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And he who pays the piper … Tatiana might be princess, but Matthew, in this household, is still king.
Deep in the house, the buzzer sounds. The front gate, from the tone. A few seconds later, the door to Paulo’s quarters opens and he heads up the path, pulling on his jacket as he goes.
‘Are we expecting someone?’ she asks. With no Nora to keep track, there’s every chance that there are guests that Tatiana’s failed to mention. Please let it not be, she thinks. The bedrooms are all ready, but Tatiana can’t be expected to show her guests the way to them herself. I’m already an hour late getting down to town. They’re going to be worrying that I’m not coming.
A little shake of the costly head. Tatiana stretches her arms up and poses in the cooling sun like a Fifties mannequin.
‘So you haven’t asked a thing about me,’ she says. No interest in the doorbell. Everything someone else’s problem. ‘Don’t you want to know if I’ve got a boyfriend?’
An announcement, not a question. Mercedes leafs through the guest list in her head. Presumably one of the houseguests. The prince? No. Since his divorce he has never been seen in the company of a woman his own age. The film producer? Could be. She’s looked him up on the internet, and he looks as though his ancestors have evolved after spending fifty generations underground. Though a private plane can improve a man’s attractiveness a lot. Then she glances at Tatiana and sees that she’s batting her eyelashes coquettishly. She’s clearly pleased with herself.
The actor. It has to be the superannuated movie star. ‘Jason Pettit?’
Tatiana blinks and looks smug.
‘Nooo!’
She gets the tone right. Just impressed enough, but not so much that it gives the impression she doesn’t think Tatiana could pull a film star.
‘You’re not to say a thing,’ says Tatiana. ‘It’s early days, and he’s terribly paranoid about the papers.’
‘Of course! Of course!’ Apart from to Laurence, maybe. And her mother, for she tells Larissa most things. And Felix, of course, because he likes a laugh.
‘And for God’s sake tell the other maids not to pester him for autographs. He’s here on holiday. He doesn’t need a load of fangirls fawning over him.’
Mercedes nods solemnly. She remembers Jason Pettit from the 1990s. His stock-in-trade romantic comedies were seen as wholesome enough for the monthly screenings in the market square. But she doubts Ursula and Stefanie will have more than the vaguest notion of who he is. They’re only in their thirties, after all, and he’s been desperately giving speeches about global warming and social justice in pursuit of profile for a good fifteen years.
‘I’ll make sure of it,’ she assures her, with confidence.
‘And the prince, of course. They know to curtsey, don’t they?’
‘They do. We’ll curtsey as though he were the duke,’ she says, and Tatiana laughs.
Paulo comes back and stands in the doorway. They look up.
‘Sorry, Ms Meade,’ he says. ‘Wine merchant’s here.’
‘What?’ Tatiana looks at her dainty little gold watch. ‘Darling,’ she says to Mercedes, ‘can you deal with it? I have to get into the bath.’
Laurence has a box of Krug in his hands. Grins when she steps onto the road.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘This fell out of your consignment.’
Paulo, confident that she can defend herself against a vintner, wanders away.
‘Thank you so much!’ she says loudly. ‘That’s so kind. We might not even have noticed, to be honest!’
‘Well, that’s as may be, but I’d be beating myself up forever anyway,’ he says.
As he puts it into her waiting hands, he leans towards her ear and says, quietly, ‘And I need to talk to you.’
‘Not here,’ she says.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘But soon. Will you be in town tonight?’
‘Of course. I’ll be at the restaurant. Working.’
‘I’ll come and find you.’
Please don’t, she thinks. ‘Okay,’ she says.
