Page 41 of The Island of Lost Girls

‘And I suppose I could be Bulgarian if I wanted,’ she continues. ‘That’s where Daddy started out. Though why anyone would choose to be Bulgarian is anybody’s guess.’

She stops. That was a set speech, thinks Mercedes, and now it’s done. Then she responds to Mercedes’ remark, as though she’s just made it. A funny way to do an interaction. As if it’s a list that needs ticking off. ‘We have ten,’ she says. ‘At least ten. I’ll have to count. There’s London and the Cotswolds, and Daddy’s shooting lodge in Scotland, though I’ve never actually been there because it’s for entertaining his business associates. And New York. And the south of France. And he’s got a big farm on the South Island of New Zealand for if nuclear war breaks out. And the vineyard. That’s in Tuscany … ’

‘There are vineyards on La Kastellana,’ says Mercedes. She’s starting to feel impatient, a bit belittled by all this listing of places she’s never been, and mostly never heard of.

Tatiana’s chin jerks upwards. ‘This is a proper vineyard,’ she says. ‘Our wines win prizes. And LA, of course. Daddy does lots of business in LA. And the Caymans. And the ski lodge in Colorado. Ooh, it’s the best snow up there. It’s like Christmas icing … ’

Mercedes has never seen snow, except in movies. And she has no idea what Christmas icing is.

‘And of course now we’ve got the house here. It’ll be finished by the end of the summer. You can come and swim in the pool,’ she says grandly.

‘And your mama?’ she asks, to change the subject. ‘Where she live?’

Another stiffening. Tatiana’s eyes drop to the stony ground. She picks up a pebble and hurls it at the sea. ‘Oh, her? Nowhere. She’s dead.’

Mercedes feels a chill as she remembers that beautiful, sad lady.

‘I so sorry,’ she says. ‘When she dead?’

Tatiana finds another pebble and throws it after the last. ‘Oh, ages ago,’ she says, in a voice so full of false indifference that it’s evident that the feelings are still strong.

‘I so sorry,’ Mercedes says again. Her parents have their faults, but she cannot imagine a world without them. The very thought raises a lump in her throat, fills her mouth with salt.

Tatiana doesn’t speak for a few seconds, and, when she does, she has reverted to her gay social lilt.

‘Oh, God, it was yonks ago. And anyway, I’ve got Daddy, and I always got on better with him, frankly. She was a bit of a third wheel, truth be told.’

The phrase is beyond Mercedes’ English. But she gets the gist. Matthew is Tatiana’s favourite, and Tatiana is his.

‘What … kill her?’ she asks.

Abruptly, Tatiana leaps to her feet. ‘Oh, who cares? She was weak. That’s all that matters. She was weak and I don’t miss her.’ She drops a diaphanous red and orange paisley kaftan over her head and turns on a beaming smile as her face emerges. ‘Come on.’ She bends to retrieve the mask and fins, pushes them towards Mercedes. ‘Let’s go back to the boat. It’s nearly teatime.’

Mercedes can tell the time, roughly, by the sun. It is still comfortably high in the sky. A good couple of hours before she’ll be expected for evening service. And the thought of going on that boat where no one else has gone is thrilling. She gets to her feet and follows in Tatiana’s wake.