Tatiana scrolls through the remote and the screens flip and flip and show ever-changing perspectives on the party outside. She points out the guests and tells her terrible truths.
‘Right, well. He got rid of wife number one a few years ago, and he’s been roaring through the catalogues for number two ever since.’
‘Catalogues?’
Tatiana shakes her head. ‘Escorts.’
‘Huh?’
‘Call girls?’
Mercedes shakes her head, none the wiser.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mercy. Prostitutes! First wife’s for form, second wife’s for sex, third wife’s for status. Look! Look at them all! That room is heaving with whores! Putas!’
Mercedes has never heard anyone use the word in such a concrete way before. All the putas the solteronas punish are, as far as she knows, metaphorical. She stares at the screens. And she starts to see that the yacht people – the women, at least – clump together in groups.
Tatiana points at a group of women who look not dissimilar to more expensive versions of Mercedes’ own mother and her friends. Uneasy in their finery, their eyes following their men about the room.
‘First wives,’ she says. ‘Married when young, or when the men didn’t have the cash to get ambitious, looks-wise. Nothing wrong with them, of course. Most of them are probably the nicest women they will ever marry. But nice doesn’t have much currency, in the real world.’
Mercedes is beginning to feel depressed.
‘You see that look? That hunted look? That’s the face of a woman who knows she’s going to be traded in. Silly bitches are usually too honourable to put up a fight for a decent settlement, too.’
Mercedes has turned away from the screen and is staring at Tatiana in amazement. How did you get so cold? she wonders. And which kind of wife was your mother?
Eventually they’re all too breathless to dance any more, and they fall back onto the sofas, laughing. Sveta and Sebastian seem to be holding hands now. She feels a bit disappointed. While they were dancing and he was following her hips with his own, she’d sort of felt they had a connection. But never mind. It’s all just a game, isn’t it? Flirtation. They don’t take things seriously the way the Kastellani do. Good lord, if two young Kastellani people were seen brazenly hand-holding like that, the clock would start ticking on betrothal.
No wonder so many married people are unhappy, she thinks – like my parents. The pressure. No chance to flirt or play or identify your options. I don’t suppose my mother held hands with literally anybody before my father. I want more than that. I want to see the world.
‘So what do we do now?’ asks maybe-Caspar. Maybe-Christophe – all those C names, no wonder she can’t remember! – lopes over to the icy little plunge pool by the carob and comes back with two more bottles of champagne. There seems to be an endless supply.
‘Truth or dare!’ cries maybe-Kristina.
‘Oh, God, you always want to play that!’ groans maybe-Dmitri.
‘Oh, no, I love it,’ says someone.
‘Go on, then,’ says someone else, and a hand takes her glass and fills it up. She’s a bit giddy now. She must have had four or five already. But it’s such fun.
‘Okay, you suggested it, so you can go first. Truth or dare?’
‘Truth,’ says maybe-Kristina.
‘Yay! Okay … who do you fancy here?’
‘You, of course, dahling.’
‘You’re meant to tell the truth,’ says maybe-Sveta, and they all laugh.
‘I am, darling!’
A chorus of denial. ‘Tell the truth, Kristina, or we’re not playing.’
Kristina’s face goes a bit serious. ‘Okay, then. Jamal. I fancy Jamal.’
Another chorus. Whoops this time. Jamal twiddles his tie ostentatiously. ‘I’m totally going dare when it’s my turn,’ he says, and gives her a great big wink. ‘Okay. New girl. Truth or dare?’