Page 8 of The Island of Lost Girls

Sergio pokes her this time, and she springs from her daydream and steps forward.

Donatella starts to shift uneasily as the old man’s collapsed and waxy visage enters her sightline. Only life appeals to Donatella. Death disturbs her so much that she’s generally excused coffin viewings. But not today. Failing to pay her respects would be a slap in the face to his son. Even though he isn’t here.

She turns, abruptly, and buries her face in her mother’s bosom. ‘Want to go, want to go, want to go,’ she mutters.

Larissa freezes. A spectacle. She’s making a spectacle of them. Attracting attention. After all they’ve taught her, the care they’ve taken, still she’s attracting attention.

‘Don’t be stupid, Donatella,’ growls her father.

‘Please.’ Donatella’s voice catches. She’s close to tears.

Larissa takes her by the shoulders and pushes her away. ‘Stop this. Stop it now. Stop.’

‘I CAN’T!’

The low-volume shifting murmur around them stops dead. Women, frowning. Always the women. Larissa and Sergio’s heads drop in shame. Mercedes hears the whispers, feels them pass the length of the room. Feels their chill. Who is that? The Delia girl, of course. What, the restaurant people? They can’t control their daughter? Have they no shame?

Sergio slaps his daughter on the cheek. A performative slap, but heartfelt nonetheless. See me? Head of my family. Disciplining my women. The way a man should do. ‘Pull yourself together!’ he barks.

Donatella’s voice cuts off with a startled hiccup. A shuffle and a sigh of approval all the way to the double doors. Girls should never shame their families. Everybody knows that. Good to see a father exert his authority, even if he did leave it a bit long.

Donatella presses her hand to her face. Walks forward, humbly. The way she’s supposed to.

The reception door opens and a castle guard steps forward to block their way. Mercedes hears the brief roar of cocktail party voices, which cut off as it closes.

They’re having a party. And here we are, she thinks, with no duke.

Out from the noise step three people. A man, huge and heavy-set; dark grey suit and a thick head of hair as black as his thin black tie. A beautiful, melancholy woman with smooth blonde hair who looks as though her heart is broken. And a girl. Around Mercedes’ age; plain and solid, with her father’s heavy eyebrows, a skirt so short that Mercedes hears a hiss of indrawn breath among the solteronas, and white socks. White socks and black sandals, in a place of grief! And she’s skipping. Skipping out ahead as though she owns the castle!

Mercedes prickles with a strange admiration. Imagine! Being so sure of yourself that the rules don’t matter! She’s seen them down at the harbour. Yacht people. Their boat is the same as the other boats. Big and white and pointy. Always the woman, standing on the deck, gazing down with that tragic face, something the colour of amber in a glass that chinks with ice. There’s a woman like that on every boat, like the figureheads they used to have on old sailing ships, only living and breathing. Sort of. The boat – which is it? They’re all the same. She tries to remember the name painted on the side. Princess something. What is it? Princess …

‘Tatiana!’ the man’s voice rings out. ‘Slow down!’

The girl stops and turns round.

‘Stay with us,’ he says. He holds out a hand. She skips back to take it.

‘Good girl,’ he says. Soothingly approving, as though talking to a horse. The girl beams up into his face. The melancholy woman watches them and something ugly passes across her features. Envy? wonders Mercedes. Hate? Disgust? She can’t tell. Then the expression smooths away, and the woman is only sad again.

She’s the only one who cares about the duke, she thinks. The others aren’t sad at all.

‘Who are they?’ mutters Donatella from the side of her mouth. She already seems to have forgotten her humiliation. And her fear of the corpse.

‘I don’t know everything,’ Sergio mutters back.

Larissa purses her lips, then whispers. ‘The new duke’s friend,’ she says, ‘from London. They do business together.’

Sergio looks sceptical. ‘But you said the young duke is in New York,’ he says.

Larissa tuts. ‘London, New York, it’s all the same. It’s not here, is it?’

‘But how do you know that?’ he asks.

‘I listen, Sergio.’ She stares ahead. ‘I listen.’

They toast the duke with Pepsi-Cola.

Half the population of Kastellana Town has had the same idea, and, despite the sombre occasion, the mood up on Temple Plain is almost festive. And though the throng of friends and neighbours means that she never gets to taste more than a sip of the special drink before it’s snatched and passed on, Mercedes doesn’t mind that much. Her parents are so caught up in showing off their wealth by offering around this drink all the way from America that it renders them inattentive. And inattentive parents, as far as she’s concerned, are the best sort. As far as all the children are concerned.