Eight
April 22nd
Ellis bank balance: ￡21,754.01
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 10 Mark: 0
In the sitting room, the air conditioning was on maximum, and the volume on the Bose speaker high enough to hear Seu Jorge in the kitchen. Emily, wearing only a swimsuit, drizzled olive oil over her salad, added a wedge of feta cheese, and took her food onto the terrace, leaving the door open to hear the music. She checked her messages while she ate. There was one from Mary, admitting it was her turn to host the monthly girls’ lunch and suggesting a date. Emily accepted. She’d already been to London. Ten blissful days when she hadn’t chipped a single nail or cleaned a single toilet. There’d only been one chore: lunch with someone she hadn’t seen since last year and didn’t want to meet again this year. Her father always told her to be polite, explain why you didn’t want to be friends with someone rather than avoid them. She delivered a carefully pre-prepared speech, kind, flattering, but firm. The meeting was uncomfortable, but Emily was glad she’d done it; that lunch enabled her to turn off one of the winking lights on her worry dashboard.
In London, she’d missed her dogs. She didn’t miss Mark and the constancy of his presence, the way he searched her out to announce developments on one of his projects then waited for compliments, like a small child holding out a drawing for maternal praise.
Nibbling on an olive, she glared at a split nail. How much longer was she expected to be gardener and housekeeper? It didn’t seem to affect Mark; his toolbox wasn’t getting much of an airing. Savouring the creamy salty taste of feta, she watched a pair of jays fluttering round the garden. With their bright blue bodies and striped tail feathers, they looked as exotic as an oversized hummingbird. She adored her new garden, the perfect stripes on the lawn, the border of tropical flowers: beautiful hibiscus bushes with deep red and vibrant orange flowers. It was all artificially watered – she’d hardly seen a drop of rain since they arrived – via an irrigation system buried beneath the grass. Early each morning and again late at night, nozzles sprung out from their hiding places, spraying water onto thirsty greenery before retreating, collapsing like weary athletes, disappearing underground.
None of these plants would grow in London; this was an adventure.
House-training Mark was tedious, but it was bound to take time to adjust after virtually living apart for twenty years. Stacking her dirty plate in the dishwasher, she decided to write down the house rules. She would compile a book – he liked rule books. She’d heard enough about the Blue Book of Takeover Rules, and the yellow one – she didn’t even recall what that one was about. She went upstairs to change. Maybe she’d buy a red file and call it The Red Book of House Rules .
Stepping out of the shower, she heard the throaty roar of a sports car. Towelling herself dry, she peeked out of the window. Parked on the drive was a pink Porsche, sunroof down, the driver checking his hair in the rear-view mirror, puffing it up over his forehead and rearranging it to flop artfully around his sunglasses. As Emily watched, he reached over, took a small bottle from the glove compartment, and squirted his neck and behind his ears, then studied the front of the house, an intense look of concentration on his face. She released the gate, darted away from the window, pulled on a sundress, ran a brush through her hair, and sprayed perfume wildly, hoping some would cling.
At precisely three-thirty, there was a rat-a-tat at the front door. Emily was fastening earrings, pushing on bangles, and trying to secure her Hermes watch. She skipped down the stairs and opened the door. Her visitor took off his sunshades. His eyes sparkled with warmth.
‘Mrs Ellis? Miguel.’ He bent forward for an air kiss, then bounced inside. ‘I cannot tell you how excited I was to get your call. Such an amazing location, and of course,’ – he rolled his eyes at her – ‘the Harrisons owned the villa for years and skimped badly on the decoration. I don’t think they involved a designer at all! You must be simply desperate for help.’
‘You are remarkably punctual.’
‘My schedule runs on what we Portuguese call “English Time”. My English mother taught me the importance of punctuality – you British will queue patiently for hours,’ – he wagged his finger at her – ‘but you get fractious if forced to wait when you have an appointment.’
Emily saw Miguel’s eyes roving. Was he gauging how much she could afford to spend from the brands she wore? The value of her jewellery and the art in the hallway? She folded her split fingernail into her palm. ‘W-where should we start?’ she asked, stuttering slightly under his intense gaze.
Miguel raised his eyes heavenwards, and spun round, taking his client by the hand, and leading her back outside. ‘Darling, we simply must do something about the launchpad. The key to an amazing house is to build drama from arrival.’ He locked eyes with her. ‘I hope I can speak frankly to you, Mrs Ellis. If you trust me, together we can create something amazing here. But frankly, this will not do at all! ’
This was more like it, thought Emily. It would take weeks to decide what to do, and by then, one of the houses would be sold. In the meantime, she was going to enjoy every minute of her meetings with Miguel. A slice of her old life!
Mark pulled up at a roundabout and leaned across the dashboard, craning his neck, checking for oncoming traffic. ‘This effing car is useless. It’s got to go. We need the steering wheel on the left-hand side.’
There was a honk behind him. He glared in the rear-view mirror. A man glared back, gesticulating with his hands.
Mark drove home, wondering how much the Bentley was worth.
He stopped at the gate and lowered his window, beaming his client-charming smile at his neighbour. ‘David, you don’t have an electronic sanding machine I could borrow, do you?’
David winked at him. ‘Let me just sort out this borehole and I’ll be right over.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the water system,’ said Mark, pointing the release fob at his gate.
David gave him a lopsided grin and lifted his spanner, waving it at Mark. ‘That’s because I keep on top of it for you.’
The gates juddered open, Mark swept in, and parked beside a pink Porsche. Emily was standing in the doorway, leaning over with her hand clamped round a dog collar. As Mark turned off the engine, the other car sped out.
‘Who was that, darling?’ asked Mark, locking the car.
‘I think I’ve just appointed our interior designer.’
Mark’s hand squeezed the car key like a stress ball. ‘If you want to get cracking early, we could raise some cash by selling this monster – she’s a bloody accident waiting to happen out here.’
Emily straightened and said tartly, ‘Find something else to sell. That’s mine. It might be your cash that paid for the Bentley, but I earned it subjugating my life to your career for decades.’
His eyes widened. ‘Hey, it was just an idea. We could import it but that’s silly with the nearest dealership in Lisbon, so we need to sell. Residents can’t drive foreign-plated cars.’
She beamed at him. ‘We’re resident? Well done!’
‘Not quite. But it’s all on track.’
At least he was making progress. Emily couldn’t wait to get cracking with Miguel’s makeover. She let go of Tosca’s collar, and slammed the front door shut.
‘Can I show you something please?’ she asked, leading the way to the master bedroom. She wasn’t living with this lopsided teenager-in-a-rush bedmaking effort she’d been presented with all week.
Emily pulled out the bedsheets, then tucked the bottom one in, stopping at the foot of the bed. She created a neat triangle of sheet. ‘It’s called a hospital corner,’ she grunted, hefting up the mattress.
‘Got it,’ he snapped.
‘I’m excited about meeting Alex’s new girlfriend, aren’t you?’ she said looking up at him. ‘I thought we’d take them to Monica’s on their first night, then I’ve booked Paixa—’
He cut her off. ‘Restaurants? Why can’t you cook?’ He threw a pillow at the headboard as if defending himself from attack.
‘Why can’t you?’ she spat.
‘ I can’t. You can,’ he spat back.
‘I never cooked when we had visitors in London.’ She picked up the pillow, pushed it in and out like a set of bellows, puffing up the feathers, then replaced it and stood back. ‘See? It’s much better with fatter pillows.’
He tilted his head and mimicked her voice. ‘ It’s much better with fatter pillows . You do it if you want fatter pillows.’
‘It’s not my turn.’ He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Check the rota. It’s your turn all week.’
‘Rota?’ he asked as if questioning the meaning of the word. ‘What rota?’
‘The chores rota, at the front of the red book.’
His head jerked backwards is if pulled by a piece of string. ‘What red book?’
She left the room, returning with a red lever arch file, which she handed to him saying, ‘I put it in your study.’
Mark sat down, creasing the smooth bedspread.
‘Seriously?’ he said, opening the file. ‘A rota for chores? This isn’t a kibbutz.’ He flicked through a few pages, his eyes widening. ‘How can you know the dishwasher will be full on the specified days?’ he demanded, a note of irritation in his voice.
Emily pushed him aside. He stood up, and she bent over to smooth the creased bedspread.
‘You can do all the washing up if you prefer. But don’t try fobbing me off. Alex will expect us to entertain this girl properly.’
He snapped the folder shut. ‘Alex couldn’t give a damn provided someone else is doing all the work. And why don’t you cook anymore? You used to take pride in cooking Alex’s meals from scratch. Why not rekindle that talent?’
‘The restaurants are booked now.’
He put the file down on the bed. ‘Well, unbook them.’
She turned to face him, passing back the discarded file. ‘Take this with you. We’re eating out ... and please don’t use the e-word!’
His hands were clenched round the file, his knuckles white. ‘I’m going to say this slowly because you clearly haven’t got it yet. We. Need. To. Economize .’
A few days later, siting in the shade at Martin’s tennis centre, Emily took a sip of her lemon water. ‘My son and his new girlfriend are arriving today,’ she said to her tennis partner, who picked up a large glass of ice-cold rosé wine.
‘We won’t see ours until half-term. The grandkids are all at school.’
Emily huffed. ‘I want to enjoy this visit, but Mark expects me to don a pinny and morph into an Aga housewife.’
Fran slumped into a chair next to Emily. Her T-shirt was rucked up exposing a tiny gold stud in her belly button and a flat, toned stomach. Emily hadn’t really spoken to Fran much, other than to order a round of drinks or buy a tin of tennis balls.
‘I feel dreadful,’ said Fran, tipping up a bottle of water and glugging down half the contents. ‘Shouldn’t have had those double ports.’ She gave a little belch, put her hand over her mouth, and snorted an apology. ‘I could help with your visitors. My mum runs a B it’s raining in London! Are you walking the dogs or, don’t tell me, off to tennis in glorious sunshine?’
Emily fished around in her Hermes purse for a euro. ‘Too hot to walk the dogs. I’m out shopping.’
‘Ooh, lovely. I’m so jealous. You’ll have to take me when we come. I could do with a new summer wardrobe.’
So could I, thought Emily. There was a rattling noise as she freed a trolley. She fastened her list to the front, peering at Fran’s squiggly writing. Was that beans written underneath mushrooms?
‘Not that sort of shopping,’ she admitted.
‘Don’t they deliver in Portugal?’
‘Probably.’ She had a fleeting image of an Ocado van in Villa Anna’s driveway, Mark with hands on hips shouting economize at her as the driver unloaded. What explanation could she offer for why she was at the supermarket? Suddenly it came to her. ‘But the website would be in Portuguese.’ She opened the chilled cabinet for a closer look at some lurid, pink sausages. Was anyone going to eat those? She picked up three packs of bacon and steered towards the eggs.
‘Ah, yes. Slight obstacle,’ said Mary. ‘So where are you?’
‘Aldi.’
‘Aldi? Do they allow Bentleys in the Aldi car park?’
Her friend’s laughter stung. The joke was a little too close for comfort, reminding her of Mark’s newest economizing theme: replacing her car with something more practical.
‘Isn’t there a Waitrose?’
‘No,’ said Emily, scanning the shelves for baked beans. ‘There’s a sort of Harrods food hall equivalent, but it’s not terrifically practical.’
She wasn’t going to tell Mary, but Mark had banned her from shopping at the smart supermarket. He’d confronted her, holding up the evidence like a bad school report, running his hand down the receipt, reeling off the offending items.
‘A jar of Marmite for 7 euros. You don’t even like the stuff. And what’s this? A kilo of cherries for 20 euros? They bloody grow them in Portugal.’
‘Not ripe until June,’ she’d said, casually.
‘Good news. You get to save carbon miles and anticipate them coming into season.’
She’d watched him carefully fold up the bill, chewing her lip, biting back her temper. Now, wondering why she was always the one backing down when they argued, Emily reversed the trolley to the chilled cabinet and added a couple of packs of smoked salmon.
‘Have you booked your flights?’ she asked, opening the flap on a box of eggs; worryingly, checking eggs for cracks was becoming second nature.
‘Yes! I’ll text you. Wildly exciting. It’s been cloudy, cold, and I’m fed up with the drizzle. Can’t wait to see you and the sun! Must dash. Pilates beckons. Lots of love.’
Later, turning into her driveway, Emily heard the dogs barking and her eyes automatically dropped to check for the black chain. Delighted to see the driveway unencumbered, she purred down to her gate, smiling at David hunkered over by the borehole. Emily unloaded the shopping, slammed the door shut, and ran upstairs, where she flicked on the shower, and dashed out to the wardrobe. Her designer dresses in their zippered bags hung untouched at one end. She pulled out a few floaty dresses, holding them up in front of the mirror and pressing each one against her body. She thought about Fran, hungover at work – the skimpy clothes, unkempt spiky hair. Fran, with her pierced belly button, was just a rebel at heart, drifting, without a sense of purpose. Maybe Emily could help Fran find a direction to channel her life.
She tossed a pale pink sundress onto the bed and opened the door to the bathroom; no steam escaped. Her eyes narrowed. She was sure she’d turned on the shower. Emily spun the tap. Nothing. She stormed out of the bathroom, slathered sun cream onto her bare arms, flinching as it stung her mosquito bites, pulled on the pink dress, and squirted herself with perfume, which made her think of Miguel. What was the scent he wore? It was spicy and citrusy and incredibly sexy and reminded her of someone. Who else wore Penhaligon’s Douro?
She heard a car pull into the driveway and rushed downstairs, yelling out as she clattered downstairs, ‘Can you get David to turn our water back on please, Mark?’
After showing Jess around the house, Emily joined her son by the pool, where he was slouched on one of the smart new rattan sofas. Mark wasn’t as impressed with the new furniture as she was – despite the shop magically delivering before the youngsters arrived or him settling the bill. She arranged a cushion behind her back, then patted the side of the seat inviting Tosca up, scratching the little dog under her chin.
‘So, how’s it going?’ Alex asked. ‘Missing London? How’s Dad managing without a job?’
She smiled. ‘I think he underestimated how important that job was. It was a way of life, and he was proud of it.’
‘If he’s not enjoying the sabbatical, he can always go back.’
What could Emily say? She wanted to confide in someone, but she and Mark had agreed they wouldn’t tell anyone the truth, especially not their left-wing son. Their friends wouldn’t exactly cheer the decision to become tax exiles either – no one likes a show-off.
‘He has his noddy roles and he’s busy getting us settled here, but he’ll soon find himself with spare time, and he’s never had that before. Dad is going to need a hobby. Any ideas?’
‘And what about you, Mum?’
Emily gazed fondly across the lawn, where Floria was charging about, yapping merrily. The dogs couldn’t do that in the tiny London garden.
‘It’s early days. Having your father around for every meal is challenging. You know the saying “for better or worse, but not for lunch”? He makes his own sandwiches now.’
A dog yelped. Emily spun around. A jet of water was chasing Floria around the garden, the dog’s ears flat against her head and her tail tucked between her back legs. Emily traced the line of water to the end of a hose poking out from behind a bush in Tommy’s garden.
Alex stood up. ‘Floria, come!’ he hollered. The dog scampered up the steps and stood shaking herself dry. Alex patted Floria’s head. ‘Nice neighbours, Mum!’
‘Don’t get me started,’ muttered Emily, raising a warning finger. ‘And please, not a word to your father about this.’
‘Mum, what’s with that grubby land behind the tennis court? Is it a building plot?’ asked Alex.
‘No, it’s rustic land, there won’t be any building that way.’
Alex sat down beside her. ‘Mum, can you sub me a bit? I’m out of funds again, kind of embarrassing with the new girlfriend.’ He winked.
She sucked in her breath. ‘Alex, this must stop. Get a job.’
He raised his hands in surrender. ‘Hey, Brexit , I can’t work out here now.’
She tutted then pinched her lips together. Alex did have a point. ‘All right. I’ll see what I’ve got.’ She shot him a warning look. ‘But it won’t be as much as usual.’