Page 66 of The Island of Lost Girls

The crowds on Duke Street are so thick that the Merc is barely moving, and is attracting self-righteous thumps on its roof and bonnet from passers-by. Paulo has had to turn on the wipers a couple of times, to clear off plastic beer cups that have landed on the windscreen.

‘We’re almost at Harbour Street,’ she says. ‘It’s not far. It’s uphill, but it’s only a couple of hundred metres.’

Gemma feels a bit worried. She’s not practised walking in these shoes. This girly little pink shift dress Tatiana insisted she put on would fly up over her face if she were to go for a burton, and she feels conspicuous enough as it is.

They get out, and the air fills with whistles and catcalls. Gemma feels awkward, but Sara looks pleased. She laughs and tosses her hair and does a little wiggle in her Versace bodycon.

‘Save it,’ snaps Tatiana, from inside the car. ‘No point wasting yourself on a bunch of car mechanics. Or is that what you want, Sara?’

Sara looks chastened. She straightens up and assumes what she imagines to be the haughty demeanour of a supermodel. There will be some real ones there tonight, Tatiana says. For them to look at and learn from.

Ahead, the street rises sharply towards the brightly illuminated restaurant at the top. But someone has made steps in the pavement and they can, at least, keep their soles and heels horizontal.

‘Come on,’ orders Tatiana, and sets off up the hill.

‘See you later,’ Wei-Cheng says over her shoulder. Paulo nods and gets back into the car. He’s going to have a laugh turning that round, thinks Gemma, and falls into line behind her hostess.

‘This is fun,’ says Felix, and flips three chicken breasts in one smooth swish of his spatula.

‘You’ve got a funny idea of fun,’ Mercedes says. She’s never regained her appetite for the festa, even though it’s barely recognisable as the loaded ceremony of her childhood. But if the sight of St James still chills her, his effect on Larissa is dramatic. She’s as strong as a horse, but July makes her weak. The firework frames rising on the marina wall, the flags unfurling across the narrow streets of the Old Town, the plaster popes on their marbled wooden podiums – they all seem to drain the life from her. By festa night, the Re’s busiest night of the year, she always succumbs to a howling, nauseated headache, and has to retire to bed.

Mercedes’ contract stipulates that she must have the festa night and the morning after off as holiday, always. It was the one thing she insisted on. Even back then, she knew that her mother would never be right on St James’s.

‘Well, it’s the most time I’ve spent with you all week.’

She bashes his hip with hers. ‘I’ve got the morning off, too. We can go catch those lobsters, hey?’

‘Jesu,’ he says, ‘you know how to make a man happy. I’d been hoping for a lie-in.’

‘Shhhhht,’ she replies. ‘Do your work.’

Five hundred flatbreads. They should have ordered more. Year on year, the festa grows. Since the duke’s PR firm placed a clutch of travel features in the international press, the number of people getting off the ferry has doubled. The marina is full, as well. The yacht-owners will all be up at Mediterraneo tonight, guzzling champagne and nibbling tepidly on langoustine canapés with their white, white teeth.

She leans out into Calle del Puerto to see if the queue has shortened. Glimpses Tatiana’s car, pulled up at the end, and two of the girls just vanishing up the steps on the Via del Duqa.

She turns back to the next customer in line, gives him her dignified island smile. ‘Tarde!’ she says. ‘Chicken, or lamb?’

‘No more sausages?’ he asks.

‘Sorry. All gone,’ she says.

He rolls his eyes, as though coming to a local restaurant at half-past ten on a festa night should still entitle him to the unchanging menu of a McDonald’s. ‘Chicken, I guess,’ he says, grudgingly.

‘Harissa? Garlic sauce?’

‘Both?’

‘Sure.’

A woman hovers to her right. Plain khaki slacks and a T-shirt, large bag on her shoulder. Out of place among the tipsy crowds, her brow knitted pensively. Mercedes throws her a smile. She takes it as an invitation, and steps forward.

‘Oi!’ someone calls from further down the line. ‘Queue’s this way!’

The woman looks up, rattled. ‘No – sorry – I’m not after food,’ she calls.

The queue closes ranks and watches her like a hawk. Mercedes scrapes and flips, scrapes and flips, and waits. The bucket by her feet is only a third full. Soon they’ll be breaking out the wings and promoting halloumi.

‘How can I help you, sinjora?’ she asks.