Page 138 of The Island of Lost Girls

57 | Mercedes

As she’s taking the newest round of smeary glasses to the kitchen, she notices that water is beginning to seep from under the safe room door. Not much yet. Only a little puddle; could still just be the product of careless floor-washing. But it’s coming now, creeping outwards a millimetre at a time. Not long until there’s enough drama to involve Paulo.

Roberto is in a bad mood, banging bread dough out on the marble rolling board, knocking it down for its second proving. Twelve loaves, part baked and sealed in plastic, are to go down to the Princess Tatiana, along with the feast of pies and cheeses, hams and pastries that Matthew has ordered to sustain the Stag.

‘They never damn well think, do they?’ He slams the dough down again, punches it as though it were his boss’s face. ‘I had it all under control and he adds an extra day, just like that.’

‘Honey,’ she says, ‘Stefanie and I spent twenty minutes getting Tatiana into her stays tonight. Count yourself lucky.’

Nuno is rolling pastry for croissants. ‘Has it shrunk, maybe?’

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘that’ll be it.’

‘I saw her,’ says Roberto. ‘Good lord. Still. It made me think: I might make crème caramel tomorrow.’

They all snigger. ‘What was she meant to be, anyway?’ asks Roberto.

‘Milady de Winter,’ she says. ‘In The Three Musketeers.’

‘Interesting. Doesn’t she get beheaded?’

‘We can but hope,’ she says drily.

They laugh. This week has tested all of them.

‘I think it’s more likely she’ll just cut off her circulation,’ she says. ‘Can I get to the dishwasher? I’ll get the sala squared away.’

‘Sure,’ he says.

Someone’s dropped cigar ash on the arm of the white sofa and she has a moment of wild rage. These people, these people. They have no respect. None. And then she remembers that she will never have to clean their shit again, and she calms down. Especially as she sees the opportunity it offers. She presses the intercom button and calls Ursula down from her room. Better, really, if she raises the alarm rather than Mercedes. Better to put as many layers of deniability between herself and the Meades as she can.

Ursula bends over the stain. ‘Oh, for fucksake,’ she says.

‘I know,’ says Mercedes. ‘I’m sorry.’

The tension is making her itch, inside. She wants to run about the room, screaming.

Ursula rubs the mark with her fingers and tuts. ‘The other covers are still in the laundry,’ she says.

‘Hell. Do you think you can get it out?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Bleach, maybe?’

‘Really? Can’t we try some of those stain things in the store cupboard?’

‘Sure,’ says Ursula. ‘We can try. But I think it’s going to come down to bleach in the end.’

Mercedes hands her the keys. ‘Can you have a look? See if you can find anything?’

‘Sure.’ She sighs and soft-shoes up the corridor. Mercedes waits. Grinds her teeth and waits. This is almost beyond bearing. So much could go wrong. So much.

And Ursula’s voice echoes down the hall, calling her name, and the beginning of the end begins.

‘Oh, God,’ she says.

‘Where’s it coming from?’ asks Ursula.

‘The safe room.’