3 | Mercedes
Mercedes goes down to the village along the tarmac road that was a goat track when she was a child. Back then – though you had to keep your eyes on the ground to avoid breaking your ankle – the views, when you stopped, were breathtaking. To the right, the azure Mediterranean, tiny rainbow boats riding the currents. To the left, across miles of goat-grazed scrubland, the regimented chartreuse of the vineyards that swept up to the castle ramparts.
Now, the road is perfect and her footing is sure, but all there is to look at is the purple bougainvillea, delicate pinky-white of determined caper flowers, spilling over the tops of high white plaster-coated walls. Every hundred metres or so, the black face of a wall-high metal gate, and cameras that swivel as she passes.
There used to be a breeze up here. Now, July sun bounces off dazzling white and the road is like an oven. Doesn’t matter to the residents, of course. It’s only the servants who have to navigate the route to town without air-con.
Mercedes is never more than fifty metres from a body of cool blue water as she walks. When she was young, they would clamber down the cliffs like little geckos, to bathe off the tiny rock beaches at the bottom. Now, rock-hewn stairs lead down to the sea, but the beaches are only accessible to those who can afford the houses above.
The ferry has docked and the Re del Pesce is thrumming. Over half the tables are filled, and the pastry display case is almost empty. Her mother sees her approach from the cliff road, and nods. Too busy to pause. And Laurence is already here, sitting at the family table, toying with a cappuccino. Mercedes waves, and goes inside. Takes a moment to bask in the flow of the air-con unit above the door, then smiles at the chef as he puts two plates of fried potatoes on the counter.
‘Jolà,’ she says, and picks them up. Checks the order chit. For a pavement table, of course. It’s a tourist time of day. All this lovely cool air, and still they sit out on the dockside in the tiny saunas the umbrellas create from sunlight, eating chips.
‘Jolà,’ he replies. ‘You’re early.’
‘Not here to work. Sorry. Family’s coming in on Tuesday.’
‘Damn,’ he says. ‘Looks like we’re going to be busy tonight.’ He tosses his head as though the tourist season has come as a surprise. ‘You want anything?’
‘Café con jelo.’ She picks up the plates and heads outside as he turns to the espresso machine.
The chips are for a middle-aged couple in matching straw flowerpot hats and blue chambray shirts that look as though they might have come from the same catalogue. English, she thinks. ‘There you go,’ she says, as she puts the food down. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
They look up from their guidebook, complacent in the assumption that the whole world is Anglophone. ‘No, thank you,’ says the woman. Another of those northern habits. They’re all so confident. Kastellani women still don’t speak for their husbands.
She collects her coffee and takes it to the staff table, swaps jolàs and air kisses with the wine merchant.
‘It’s lucky you were coming here today,’ she says. ‘I know you were meant to be coming up to the house on Tuesday, but I just got a call. She’s coming in early. We’ll need to be stocked up by then. I’m sorry to be a pain.’
‘No problem,’ he replies, smoothly. ‘The container’s not set off from Marseille yet. You’ve still got a couple of hours. I can get a restock up to you for Tuesday morning.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ she says.
‘Any thoughts on what you need?’ he asks.
Mercedes laughs. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’
Laurence laughs, too. ‘True. We’re basically talking whatever Forbes has bigged-up this year, aren’t we?’ He glances at his screen. ‘Have you got Bluetooth switched on?’ he murmurs.
She checks. ‘Sorry,’ she says. Turns it on. Nestled up together, the phones give out a tiny vibration. Laurence smiles.
‘So what do you need?’ he asks.
Mercedes stirs a spoonful of sugar into her espresso. Tastes it, pours it over her glass of ice. Puts it beneath her nose and inhales deeply. There is no coffee more fragrant than this, or more cheering on a hot day.
‘I’m not sure. We’re low on all the white and we have almost no rosé. We had Russians last week.’
A little raise of the eyebrow. ‘So you’ll be needing vodka, then, too?’
She nods. ‘All the vodka.’
He makes a little note in his tiny notebook, with the tiny matching pen that’s chained to it. ‘I’ve some really delicious Grüner Veltliner at the moment.’
‘That doesn’t sound French,’ she says.
Laurence rolls his eyes. ‘That was what your mother said.’
‘I think maybe just a reorder of what she knows she likes, eh?’