The Greeter

She's standing there in the almost-deserted car park, waiting for me. A chill wind is blowing down from the east, down from the snows of the High Alps. She looks cold and bored in her thick green parka, her fur-lined hood. She's standing next to my new car.

It's a long way from Chamonix to Grenoble, where the dealers are big enough to give you a choice. It was good that Citroën had delivered the pick-up right to my doorstep. It had been just a bus ride to get here.

The Haute-Savoie is beautiful and frigid, great for tourists, walkers and skiers. But it's a lonely life if you're a single mechanic, driving the long kilometres between isolated farms. This new pick-up will make all the difference.

She gives me the key and I unlock it. She takes off her coat, places it in the back then eases into the passenger seat. What a contrast we make: me, the burly worker in my blue overalls and heavy boots; her, petite .. and of course I can't help noticing her enticing shoulder-length curls, her short peasant-style dress, and silky black tights.

I concentrate as she runs me through the complex controls. She has the soft local accent, it's cute.

Will she be my point of contact going forwards? I consider the matter but on balance I doubt it. Chamonix is such a small place, there are no good servicing facilities here. I resign myself to a yearly trek across the mountains back to the dealers.

“I suppose I won't be seeing you again,” I say, as she finishes up.

She looks at me appraisingly.

“You could.”