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Tatiana strides to the table and picks up Mercedes’ plate. ‘So you don’t wanna come?’
Her accent has changed.
‘No,’ Mercedes protests, ‘I didn’t … I just … you didn’t … ’
Tatiana hurls the plate onto the floor. Smashes shards and pastry all across the varnished wood. ‘Fuck you, Mercedes Delia!’ she shouts. And she runs indoors.
Mercedes sits frozen on the spot. She has no idea what to do.
‘FUCK OFF!’ shouts Tatiana. ‘Just fuck off!’ And she stamps across the saloon and disappears down the staircase to the lower deck.
Now what am I meant to do? thinks Mercedes.
Matthew Meade picks up a folder that lies on the table, slaps it against his thigh. Pokes a fist into a pocket and surveys his twelve-year-old employee.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘I’ll get them to send the car for you in the afternoon. You can go home now.’
‘I … ’ Her head is filled with noise. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I just didn’t … ’
‘And you’d better apologise to my daughter when you get there,’ he says. ‘For your shitty behaviour.’
