in inflatable tenders. All these shiny happy people, all these creatures from another planet. This was the rush, the razzle-dazzle hour. It’d be quiet again by four.

I screwed up my eyes as I walked from shade into brightness, worked my way through the tables toward her. When I reached the back of her chair, I crouched down. The sole of one of her striped espadrilles still bore the price tag. Heat rose up from the sand. I could smell the coconut of her suncream.

"Mademoiselle? I straightened up. Je viens de trouver . . . I dangled a sliver of cotton decorated with glass beads and metal charms. Mademoiselle, est-ce que c’est à vous?"

She turned to face me then and, seeing her close up, I felt the stirrings of recognition.

Oh God. She blushed. I don’t understand.

Her voice was unknown to me. But the shape and position of her features, the essence of her face, were familiar. We looked alike, that was it: the same nebulous green/gray/blue eyes, the same pale skin, the same fine, straight hair.

I don’t speak French, she said.

She hadn’t noticed anything. But then I’m never really noticed. It’s why Sean chose me: the way I edge through the world unremarked, unwanted.

Oh, you’re English! I let out a small, exhausted exhalation of relief. Me too. I just found this—did you drop it?

She looked at the bracelet and at her wrist.

Er, I don’t . . .

She looked again, more thoughtfully, at the bracelet.

Oh . . . yes!

She extended her hand.

Thank you!

I hardened toward her then. It’s not true you can’t con an honest person, but it’s easier emotionally when they’re not. Hell, Sean was right. It would have been a mistake to pass her up. She was just like the rest of them: out for themselves.

Let me, I said, pulling back the tiny clasp with my fingers and holding it so as to attach it to her wrist.

Thanks, she said, and I bent over her, feeling her eyes skate over my head as I secured it. I studied her hands. Mine were steady again now that I was working. A pebble-shaped burn on the pulse point, quite recent, still red. Calluses on the back of the knuckles, a tiny ladder of white scars on her left index.

Don’t look; observe. Sean taught me that.

There, I said when I was done. Don’t lose it again.

She swung her wrist to admire the flash of junk. I won’t.

I straightened, tensing as his footsteps drew closer, small shivers of movement in the sand.

Lulu? His tone was both surprised and cautious, as one might gently admonish a small child. It is Lulu, isn’t it?

I turned then in time to see him loom into view, the full force of him. His dark hair was still damp, tousled, and his tan brought out the sharp blue of his eyes. He was sporting just the right amount of stubble (too much, and he can look a bit shady), and the careless lope of his walk gave you the impression he was both taller and broader than he really was. He was secretive about his age. I guessed him to be about forty, but he could pass for ten years younger. Ray-Ban Aviators attached to the top of his white T-shirt, revealing a triangle of muscular, smooth skin.

Or— He took a step back now. Am I wrong? Sorry. I thought I recognized you.

He looked at me, and then back to her. His smile was lopsided, boyish, diffident.

She had twisted around completely in her seat to fix him, her fingers toying with the letters on her necklace. The strap of her meshy pink bra slipped out from under her tank top.

No. No. Yes. I am Lulu . . . Who are you? Do we . . . ?

I wondered if he’d noticed our resemblance. Probably. The more similar someone is to you, the less objectively you weigh them up. Perhaps he knew we’d have a head start.

His teeth dug into his lower lip.

Val d’Isère? he said, tentatively. I’m John Downe.

Val d’Isère? Her eyes were searching his face. Were you a guest at the chalet? No. I’d remember. The Bar d’Alpine? Um. Oh God. Le Petit Danois! Carrie Bowman’s last-night party?

He tapped his forehead, a small dramatic movement, a magician producing a bunch of flowers from his sleeve. Carrie Bowman’s last-night party!

"Oh my God. That’s so weird. Yes. How do you know Carrie? Were you part of the Marlborough crowd?"

"Yeah. I adore Carrie."

He had moved around so she no longer had to strain to see him. His smile was full now, interested, engaged. He still had those manners he was brought up with. But it was more than that. In the full beam of his attention, you felt warm, like you were loved.

John Downe. She was gazing at his face as if restoring it to memory. Of course. God. Sorry, it was the end of a long season. I was wrecked that night.

Weren’t we all! he said.

I rolled my eyes. John. Honestly!

She looked from him to me, and back again. A pause and she said, So, you two here on holiday?

Yes, I suppose you could call it a holiday. He hooked his arm around my neck, squeezed it. Ellie’s on her way home from a course in Florence, and I’ve come out to join her for some R & R. He poked me in the ribs. She’s totally gassed to have the chance to spend time with her big embarrassing brother.

I watched the twitch in her zygomaticus major, the muscle on the side of the mouth that’s impossible to control. The involuntary movement caused a tiny quiver in her lower lip. She was pleased, but also satisfied at being proved right. He was older than me, yes, but in her judgment, way out of my league. I leaned into him sideways, feeling the support of his chest. He reached his arm across my shoulders. My big brother. I felt suspended for a moment, safe.

So, what kind of course? she asked.

I felt Sean tense. I knew, fresh from the Picasso sting, he was thinking history of art. But I’d seen her Instagram feed—the bread stretching from bowls of fondue, the ceremonial racks of sacrificial lamb, the totteringly flamboyant meringues. And I’d run my thumb over the scars.

Cookery, I said. Italian pasta.

Not Mansaro’s? she asked.

Sean’s breath brushed across my neck.

I shook my head. "I wish. Nothing so grand. Nonna’s Kitchen? I’d plucked the name from the ether. Basically, homemade pasta."

How wonderful. She looked amused. It makes me hungry just thinking of it. Wouldn’t one just love to tuck into a bowl of Nonna’s homemade pasta?

Come on then, we should probably . . . Sean hooked one thumb back at our table. Order food before the rush. He reached his hand out to shake hers. Lovely to see you again, Lulu. The way he said her name; it lingered in his mouth.

We began to move away. Our bare feet sank into the sand. The waiter with the lazy eye, the one who had snuck me a free croissant with my morning coffee, was standing aside to let us pass. A small boy had run up, his splayed feet sending little cascades. Disembodied sounds reached us from the beach like the chatter of birds. A woman somewhere screamed.

Unless . . . I wish I hadn’t turned so quickly because I caught the eagerness in her eyes, the vulnerability. My jaw slackened—in appeal or warning. But it was too late. Sean’s hand was pressing into my back, his thumbnail sharp against my skin. He released me, and she gestured, fingers fluttering, at the empty seats to either side of her.

. . . you’d like to join me?

Sean always said the secret of a good con is working out what someone wants and delivering on that desire, but it’s not as easy as it looks. I mean, for starters, it’s not like people always know what they want. And sometimes they don’t want what they think they want, or don’t think they want what they do. You often have to wade through wishes and hopes, regrets and self-delusions, even to get near.

Take Lulu Fletcher Davies. At this stage in the game it wasn’t what she could give us but what we could give her. She was on her own, bored, hoping for an experience Sainte-Cécile-sur-Mer had so far failed to deliver. Handsome, friendly John Downe was here to provide it. The artistry was in the details. Human beings are hard-wired for self-protection. If he’d simply approached, claiming to know her, he’d have activated her defenses. Which is why a little sister was vital to the act. The business with the bracelet wasn’t just an excuse for an in. It proved our honesty. I was trustworthy, so was he. We’d leapfrogged her guard. When he moved toward her, she was already willing him to be part of her social circle; she was meeting him halfway.

The best grifters always work in pairs.

As soon as we sat down, she started blathering away—keen, now she’d caught us, to entertain. I memorized the details. She was an actor really—she’d had a small part in Downton Abbey; and had we seen that ad for Argos?—but it was so hard to get auditions, and cooking paid the bills. She was addicted to Instagram; she was trying to cut down, feel more centered, you know, in herself. In two days’ time, she was starting a job as a private chef in Provence. She’d worked in the same house the year before, only for different people—a really cool young couple, Olly Wilson, the guy who started the food delivery service, and his wife, Katya, the fashion designer? Did we know them? Heard of them? No? Maybe?

"Anyway, so Katya told the owner about me, and somehow I’ve got roped into doing it for the people who are renting the Domaine this year. I said yes because I wanted to get away—life can be so samey; I needed a change. They’re in publishing, and I’ve always quite wanted to write a novel, so . . . and I’ve scored a couple of nights with the house to myself at the end. But, I mean, the money’s nothing. It’s loose change. And I’m missing a party I really want to be at—Boo Watson’s? Do you know her? She was at St. Mary’s with me, but her brother Will was at Marlborough . . ."

Sean wasn’t sure, but the name was familiar.

I’d been smiling to show I was engaged. Now I picked up her book, a bestseller about two sisters growing up in war-torn Sudan, and asked her how she was finding it. I’d cried when I’d read it, but I’d seen the unbent spine and caught the fleeting upturned quiver of her nose so, before she could answer, I said, I gave up, too hard to get into.

"I know, right?" She slipped off her espadrilles, getting comfortable.

I mean give me a good magazine any day.

She pulled out the copy of Vogue I’d already spotted in her bag. Tra-la.

Ooh, I said, as if it was an enormous bar of chocolate she’d produced, or a small puppy.

I could feel Sean’s eyes on me, approving. He’d taught me how to do it, reflect a person back at them. People like others to be the same, for their lives to mirror theirs, and I was good at that. The more closely you align your interests or opinions, the more likely they are to trust you. The Chameleon Effect, he told me it was called, or Egocentric Anchoring. Human nature would be another term for it.

When our order came, she ate like a woman who loved her food, cracking open claws, pulling at the flesh, sucking greedily at shells. She said no to the bread—some sort of intolerance—but she scarfed down the chips, chomped at the char-grilled chicken. These prawns, she said, bringing a quiver of pale pink to her mouth, are as good as the ones in Ibiza last summer. Her lips glistened. Have you been?

No, but I really want to, I said.

"Oh my God, you must. Todd, my ex, and I had a ball. You’d love it. It’s just one long party."

The breeze dropped; the heat sank and turned to something solid like jelly. She changed into her bikini, using the cubicle out back, and we took our coffees down to the beach. Sean persuaded her to take his sunbed and he sat between us, facing the sea, cross-legged under the umbrella. She lay down before undoing her sarong, unfolding both sides like a fancy menu. Closing her eyes, she let out a small sigh. Her eyelashes were blue-black against her freckled skin. Her stomach was pale and curved. Sean leaned back and caught my eye. He was enjoying himself. It had begun to bug me how much he liked to get one over on a certain kind of woman. Revenge on the society mother who’d ignored him? Or on the fiancée who’d ditched him? Either way, he didn’t like women to be better than him. It was important, around Sean, to lay low.

On Lulu, I was looping back and forth. I’d felt bad because she was a failed actor, and then OK again because it seemed like a hobby. She was loaded, that was obvious: even without parents who lived in Dubai for tax, I’d seen the price tag on the espadrille. I liked her appetite, the way she ate, her zest, but then she’d say something snooty about Essex girls or the French, and I’d think, you deserve what you get. I thumbed through her magazine: expensive clothes and ridiculously strapped sandals—another world. It contained a free sample of face cream. I peeled it out of its metal foil. It smelled of hot plastic.

As her energy dropped, she started moaning—about her mother, who was interfering, and her friend Boo, who was irritating; even her ex-boyfriend, Todd, who, to be honest, did sound quite the creep: He was waiting outside the bar when I came out, to see if I needed a lift home, and I’m like ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ But none of it seemed to trouble her. As she droned on, with her eyes closed, I studied her uncreased face, just flickering, and found myself wondering what it must be like to be her, to live inside her skin. She had grown up loved, cosseted. And for some reason, in that moment, I felt a skewer of such intense curiosity, such a painful kind of longing to feel that for myself, I had to look away.

The sun had lowered into a pinky haze on the horizon, the water melted to liquid silver, when the waiter came down with our bill. Brown seagulls were teasing the waves. Up at the bar, they were raking under the tables now, clearing and clattering, getting ready for the evening shift. Sean had started preparing our escape, and Lulu was leaning on her side, her elbow doing the heavy lifting, her eyes watching his mouth as he seeded thoughts of the following day: a plan to take a boat out to the islands, where we could find a quiet bay, swim, get away from the crowds. There was a lovely hotel with a restaurant, though stick-in-the-mud little sis Ellie here wasn’t keen. His arms rose lazily to encompass the emptying beach, the pockmarked sand, and then paused in midair, as if welcoming the waiter into our midst.

My treat, he said, scrambling to his feet. Definitely on me.

Lulu tried half-heartedly to protest. No, no, I ate so much. I drank all that wine.

But Sean had ducked out from under the umbrella and, reaching into the back pocket of his navy shorts, produced the CDG black leather holder he’d filched from the American student in Madrid. He handed his credit card to the waiter, then keyed in the number and stood back, entirely nonchalant.

I watched him. He’d timed the mention of the boat trip just right; not actually inviting her, but leaving the possibility hanging that we’d meet again, that the relationship had a future. The bill he’d treated casually—hadn’t even checked the amount—and how deft his fingerwork with the wallet: the way he flipped it open with the thumb of one hand, cursory, practiced, as blasé with the contents as any arrogant hedge fund manager or whatever he’d told her he was.

The waiter—the older one with a crucifix nestling in his salt-and-pepper chest hair—was having trouble. He apologized in French; Sean, unconcerned, told him it didn’t matter. The waiter tried a second time, and a third, and then, shaking his head, handed the card back.

Sean tutted in frustration. Damn. It’s got damp, I think. He rubbed it on the side of his shorts and then looked at it closely. I dunno. Flicking open the wallet. The other’s Amex and I’m not sure that you . . . ?

I took up a handful of sand and let it run out through my fingers.

The waiter shook his head.

I breathed in slowly and pushed myself up. I’ll go back to the room, I said. Get my wallet.

Lulu stirred into life then. No, she said. Stay there, she said. It’s fine. Let me. Finding her card in a dinky burlap purse (LOVE spelled out in silver beads), she slotted it into the machine. She didn’t even glance at the bill, still scrunched in Sean’s hand, with its itemized list of our day’s expenditure: the early morning grands crèmes and sunbeds, and the ice creams, the aperitifs, the cocktails, the rosé, the food, les petits cafés.

Pay me back another time. Tomorrow.

You’re a doll.

Or, she began, I don’t know if you’re doing anything later. I mean we could go back and shower and then . . .

Sorry to be a wet blanket, I said. John—you know we’ve promised?

He nodded slowly. Damn.

I explained, underlining the weight of this previous commitment, about the aunt who lived up in the hills with whom we’d promised to have dinner. I was sorting my stuff while I talked, handing back the magazine, and her fancy lotion, not looking at her, not quite ready to see her disappointment. Sean was dusting the sand off his legs and shaking his hands through his hair. Lulu flapped her sarong out, rolled it and rewrapped it, and then the three of us walked back up the beach, around the side of the bar, and to the road.

Sainte-Cécile is on the far left of the French Riviera as you look at the map, a fair hike from St. Tropez, not far from the fleshpots of Marseille. Which is not to say it doesn’t have its own grandeur. Monopoly villas scatter the dark green hillside above and rows of white yachts line the harbor, the occasional Russian oligarch holed up on the horizon in a vast gleaming canister. We were around the headland from the main port, in the blue-collar, low-rent end of town. The hotels that lined the main drag, a dusty, utilitarian stretch, were mainly modern boxes with ragged outbuildings, though a few had palm trees and patches of grass, maybe even a fenced-off pool. I thought Lulu would head for one of those, but she stayed with us—moaning again about that impending job of hers—until we reached the flat, unprepossessing entrance of La Belle Vue.

Oh, you’re here too? she said as we went through the sliding doors. The small reception area was sometimes unattended, but that evening a neat blond young woman was sitting behind the desk. It was hot in the room and she was fanning herself with a Hertz rental car leaflet. Were you also late to book? Lulu said. "I don’t know whether there is a convention in town, or whether it’s just the French’s absurd obsession with August, but when I tried there was just nothing."

It wasn’t good, her staying here. Too close for comfort. Beggars can’t be choosers. I tried to speak softly. The receptionist, pausing her fanning, looked up.

I’m this way, Lulu said, pointing to a fire door on the right leading to a staircase.

I gave her a careful, damp hug and turned to the back door. My skin felt sweaty and tight; in my head I was already crossing the courtyard toward the annex and our quarters overlooking the car park. I would run a shower. It was all right. It was over. Our day on the beach was gratis. All expenses paid. The best kind of scam when the victim doesn’t even realize they’ve been scammed. Tomorrow, Lulu would find a note; a family crisis that meant we’d suddenly had to leave.