Page 67 of The Island of Lost Girls

The woman is flustered. She has the look of someone who’s been flustered all her life.

‘I was hoping you could help me,’ she says, digging in her bag as she speaks.

Oh, hell, thinks Mercedes, now’s not the time to be selling me stuff. Surely you can see that? But she scrapes on and waits for the woman to continue.

‘I’m looking for my daughter.’

‘And she was here, sinjora?’

The woman shakes her head. Finds what she’s looking for and draws a piece of paper from her bag. ‘No. She’s missing. She went missing ten months ago and I just got information she might be on La Kastellana. Come for the party.’ She hands her the paper. ‘She’s seventeen,’ she says.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Mercedes, sympathetically, and takes the paper. Pretends to glance at it, while checking that the meat’s not catching in the heat. ‘That must be hard for you.’

‘I was wondering if you could maybe put this up somewhere? It has my number on it. Maybe someone’s seen her. Maybe she’ll come here at some point … ’

Her customer interrupts. ‘Is this going to take much longer?’

Rude.

‘All our food is cooked from fresh, sinjor,’ she says smoothly. ‘It won’t be long.’

She turns back to the woman. ‘Of course. Maybe you should try the big restaurant up the hill, too? Mediterraneo? They always have staff from off-island. Waitresses especially. Passing through. This place is more … ’ she waves her spatula behind her ‘ … local.’

‘Yes,’ says the woman. ‘I’m going to try there next. Thanks.’

She turns away. Mercedes stuffs the paper in her apron pocket and assembles the impatient man’s flatbread. She calls to the next person in line. ‘Tarde! Chicken or lamb? Or halloumi? We have excellent halloumi.’

After the dark and the crowds, Mediterraneo is a paradise of clarity and cool air. It’s the sort of place whose discreet, enveloping doors, designed at once to showcase the interior and hide the diners, Gemma has been looking at her whole life. From the outside, longing to go in. The glass wall that holds the door spans the entire end of the street. There is nowhere to go but here, it proclaims. And if we turn you away, there is nowhere to hide your shame.

Two burly men in dark suits and dark glasses flank the door. Beyond, a lobby: bright white walls and a floor of Moroccan blue tiles, and a small black podium behind which stands a middle-aged man in a dinner jacket. The restaurant is hidden discreetly behind a high, stuccoed wall. All she can see is a glitter of glass and chrome and ceiling fans and, beyond, the velvet mystery of the night sky.

Will she ever get used to this? she wonders, as the doormen, like automata, push open a door each at their approach and they sweep through.

The floor looks rock-hard and slippery, but it has been treated with something that holds and cushions her soles and heels, and she feels stable on her feet for the first time since they left the car. She sees a strange micro-expression flit across the greeter’s face – some urgency, some tiny moment of panic – then she sees his hand reach beneath the desk. Pressing a button, she thinks. And then the expression goes away and his face lights up.

‘Sinjora Meade!’ he cries, all expansive arms. ‘Welcome back! How is New York? We’ve missed you!’

Sinjora, thinks Gemma. That’s Mrs, isn’t it? Is he saying she’s her father’s wife?

‘New York is awful, Maurizio,’ says Tatiana, seeming unfazed by the address. ‘So glad to be back. What a crowd, though!’

‘Oh, I know,’ he replies complacently. ‘Every year, worse and worse.’

Someone comes bustling round the screen. An old man, dressed as a comedy gigolo. Jeans with knife-edge creases, an emerald silk shirt unbuttoned to the waist, salt-and-pepper hair moussed stiff to disguise male pattern baldness, a moustache that looks like a piece of carpet.

‘Tatianabela!’ he cries, throws his arms out wide. ‘Como estan la bela sinjorina? How we have missed you! What a joy to have you back! Now the soirée can really begin!’

‘Sergio,’ says Tatiana, and allows herself to be kissed. ‘How are you?’

‘I am well. But never happy when you’re not with us,’ he cries.

Behind her, Hanne giggles, and Sara pinches her to shut her up.

‘Why do you stay away so long?’ he continues. ‘You know La Kastellana is empty without you! Please.’ The arms fling wide again, ushering them towards the inner entrance. ‘Go through. So many people have been asking for you.’

As the door opens, a roar of high-toned, confident conversation tumbles out. The soundproofing is astounding. Tatiana glides ahead, Sergio throwing shapes around her like a mime creating a queen, while the greeter smiles, smiles, smiles and bobs his head, dismissed.

Once Tatiana is out of sight, his smile drops away. As the girls follow in her wake, his eyes run up and down each of their bodies, nakedly assessing as they pass. He doesn’t even try to hide it.