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Laurence rolls his eyes. ‘I’ll pop a bottle in with the order,’ he says. ‘Maybe you could try drawing her attention to it?’
Mercedes laughs again. For a Europol agent, he’s still very keen on selling wine. ‘Sure. But I can guarantee she won’t listen.’
The phones emit another little buzz. Their pupils stray down, rise up again to each other’s faces.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, quietly. ‘I never feel as though much of what I give you can be useful.’
‘I have no real answer to that,’ he replies. ‘I’m a minor figure myself. Some of the stuff I pass up the line might well mean something to someone. I’m very unlikely to be told if it has no bearing on me directly. But you never know what knowing who was where when might mean to someone, somewhere. That’s why we pool resources. And with your duke keeping everything private right down to immigration records … ’
He breaks off as Mercedes’ mother, tucking her order pad into her apron pocket, comes to the table and kisses her daughter.
‘You’re early,’ says Larissa.
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Mama. I came to tell you I can’t work tonight. Tatiana called, and she’s coming in on Tuesday.’
‘Ah,’ says Larissa, and sits down.
‘Sorry,’ Mercedes says.
Larissa gives a shrug of resignation. ‘Nothing you can do about it. Did you eat already or do you want something now?’
‘I wish I could. But I’ve got to go to the florist and then I’ve got to get the house ready for the cleaners tomorrow. You should see how those women last week have left the bathrooms. Dark brown rings all round the baths. Like oil slicks.’
‘Ugh,’ says Larissa.
‘And she wants local lobster for Friday, of course. So I’ve got to find Felix, and there’s just no—’
‘It’s okay,’ says Larissa. There’s an edge of panic in her daughter’s voice. ‘You’re still doing the Saint’s day, though? Please say you are.’
Larissa still can’t name the Saint. In a way, she blames him for all her sadness.
She looks tired, thinks Mercedes. Sixty-seven’s not old, in the modern world, but it’s obvious that the work gets heavier each year and the bone spurs in her heels hurt more. I have to confront the Tatiana issue. She can’t keep me there forever. I’m forty-three and my mother limps by the end of the evening and I sleep alone in a single bed most nights of the week.
She puts a hand on her mother’s. Scars from a lifetime in a kitchen beneath her palm.
‘It’s not for much longer,’ she says, as she’s said for the past twenty years. ‘I’m done by the end of the summer, I swear.’
Larissa flips the tea towel from over her shoulder and flaps it at her. ‘Pfffft. As long as you’re here on Wednesday. Not even a sandwich?’
She looks away as a group of four – so flushed with sun that they can only be German – ducks beneath the umbrellas. Waves to them and starts to get to her feet.
‘No,’ says Mercedes. ‘Thanks.’
‘And you?’ She nods at Laurence.
‘Thank you, Larissa, but no. I’ve got to eat at my next stop.’
Larissa gives him an arch look. ‘Where’s that, then?’
‘Mediterraneo,’ he says, oblivious.
‘Oh, well,’ says Larissa, sourly. ‘Obviously if you get the chance to eat there … ’
He reacts as though it’s just a competition issue. ‘Oh, come, now, Larissa. You know I’d always eat at the Re if I could. But he’s a good customer, and there are a lot of—’
‘Oh, I bet he is,’ snaps Larissa, and stalks away.
Laurence looks bemused. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ve obviously said something wrong … ’
Over his shoulder, Mercedes sees the Marino boat pull up to the dock. Jumps to her feet, relieved to have an excuse to avoid the conversation. She’s surprised that Laurence knows so little of her family history. That her father has never been forgiven for deserting the Re for the glamour up the hill. I shouldn’t be, she thinks. We’re not friends. We’ve known each other for years, but in the end I’m a contact like any other. And it shows how often Sergio talks about me. We’re all ghosts, to each other.
‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘She’ll get over it. Anyway, sorry, Felix is back. I’d better get down there and get the lobster order in before he disappears.’
‘I dare say you should tell him you’re not coming home tonight, too,’ Larissa calls over from where she’s handing out English-language menus. ‘Jala luego.’
‘Ensha. Bye, Mama.’
‘That man has the patience of a saint.’
‘Whatever.’
