Page 86 of The Island of Lost Girls

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Tatiana’s cabin is as big as the bedroom she shares with Donatella. And the ceilings are lower, and to Mercedes’ eye it’s uglier. But still, every time she’s led down here, the luxury always makes her heart beat faster. The deep plush carpet, the upholstery that both cradles and supports, the opulent overkill of hanging full-length brocade curtains to cover the porthole. She despises Tatiana Meade, but oh, she would like to be her.

The walls are lined with wood. Wood that looks like leopardskin. Floor to ceiling, corner to corner. Every piece of furniture – desk, dressing table, chaise longue, the bucket chairs, the headboard surround – is framed in the same wood. Painted with layer upon layer of varnish until the wood looks as though it’s been sealed in amber.

It actually hurts to look at. Mercedes cannot imagine being in here when the boat is actually moving. I would be sick in seconds, she thinks.

‘So what do you think?’ asks Tatiana.

There’s been a new decorative feature put in, since Mercedes was last in here. Above the bed, hanging from the wall, four pictures: framed photographs, each the size of an atlas. All of Tatiana. Tatiana with her chin on her knuckles. Tatiana with her hands either side of her face, the skin pulled back so that her eyes are delightfully almond-shaped and her jaw is raised. Tatiana with long hair, tipping back on a chair with a coquettish smile, gravity doing the rest of the work. Tatiana taken from above: all eyes, no chin.

She smiles gamely and lets out a oao. ‘Amazing pictures,’ she says, honestly. Never having held a camera, she knows nothing about the photographic arts. But she can tell that the people who took them worked hard for their money.

‘Aren’t they?’ replies Tatiana, complacently.

Mercedes reflects once again on the misfortune that led to the girl’s inheriting none of her beautiful mother’s features. Still: there can never have been any doubt in Matthew Meade’s mind as to who her father was.

Tatiana looks pleased at her reaction. ‘They are rather spesh, aren’t they? We’re getting a proper portrait painted, for the new house. You’ll oao your head off when you see that.’

‘Yes, I am sure,’ says Mercedes drily. I’ll be much more careful in the future, she thinks, about who I form my instant friendships with.

Tatiana lays a hand flat against a panel in the wall, and a door springs open. Beyond, a corridor lined with rails and shelves and drawers, the facings all in the leopard wood, and, at the end, a shiny white marble bathroom.

‘Ugh, God,’ says Tatiana. ‘I’m sick of this. It’s so hard to keep it organised when it’s all so cramped. Right, we have to get this lot out. I’ve got my autumn wardrobe arriving on Thursday.’

She’s trying to make it up to me, Mercedes thinks. She can never just say sorry. So she’s doing it with stuff.

A pile of cloth. A pile of beads. Another of bracelets. Mercedes has never owned such wealth. I can give some to Donatella, she thinks. The clothes won’t fit her.

She fingers the fine gauze of the kaftan that caused her such embarrassment in the market square. It’s beautiful. A rich, red and orange paisley pattern. And silk, she realises, though she’s never touched silk before.

What a world they live in, she thinks. Where girls can walk about in clothes like this and not have their heads shaved for shame.

‘And of course … ’ Tatiana jumps to her feet ‘ … you’ll need something for the party.’

‘Party?’

Tatiana sighs, rolls her eyes. ‘Yuh-huuh.’

‘What party?’

‘The housewarming, stupid! What party did you think I meant?’

‘Housewarming?’

She stops. Her brows knit.

‘You’ve not had an invitation?’

Mercedes, bewildered, shakes her head.

Tatiana looks thunderous. Oh, God, thinks Mercedes. What have I done now?

But it seems the thunder is not about her, this time. ‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ she says, through gritted teeth. ‘Hang on. Look—’

She dives into the wardrobe, re-emerges with the loveliest dress Mercedes has ever seen. Pink satin. No – flamingo. Like a ballerina dress: a princess neckline and long tight sleeves, and a skirt that flares and flares and ripples like water all the way to the ankle.

‘Try that on.’ Tatiana tosses it at her as though it were an old rag. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’