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27
The sound of Tatiana’s voice approaching from the interior alerts Mercedes to the fact that she’s up. Pestering.
‘But Daddy, why? It’s shitty up at the castle. It’s so boring. There’s literally nothing to do. Why can’t I just stay here? This bloody boat never even goes anywhere and the one time you take it out you kick me off.’
‘It’s just for the boys, darling. You know that.’
‘Boys. Boys! Please! They’re all ancient!’
‘All the more reason you don’t want to hang about with them,’ he says.
‘No, but … I mean, come on. I’m practically a bloke anyway.’
‘Not really,’ he replies.
They emerge into the light. The father in madras-check shorts that bag all the way to the knee and a white towelling robe big enough for a winter quilt. The daughter, hanging on to his arm that way she does, pressing her breasts against it, pleading.
She spots Mercedes and breaks off her monologue. ‘Oh. When did you get here?’
‘Nine o’clock,’ says Mercedes.
Same as every morning. That’s what her contract says. Nine a.m. until dismissed. She spends the first hour or two of every day in waiting. But she doesn’t mind. It’s often the best part of her day. The staff are kind, and spoil her as though they think they’ve something to make up for. Maybe it’s because she’s carried on saying please and thank you. She has a high old time, now she’s worked out Tatiana’s schedule, trying out every sort of fresh-squeezed juice – watermelon today, the best yet – and sampling whatever pastries the chef has made with his cold, floury hands down in the bowels of the boat. She’s even met the captain, who introduced himself to her as Philip. As if she wasn’t just some local kid, but someone worth talking to.
Tatiana drops her father’s arm, comes over to the table and helps herself to a sfogliatella from Mercedes’ plate. Making a point of some sort. Eyes Mercedes imperiously as she bites through the pastry.
With an exhalation like a hydraulic hinge, Matthew lowers himself onto a wooden steamer chair. It groans as it receives him. ‘It’s only two nights, darling.’
‘Two nights in hell,’ she replies, dramatically. She drops the half-eaten pastry back on the plate, takes two huge steps and flings herself onto her father’s lap. ‘Oh, Daddy, please!’
She wraps her arms round his neck and nuzzles his dewlaps. Matthew looks pleased with himself, as though he’s won a prize. Mercedes feels uncomfortable. She never knows where to look when they act like this. She can barely remember sitting on Sergio’s knee, and it had certainly stopped by the time she was seven. The sight of this teenager snuggling Matthew Meade like a greedy puppy makes her tummy go a bit funny. She wouldn’t be able to put it into words, but when it starts, she wants to be somewhere else.
Matthew unwinds his daughter’s arms and pushes her off with a slap on the bum. Puts chunky hands on widespread thighs.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘I’ve got some phone calls to make. No rest for the wicked. Maybe you should be getting on with packing. The car’s coming in four hours.’
Another exhalation. He lumbers to his feet. Ambles off into the saloon, purple feet in backless slippers. Tatiana stares at his retreating back, her face filled with naked amazement.
He stops and turns back. ‘Packed and ready, are you, Mercy?’
She jumps. Points a finger at her own chest.
‘How many Mercys are there on this boat?’ he says.
None, she thinks. But anyway. ‘To the castle? You want me to go too?’
‘Well, duh!’ says Tatiana.
‘I … ’
Tatiana puffs up. ‘What?’
She doesn’t know how to reply.
A tendon works in Tatiana’s jaw. ‘Oh, great. Oh, that’s just great.’
‘No! No, but you didn’t tell me, that’s all! I didn’t think I was invited! I didn’t … I haven’t told my parents! I can’t just … ’
‘Oh, if you’re worried about el duqa,’ says Matthew, the title somehow dirtied by his tongue, ‘don’t be. Giancarlo will allow anything I want.’
