Page 58 of The Island of Lost Girls

Donatella grimaces. ‘Sorry, Mersa,’ she says. The pet name that she uses when she’s trying to be nice.

‘Dammit, Donita. You’re such an arsehole. What did he really say?’

‘That man? No, really. He was saying something about paying you to be his daughter’s friend.’

Mercedes is stumped. She’s never heard of such a thing. Isn’t that the literal opposite of what a friend is?

‘No, I … ’ she says. ‘You’re … ’

Their father’s voice, raised too, responds. Already they’ve started up with the putas and the l’ostias, and the scattering of customers is raising amused Anglosphere eyebrows. Donatella shrugs. ‘Whatever. He said he’d come back later with someone to translate, so I guess we’ll find out.’

Meade returns as the first tourists are coming in off the beaches looking for cold drinks and aloe for their sunburns. This time, he has an entourage. He has Tatiana with him, and Luna Micaleff, the duke’s personal secretary. Sergio, lurking indoors, comes out the moment he sees them, smoothing his hair surreptitiously.

He avoids looking at his family. And though Mercedes pauses and watches for some greeting, Tatiana doesn’t look in her direction at all. She stands close to her father, looking up at him expectantly like a cat craving fish guts. I don’t actually matter, Mercedes thinks. Not me, myself, an individual. I could be any island girl she’s taken a fancy to, and if it’s not me, it’ll be someone else.

But still, she feels a prickle of anticipation.

The men shake hands solemnly, and Sergio leads them into the cool dark of the restaurant. He re-emerges, bottle of grappa in hand, and barks a coffee order at Larissa as though she were an employee rather than a wife. Their discussions didn’t end well. They’ve been ignoring each other for hours.

Larissa purses her lips and starts to wrestle with the Gaggia. She hates it. Always acts as though the hissing monolith contains a real live dragon.

‘I’ll take them in,’ offers Mercedes.

‘No you won’t,’ she snaps, and hands the cups one by one to a smirking Donatella.

Mercedes carries on taking orders, one eye on the glass doors. This is awful. What is she meant to do? They’re discussing her. Tatiana rambles around the restaurant, fingering things, while the men, heads bowed, conduct their solemn business. And then she clearly feels Mercedes’ eyes on her, for she looks up and meets them, and beams a golden smile on her.

She turns her back. It’s all too confusing. The terasa is calm. Everyone carries on drinking their sundowners as though this is an ordinary day.

After half an hour, the door slides back and her father appears once more. ‘Mercedes? Can you come in, please?’ he calls.

Sergio never says please or thank you to his family. She takes off her apron and goes in, her mother’s eyes boring into her back.

The room smells of grappa and testosterone. The three men sit at the table, smiling smugly. Tatiana dawdles in the back, tapping the lobster tank, feigning indifference.

‘Ah, Mercedes,’ says Matthew Meade.

‘’Riggio, Mr Meade,’ she says.

‘Come and sit down,’ says Mr Micaleff.

‘I prefer to stand,’ she says. She has a feeling that what little volition she has over her life choices is diminishing even further, and this small gesture of independence comforts her.

The men shrug. Whatever. They know where the power resides.

Sergio doesn’t speak. He is the junior partner in all of this, but he looks pleased with his bargain.

‘So, as you know,’ says Mr Micaleff, ‘Mr Meade’s daughter Tatiana is here for the summer holidays. I believe you’ve met?’

Mercedes nods. Tatiana gives a casual wave from the back of the room, as though she’s only elliptically involved.

‘And got on,’ says Mr Meade. ‘Very well, I’d say. Didn’t you, Mercedes?’

Mercedes swallows. Her mouth is dry.

‘So we’ve been talking with your father,’ continues Mr Micaleff, ‘and we think we’ve come to a happy agreement. Tatiana needs someone to play with. It’s awfully dull for her, sitting on the boat all day while her father’s working. She needs company. Entertainment. Someone she can talk to. And she’d like that someone to be you.’

I know I’m meant to be flattered, Mercedes thinks. But this is weird. As though she’s picked me off a shelf. She nods again.