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32 | Mercedes
‘It’s an interesting thing, your Narcissistic Personality Disorder,’ says Paulo. ‘Did you know it’s the only one you can develop as an adult?’
Jason Pettit, former Hollywood A-lister, sits on a lounger, looking disagreeable and scrolling through his iPad. Hasn’t looked left or right since he arrived. Gave Tatiana the most cursory of kisses, and ignored staff and girls as though they weren’t there at all.
The girls have given up trying to attract his attention and have retired to the pool for a last dip before the prince arrives. They swim awkwardly, heads raised high above the water, for they are under strict instructions not to get their hair wet.
‘No,’ says Mercedes, as they watch him from the shade of a jacaranda, ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘And I think,’ he says, ‘that if you view the specimen we have to hand, you might be able to guess the circs that produce it.’
She watches. Such a disagreeable face. So changed from the Adonis that lit up the screens of the 1990s. It must always have been lurking in there somewhere. But now it’s out and proud.
‘By fifty a man has the face he deserves,’ she says. ‘And it’s fame, isn’t it?’
‘Right on both counts. That’s why after a bit your celebrities are all the same. Because, unless they’re extremely strong-minded, they all turn into the same person.’
‘Huh,’ says Mercedes. He’s so right. Hard done by, entitled, petulant. Faces frozen in startled revulsion if staff address them directly. An incessant droning stream of petty betrayals, delivered with the intensity that normal people use to describe an industrial accident.
‘I thought maybe it was just the ones who come here,’ she says.
He shakes his head. ‘No. It’s a type, certainly. I think it has to be in you for fame to bring it out. But no, not just here. It’s why I didn’t last in LA. I couldn’t stand the sound of the whining.’
‘Like wind in the phone wires,’ she says.
‘Give me an honest oligarch any day. They may be cunts, but at least they’re not pretending to be victims.’
She throws him a smile. I like you, she thinks. But can I trust you? Then Tatiana snaps her fingers – no Mercy darling today – and she’s back on duty.
He continues to stare at his screen, chin tucked into Adam’s apple and mouth turned down at the corners. The blue eyes that broke a million hearts have sprouted lines that crack his cheeks almost to his ears, and nature – his nature – has carved an H a centimetre deep above his nose. Such creepy eyebrows, too. Thick where they exist, unnaturally hairless all around them. Electrolysis. They never think, when they have it done, that age will coarsen their remaining hair and their eyebrows will end up looking marooned, like catkins on a frozen lake.
‘Mercy,’ says Tatiana, ‘Mr Pettit could do with something for his digestion.’
Jason Pettit puts the back of his hand against his mouth and does a silent burp.
‘Sure,’ she says.
‘Not Rennies.’ He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen as he speaks. Addresses the air, not the housekeeper. ‘And not Gaviscon. I don’t do chemicals.’
The Viagra in his sponge bag would want a word about that.
‘A tisane, sinjor? Ginger? Peppermint?’
‘Both,’ he says. ‘But fresh. It needs to be fresh.’
‘Of course. A little honey?’
Jason Pettit’s head snaps up. But still he doesn’t look at Mercedes. He looks at Tatiana.
‘Tatiana, didn’t you give the staff my dietary list?’
Tatiana looks horrified. ‘I … my PA’s left,’ she stammers. Like a schoolkid making up a story about why she hasn’t done her homework.
‘Gaaaad,’ he says, and slams the screen down on his knees. Finally looks up at Mercedes. ‘I don’t do sugar and I don’t do lactose,’ he says.
Of course.
‘And gluten?’ she ventures. In her experience, gluten is the gateway drug to food intolerance.
