Eleven
May 3rd
Ellis bank balance: (￡7,023.17) overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 11 Mark: 0
The crickets woke Mark at six. He prised the dogs out of their baskets, slid open the terrace door, nudged their backsides down to the lower terrace, and stood listening to the soft hum of the pool pump and the gentle hiss of the trickle irrigation system. Mark fastened his dressing gown around his waist against the chill and jogged out onto the lawn, thinking that Emily and the highly irritating Miguel were right: Villa Anna should be turned upside down. The utility room should be in the basement with the kitchen next door, both on the same level as the pool. Looking backwards, visualising a kitchen extension opening onto the terrace and a refurbished pool, his eyes were drawn to a corner of the garden, close to Tommy’s fence. Smoke!
He sniffed, breathing in the sharp tang of pine trees, but no acrid burning smell. He sprinted over to the fire, the damp springy grass cold underfoot. There were no flames. The smoke was rising from a mound of garden debris, only now he was closer, it looked more like steam. From what? Was this a compost heap? Could it catch fire? And who the hell put it there? It wouldn’t have been Emily. She mowed the lawn with a mulch mower leaving the grass clippings to fertilize the lawn. Was Tommy dumping his rubbish on their side of the fence? He glowered at the still shuttered windows of his neighbour’s house.
Mark ran off his temper, pounding the cart tracks of the golf course, watching the maintenance team shaving fairways on monster-sized mowers and smoothing sand traps with giant rakes. Was Tommy responsible for the fire hazard? He pulled out his water bottle and took a few glugs, then sprinted back home.
A white open-backed truck was parked outside Tommy’s house. He could hear a lawnmower strumming, and two Portuguese voices shouting at each other above the noise. Mark walked over to the oleander hedge, separating his drive from Tommy’s garden, and peeped through. He couldn’t see the mower, but he could see someone, in the corner of the garden, heaving plastic tubs of lawn clippings over the fence and into Mark’s garden. He felt his chest tighten as he stalked to Tommy’s gate, wrenching it open.
‘Oi!’ he yelled. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Stop that right now. You can’t hurl your rubbish into my garden!’
The strumming sound stopped.
The man by the fence turned to face Mark, a puzzled expression on his weather-beaten face. ‘Que?’
‘Where’s Tommy?’ shouted Mark.
‘Tommy’s out,’ said a female voice, ‘but what’s the problem?’ Toni sauntered towards him, a tube of sun lotion in one hand, the fingers of the other massaging a white streak of cream into her forehead.
‘Our garden isn’t the local tip.’
Her face creased into a smile, and Toni gave a short laugh. She waved the tube of lotion at her fence. ‘Oh, that’s the compost heap, not rubbish.’
‘We may share a borehole, but I haven’t signed up to a shared compost heap. It’s a fire hazard.’
‘It’s not a fire hazard,’ she clucked, ‘and it’s always been there. No one’s ever had a problem before.’
‘ I have a problem with it, and I live here now, so it’s got to move,’ Mark snapped.
‘Could we talk about this?’
‘No. It’s not up for discussion, and I’ve a board meeting to prepare for.’ He turned around and walked back inside.
While his fellow directors went out for lunch, Mark stood with the front door wedged between his legs. He squinted at the third layer of the sticky lock. It was like cracking a safe. His screwdriver had removed the first layer; using Emily’s Wusthof paring knife – the tip now broken – he undid the second; and now here was a third set of screws. These ones were miniscule, the size used to keep his mother’s glasses intact. How was he going to undo them? Mark rubbed a finger over the tiny screws, and they wavered under his touch.
His phone rang.
‘Mum. Still raining in Essex?’
There was a cackle of laughter. ‘I don’t mind the rain, boyo, good for the garden. How are you? I’ve got Emily coming to stay tonight. It’ll be lovely to see her, but when am I going to see you?’
He sank onto the front step, closing his unprotected eyes against the midday sun. ‘Soon, I’m coming back soon. I’ll message you the dates. Thanks for putting Emily up. The London house is crawling with builders, so she can’t stay there. Anyway, she wants to see you.’
‘She’s always welcome. You all are whenever you can spare the time. So, what are you doing out there today?’
Mark’s eyes fell on the discarded knife. What would his mother say if she knew he was trying to fix a door lock? ‘Oh, just taking a break from a board meeting. How about you?’
His mother jabbered on. Mark closed his eyes and allowed her voice to massage his mood as she talked of her tomato seedlings, harvesting her first salad crops, and potting on her early brassicas. ‘And have you sorted out this work-life balance thingamabob?’ she asked.
‘Getting there, Mum. Hey, listen, must get on, talk soon, and tell Emily I’ll pick her up in the morning.’
He ended the call, a mental picture of their bank balance flashing into his mind; if this lock wasn’t fixed when Emily returned, she would call a locksmith.
Conscious that he was expected back on zoom within the hour, Mark parked the Bentley in a space between two drop-side trucks, their cargo beds stuffed with rakes, upended wheelbarrows, and lawnmowers, reminding him of his earlier altercation with Toni. Mark had an appointment with his lawyer later; he might have to mention it.
David sat beside him in the passenger seat, mumbling half to himself, ‘Never met a man without his own tools before.’
‘Never had any use for them before,’ confessed Mark.
‘Welcome to Drogaria Vieira, the most useful store in the golden triangle,’ said David. ‘Come on, let’s get you the basics.’
The older man walked past lengths of pipe and sacks of chicken food, into the dark interior of the shop. It was quiet and smelt faintly of paint and turpentine, reminding Mark of his school art classes.
‘Have you really only got one screwdriver and a hammer?’ David sniggered, striding down an aisle lined with unfamiliar products with which Mark feared he was going to have to become better acquainted. ‘What you need is a proper set of screwdrivers and spanners with multiple heads, so you can choose the right size for the job.’
Mark felt his insides shrivel, like they used to on the rare occasion he learned his team had lost a business pitch. He stood to one side, bemused by the intense expression on David’s face as he picked up a grey plastic case, snapping it open and examining the contents as closely and with the same greedy look in his eyes as Emily had when she flicked through one of her glossy magazines.
‘I know they don’t teach anything as useful as woodwork at school anymore, but didn’t your dad show you the basics of DIY?’
Mark chewed his lip. ‘My father never hung around long enough to teach me anything.’
David scooped up a couple of cases. ‘Come on, lad, this is a start. Let’s get back and fix that lock, eh?’
Mark took the cases off the older man, and David slipped an arm around his shoulders. ‘Never too late to learn. I’ll teach you, lad. You can buy me a beer later.’
The meeting with the lawyer was scheduled for four o’clock. Mark arrived ten minutes early. Pedro bounced into the air-conditioned meeting room shortly before five. He was a short slim man, with jet-black hair that hung in curls down his neck. He spoke impeccable English in a soft confident voice. Pedro offered to arrange a meeting with the authorities to secure residency certificates. The session only lasted fifteen minutes, but Mark left with a spring in his step.
Her mother-in-law’s house was not impressive, but Emily understood why Gwen chose it. It was detached, boasted a large garden, and enjoyed views over the estuary, but there was more to it than that. Each time she visited, Emily sensed an air of happiness; although Gwen lived alone, this was a home not just a house. Listening to the doorbell chime, she leaned closer and tracked the blurry figure approaching. The door swung open.
‘Hello, love. Good journey?’ asked Gwen.
‘Bit of a crush on the train.’ Emily embraced her mother-in-law.
‘Proper nobbling it is out there. Get yourself in here into the warm. Come on in, sit yourself down while I get the tray.’
Hearing a wheezing noise, Emily paused with her fingers on the door handle watching her mother-in-law shuffle off. Gwen was limping slightly – did Mark know her arthritis was getting worse? Emily let herself into the front room. Her mother-in-law was an excellent cook, but her artistic talents didn’t extend to interior decoration. The room was neither arranged for comfort nor practicality, but with the sole purpose of impressing visitors deemed worthy of the privilege of admiring her prized possessions: a collection of Staffordshire porcelain dogs arranged in a glass-fronted Edwardian bookcase, and a glum oil painting of a South Wales mining pit, which hung between a pair of stiff upright armchairs. The painting was in drab shades of brown with slashes of steel-blue, the slag heap, a foul grubby grey. Emily sat where she was expected to, with a direct view of the treasures. What did she do with the money Mark sent her? She still had the same furniture Emily had sat on in that tiny Colchester bungalow Mark grew up in with its poor insulation and damp, paint-flaking walls.
The door opened and a tray appeared, the same one Mark had identified as his “childhood” tray, followed by Gwen’s slippers. Her little dog Romeo jogged round Gwen’s stout legs and sank in front of the gas fire. Gwen kicked the door shut behind her. Hmm, the hip couldn’t be too bad.
‘So, how’s Mark’s work? And what’s Alexander doing, now he’s left university?’ Gwen set down the tray, poured tea, and pushed a plate of Welsh cakes Emily’s way. She patted her tummy and loosened the belt on her brown-checked housecoat. ‘Take two, love. I know you can’t get them, and I’m not supposed to eat them.’
Emily dodged the first question. ‘Alex is in Portugal working out what he wants to do.’
Grasping a biscuit, Gwen lowered herself awkwardly into one of the armchairs, using the knuckles of the biscuit-encumbered hand. She took a bite, then dropped a chunk onto the floor. As Romeo hoovered up the piece, Gwen reached down and scratched his ear, the dog’s tongue flicking out and curving around his snout.
‘We’re always here for you, aren’t we, Romeo?’ said Gwen, raising her voice. ‘And how’s this work-life balance sorting itself out for my Mark?’
Emily was saved from lying by the doorbell. Gwen glanced at her watch as she heaved herself back out of the chair. ‘That’ll be Deidre. She’s always keen to get round mine, that one.’
Romeo lifted his chin to release Gwen’s slippers then settled down again, resting his snout on his folded front paws. Emily listened to Gwen greet the visitor. The top half of Deidre, a tall lean lady with a long face, her grey hair secured in a loose ponytail, leaned round the door.
‘Well, look what the cat dragged in. All right, are you, love? Saw you walk past. Thought I’d drop by and say hello, listen to a first-hand account of life in Portugal.’ Her head disappeared again, leaving Emily staring at the door as Deidre spoke to Gwen. ‘Mind I waited for you two to have your private natter first, like I always do.’
Deidre, Gwen’s friend for over thirty years, soon reappeared, wrapped in a long, dark grey cardigan that hung close to her knees, hands thrust deep into the pockets. She removed one and blew her nose into a tissue, before tucking the scrap into her sleeve. ‘That cold sea wind don’t half make me sniffle.’
The two older women grinned at each other, reached for a Welsh cake and sat down in the upright armchairs. Romeo shifted to reaccommodate Gwen’s slippers.
Emily picked up her cup and saucer, letting the gentle chatter of the older women wash over her. There was something appealing about the cosy, ordered life being described: dog walks, bingo, coffee mornings, and church. Gwen had control of her life. Was that what was missing from Emily’s? If she was going to wrest some order into her own, she needed an income; she would speak to Fran, ask how to increase bookings for the tennis court.
Waiting for Villa Anna’s gates to open, Mark’s thoughts were veering between a pleasant daydream that it had been him, not Emily, sleeping in Essex last night, and the grim announcement that had flashed up on his phone screen shortly after noon. The Bank of England had announced another 25 basis points increase in rates. The gates fully open, Mark accelerated out; the Bentley purred along for a few moments, then he stamped on the brakes. A white truck was parked sideways across the mouth of the drive, with the tailgate down, and the cab door open. There was no sign of a driver.
Mark switched off the engine. From Tommy’s garden he could hear the strident sound of a strimmer, and an answering flurry of barking dogs from his own. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and ran his hands over his face, exhaling slowly. Then he lowered his window.
‘Tommy!’ he yelled.
There was no reply. He stepped out and over to the hedge, peering through the foliage. ‘Tommy!’ he shouted again. The strimmer stopped. There was a soft chuckle behind him, and Mark turned to find David smiling his familiar lopsided grin. ‘Are you in a rush?’
Mark huffed. ‘Got to collect Emily from the airport.’ He stabbed a finger at the parked truck. ‘He’s done it deliberately, hasn’t he? His gardening team normally come first thing in the morning, and they never parked there until I told him to move the compost heap.’
‘Course it’s deliberate. How’s your Portuguese? They don’t speak any English.’
‘Que?’ laughed Mark.
‘Luckily for you, I speak enough. Wait here. I think this could take a while.’
Twenty minutes later the white van reversed just far enough for Mark to squeeze the Bentley past.
To make up for lost time, Mark took the motorway. He heard a pinging sound and asked the hands-free system to play the message. A flat mechanical voice said, ‘Landed. Front of the queue, with you in ten. E.’
He called out a reply: ‘ Will wait in drop off zone. M. kiss, ’ and pressed his foot down on the accelerator, his mind switching to another irksome matter. Earlier, he’d been enjoying a late breakfast when he was summoned by the gate buzzer. He put his toast down, saw the dogs eyeing up the plate and picked it up, carrying it with him into the kitchen where he peered out of the window. Four women in tennis kit were standing by his front gate. He let them in. It wasn’t on, he thought. They needed to check before they sent over players. He couldn’t be letting people in and out like an unpaid concierge.
Mark was back on his terrace when the doorbell rang a second time. A dog whined as he chewed on the last inch of toast. Mark picked up the empty plate and walked past the front door with a self-satisfied expression on his face. He wasn’t going to allow his day to be interrupted by those ladies! He was rinsing off the plate when there was a rapping sound on the kitchen window in front of him. He looked up to find a lady smiling in.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she said through the glass, ‘but could we borrow some tennis balls? You wouldn’t believe it, but all four of us have forgotten ours.’
He was tempted to send her to buy some, but then he’d have to let her out and back in again. ‘All right,’ he muttered, switching off the tap.
He opened the front door, gave the lock a stroke as if it was a well-behaved dog, leaned over, and placed two tennis balls on the front doorstep. ‘I’m not letting you out until you give those back,’ he announced.
Mark closed the door gently; it fitted snugly with a soft click.
At noon, his neck muscles were knotted as he stared at the phone, willing the effing bank not to have raised base rates. The doorbell chimed. It was the four tennis players, their faces and arms slick with sweat. One had a tennis ball in each hand. ‘Thanks awfully,’ she said, handing them over. ‘We’ve had a great game. Couldn’t help noticing the pool; would you mind if we had a quick dip?’ She screwed her face into a smile.
‘Yes, I bloody well do mind,’ said Mark. There was a juddering noise as the front gate squeaked open. ‘Now hop it, before you can’t get out.’
Driving to the airport, Mark was still smarting from the memory. Emily had made the deal with Martin at the tennis centre, no doubt some wishy-washy affair with no proper terms. She hadn’t thought this through. She had to get back down there and sort this nonsense out before the school holidays started and they had overflow players buzzing at the gate every hour like a swarm of bees round a honeypot. Approaching the pick-up zone, he slowed the car. He’d draw up a proper contract. Mark was clear what he wanted to receive from the agreement – one lesson a week and €20 for every hour they used his court. He was also clear what he was prepared to trade for the cash and session with Tim. Waiting for the barrier to rise, his brain racing with ideas of the restrictions to be imposed on the tennis centre, he spotted Emily with her overnight bag, brushing her hair behind her ears. She looked gorgeous, and even though she’d only been gone two days, he felt a longing in the pit of his stomach. He’d missed her. Mark coasted to a stop and leant over to open the passenger door.
‘Hi, miss me?’ Emily asked, opening the back door.
Mark twisted around and watched her stow the case. ‘More than you could ever imagine. Hop in, your dogs are pining for you too.’ A small, turquoise paper bag with royal warrants emblazoned on it, fell out of the side pocket of the case. He clicked his tongue. ‘Been shopping?’ he asked tightly.
Emily didn’t answer. She climbed into the passenger seat.
He waited for her to do up her seatbelt. ‘How’s Mum?’
‘Hmm, she’s fine, but that hip of hers is a worry. I think it’s more painful than she’s letting on. You might want to push her about it.’
He grunted, putting the car in gear, mentally scrolling through his calendar.
‘Lots of talk on the plane about interest rates going up. How much does that affect us?’ asked Emily.
Mark’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. Injecting a light tone into his voice, he said, ‘Affects Devon, but that’s not a huge mortgage, so just a few hundred a month. And not for long.’ He turned and grinned at her. ‘We have a full asking price offer on Devon. London shouldn’t be too far behind. There’s a second viewing being set up.’
She swallowed. ‘Don’t try to shield me. I know the size of the London loan. How much does that mortgage increase by?’
‘It doesn’t,’ he said, shooting her what he hoped was a reassuring look.
‘Phew. I was worried for a bit. The man next to me on the plane said he thought rates would be climbing each month for the rest of the year. Why doesn’t it affect London?’
‘Cos your clever husband organized a fixed-rate mortgage.’
Which was true. For another month. After then it would switch to the standard variable rate, and Mark couldn’t bring himself to check what that had just risen to, especially as he had a gut feeling the man on the plane was right; interest rates were going to keep climbing.