‘Would you?’
‘Of course. Where is it?’
‘In my bag,’ she says. ‘It’s by the pool. On that little blue table. A little one. Like a pyramid. It’s got … ’ she pauses to suck in more air ‘ … sequins.’
‘Okay,’ she says, ‘wait here.’ As if she were going to go anywhere else.
Deep, bellowing laughter in the hall, and a girlish shriek. She hovers at the top of the stairs, wonders if she should make herself scarce. They don’t like it if the servants show themselves when they’re heading up with their prey. They must see themselves reflected in our eyes, however deadpan our expressions.
‘I say,’ says the man. The prince. ‘You’re a lot heavier than you look. Just a minute. Let’s get you—’
Another shriek. A real one, this time. A sliding clatter, a dull thud, a female groan. She peeps over the banister. Hanne lies sprawled on the marble floor, the prince standing over her, chortling. He’s giggling. High-pitched, schoolboy chortling. Mercedes makes her decision and hurries downstairs.
Paulo comes into the lobby just as she arrives, hurries over.
‘Oops!’ says the prince. ‘Overestimated my own strength.’
Hanne looks really hurt. She’s fighting back tears, clutching her arm. Paulo crouches down, holds out his hands to ask to see. He has medical training. Of course he does.
Hanne glares up at the prince, eyes brimming. ‘I told you not to carry me!’ she shouts. ‘Now look!’
‘HANNE!’ Tatiana clacks across the marble. ‘Don’t talk to our guests like that!’ she shouts. ‘How dare you?’
Oh, God. Mercedes sidles round them all. On the sofas outside, the men drink on, oblivious.
‘But he dropped me!’ wails Hanne. Winces and sucks air through her teeth as Paulo lifts it up. ‘Ow! Stupid bloody … ’
Tatiana turns to her guest. ‘So sorry,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe … ’
She steps outside. The pool area stinks of cigars and booze and testosterone. Wei-Cheng and Sara still sit with their feet in the pool, gawping. Christ, she thinks. You’d gawp at a stabbing.
The bag is where Gemma said it was, on a little table by a marble nymph. She glides quietly over to it, glad that she’s perfected the art of invisibility. Gives the girls a little smile and presses a finger to her lips.
‘I don’t think it’s broken,’ says Paulo. ‘Just a bit of a sprain. An ice-pack and a sleep and some ibuprofen and she should be fine.’
‘Oh,’ says the prince. A fat boy who’s had his doughnut snatched.
Paulo glances up sharply. Glances away just as fast.
‘She’ll be all right tomorrow, though?’ asks Tatiana.
He looks up slower, this time. ‘I’d hope so. Might need a few painkillers, but she’ll be good to go.’
‘Well, what am I meant to do?’ asks the prince.
Tatiana raises her voice. ‘Wei-Cheng!’ she shouts. ‘Get in here!’
Gemma’s got worse. She’s really gasping, now, like a fish on the boards of a boat, shoulders up by ears and mouth wide open. Mercedes pushes the bag into her hands. She tears it open, brings out her inhaler, pushes it between her lips, presses the canister down. A hiss. A silence. And then her breath whooshes from her lungs and her shoulders drop and she slumps back against the parapet and closes her eyes.
Modern medicine. It really is miraculous. What did they do before?
‘Thank you,’ she says.
‘You’re welcome,’ she replies. Hands her a little bottle of cold Fuji water from her apron pocket. She sucks it down in three gulps and the colour begins to return to her face.
‘How are you doing?’ asks Mercedes.
Gemma nods. Uncertainly. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘It’s all a bit more full-on than I’d expected.’