Page 1 of The Island of Lost Girls

1 | Mercedes

‘Mercy!’

Mercedes feels her shoulders rise. How she hates that nickname. Thirty years she’s had to tolerate it, without the power to fight back.

‘How are you, Tatiana?’ she asks.

‘I’m fine, darling. Well, apart from having to make my own bloody phone calls.’

‘Oh, dear. Where’s Nora?’

She’s been expecting Tatiana’s personal assistant to call for days. That sinking feeling she’s had about the silence looks as though it was justified.

‘Oh, gone,’ says Tatiana, with that special brightness that means the opposite. ‘I got rid of the silly bitch.’

‘Oh,’ says Mercedes. She liked Nora. Those efficient American tones on the phone always reassured that chaos was not about to break the door down.

‘Anyway,’ says Tatiana, the employee already consigned to her internal rubbish bin, her non-disclosure agreement an assurance that there will never be any comeback, ‘at least I know I can rely on you.’

‘I’m not sure you should,’ replies Mercedes, evenly. ‘For all you know, I could be a secret agent.’

Tatiana takes it as a joke. Oh, lord, that laugh. That tinkling socialite laugh that tells you that the laugher has no sense of humour. My greatest power, Mercedes thinks, is my talent for being underestimated. Tatiana would never think I had the imagination to betray her.

‘Will we see you soon?’ she asks. They’ve been on tenterhooks for days, now, waiting for news.

‘Yes!’ cries Tatiana. ‘That’s why I’m calling! We’re coming in on Tuesday.’

Her mind starts racing. So much to do. So many people to tell. There’s still a fake tan stain that looks horribly like a streak of diarrhoea, left by some oligarch’s ex-wife on one of the white sofas, and Ursula’s doubtful it will ever come out.

‘Great!’ she replies, cheerily.

Would Nora Neibergall have booked the house out to a bunch of oligarchs’ exes last week if she’d still been in the job? Probably not. Everyone knows oligarchs are bloody animals. She’s clearly been gone a while, and nobody has passed the news on.

‘How many will you be?’ she asks. Tatiana’s casual ‘we’ has filled her with foreboding. ‘We’ could be anything. It could be two, or fifteen. Oh, God, where is Nora? Why does Tatiana have to fall out with the people who make other people’s lives easier? Flowers. Is it too late to order white roses? The urn in the entrance hall requires white roses. No other colour will do. House rule. Even in deepest December.

‘Oh, just me and a couple of girlfriends,’ says Tatiana.

Mercedes prickles with relief.

‘Well, four,’ she says. ‘But they’ll be sharing the back bedrooms.’

All she needs to know is in that sentence. Not really girlfriends, then.

‘And Daddy’s coming in on the boat on Thursday,’ she continues, ‘and there’s some others. But they’ll be coming on the heli, I think.’

Okay, VIPs. The duke only makes his helicopter available to people who matter. The rest have to charter their own.

‘Great. Should I book the boat for valeting?’

‘No,’ says Tatiana. ‘Don’t bother. He’s moved his Stag forward this year. They’re going out on Sunday morning, first thing, straight from the party. You can book for when they get back. Are you all terribly excited? I imagine a party like this is the most exciting thing you’ve all seen in ages.’

Yeah, that would suggest we were invited.

‘Of course,’ Mercedes replies, eventually. ‘St James’s week is always a special week.’

‘Yes, but the party,’ says Tatiana. ‘The island’s going to be buzzing with movie stars!’

Movie stars are the least of her problems.