Twelve
May 5th
Ellis bank balance: (￡8,565.23) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 11 Mark: 0
It was a balmy evening, and the Bentley’s aircon was on maximum, comforting Emily, Fran, and four dogs – Fran was dog-sitting two Labradors – as they headed for a walk in the hills near Boliqueime. Emily parked under the shade of a carob tree, the fruit hanging in black clusters amongst the small waxy leaves, looking like charred runner beans.
‘Wow, it’s still 26 degrees out there,’ exclaimed Emily, glancing at the temperature gauge. ‘The dogs are going to cook.’ She opened the car door and reached down to touch the tarmac. It was only warm. She let out the dogs, calling hers to heel.
The sixsome hiked into the silent, parched, dusty countryside and tramped down a steep dirt road scarred with trammels the winter rainstorms had carved as torrents of water rushed downhill. They walked carefully, picking their way, judging each step to prevent dislodging small stones that might cause them to slip and slide down the hill. When they reached more level terrain, Emily broke the silence.
‘Thanks for all the bookings. I’ve made nearly two hundred euros this week.’
‘Not sure how long I can keep it up for you. The new surface is going down on the two end courts this week, and once they’re back in action, I won’t be sending so many players to you.’
Emily’s shoulders drooped. ‘Drat. I had plans for that money!’
‘Should pick up once the tourists descend.’ Fran patted her arm reassuringly. ‘When are Alex and Jess visiting again?’
Emily coughed. ‘I think Alex needs to get a job before he visits again.’
‘What does he live off?’
‘Well, I sub him a bit. Don’t say anything to Mark about that, please?’
‘Sure, I can keep a secret. Reckon I know you well enough now to ask why you’re out here. Tax?’
‘If I had a pound for every time someone asks me that question ...’ Emily replied, wiping the back of her hand over her moist brow.
‘Everyone has a reason for being here, either hiding or dodging tax, so if you aren’t here for tax reasons, what else are you hiding from?’
‘Why are you here?’
Fran laughed. ‘Dunno. Weather? Hiding from my parents?’
They trekked past a network of stone walls enclosing smallholdings of olive trees, the fruit still small, tight and green, waiting to be plumped up by the rain, alongside the ubiquitous carob and ragged, scrappy almond trees. There was no vegetation between the trees, just bare red-brown earth. The remains of a house stood on a flat piece of land, roofless, with only portions of its rooms still standing, the stones that had once protected families from the summer heat and winter rain, pilfered to repair nearby walls.
Emily glanced at the young woman walking beside her. ‘Did your parents used to live in Portugal?’ she asked.
‘No. Great Yarmouth. They’ve run a B Emily liked having guests. She remembered blanching at Mark’s news that Villa Anna’s seller was leaving all the contents, but maybe she could put all that surplus linen and crockery to use after all. She just needed a website, like Ovington Square’s. She reached out an arm and picked a few needles off a rosemary bush, rubbing the thin green leaves between her fingers, and inhaled the strong woody, slightly minty scent. If she rented just the two downstairs bedrooms, it wouldn’t disturb her much. Would it?
‘How much do you reckon I could charge per room?’ she asked.
‘Where you are, with a full English?’
Emily paused. Did she want to commit to a cooked breakfast? ‘Go on then, full English.’
‘At least one-fifty a night,’ said Fran.
‘Wow!’
If she offered all three bedrooms, that would be a couple of grand a week; she could be earning ten thousand a month. Mark would be a happy man. She picked up her pace, a spring in her step.
‘Why don’t you go back to England?’ asked Emily.
‘I guess I think of what life would be like for me in Great Yarmouth compared to what I have here. I could never afford to buy a flat, let alone a house in Norfolk. At least I stand a chance out here.’
Fran stopped and waved an arm at the barren landscape in front of them. Twenty-first century life hardly seemed to have touched this place. Miles of untidy vegetation with a single line of electricity poles pointed the way to a small white village nestled into the side of a distant hill.
‘The rural Portuguese live a simple life,’ Fran continued. ‘They grow their own vegetables, keep chickens, go fishing. Do you know the average wage here is just over a thousand pounds a month! The average. The Portuguese don’t live off credit like us Brits. Stuff just isn’t important to them. It’s about family and simple pleasures like a day at the beach, or Sunday lunch with family.’
‘Don’t you have ambitions to get married, have a family?’
Fran stumbled, missed her footing, and Emily offered an arm in support. She tested her ankle before saying, ‘I’m not that conventional. What’s the rush? I’m still in my twenties ... just. And anyway, I’m happy with my life.’
They reached a riverbed and took a path to the right, walking single-file into scrubland. Emily heard a stomach-curdling growl. Her eyes fell on a large brown dog, and she quickly tugged her dogs behind her.
Fran laughed. ‘Don’t worry about him.’ She pointed to a man wielding a pickaxe nearby. ‘Portuguese dogs are trained to protect their patch. That dog won’t come near us.’
‘Even though we’ve got dogs too?’
‘Nope. As long as you never cross their boundaries. Their job is to defend, not attack.’
Emily picked up her pace, her mind churning around ideas for a B she’d have to update the rule book, make sure Mark didn’t snap at her guests. As the path meandered closer to the plants, Emily saw through their screen into the empty riverbed and realized the noise wasn’t water but the wind rustling through the fronds of the bamboo. Strangely she didn’t feel empty at the thought of running a B she felt invigorated, liberated almost. She would be earning serious money.
When the path widened, and they were once more walking side by side, Emily asked, ‘Do you envy the rich lifestyle of the other expats?’
Fran roared with laughter. ‘What a ridiculous question! Envy won’t change anything. Anyway, I’m happy letting them stress themselves towards an early grave. Me, I’m content to feast off the scraps they toss me.’
‘Don’t you worry for the future?’
‘Nah. Always land butter-side up, me. The trick is, never set the bar too high.’ She paused and then said, ‘I have my dreams, and one day I’ll find a way to make them come true.’
Emily gave a short laugh. Whatever happened to her dreams?
Slamming the front door, the following evening, Emily unclipped the dogs and prowled through the house, trying to see it through the eyes of paying guests, jotting down ideas in a little pink notebook. She ran her eyes over Alex’s bedroom one more time. Mark had done a decent job of painting it second time around. Maybe a throw for the bed? And some cushions and a couple of rugs either side of the bed so guests wouldn’t be stepping onto cold shiny tiles. She opened the bathroom door, paused, and scribbled: Fix wonky door handle Alex bathroom .
Suddenly she felt Mark’s hands on her shoulders. ‘He’s not coming back already, is he?’
She bit her lip. ‘I miss him.’
Mark squeezed her shoulder and dropped a kiss on her head. ‘I know, but he must start fending for himself. Can I ask you to do something for me please?’
She turned and faced him. ‘What?’
‘Could you close the front door, not slam it? That lock’s a monster to fix.’
She winced. She hadn’t even noticed it was fixed. ‘I’ve a money-making idea I’d like to discuss.’
‘I’m all ears. I’ll get the kettle on.’
On the terrace, Emily tucked the notebook into the seat beside her and picked up her mug. ‘If we want more income, fast, we should start renting out rooms.’
Mark gasped. ‘Brilliant idea ... but I don’t have time to set up another business.’
She shot him a filthy look. ‘I’m not asking you to. I’ll do it.’
He snorted, sending a surge of anger through her. ‘On a day-to-day basis,’ he said, ‘but you need a business plan and a website, and there’ll be red tape to sort out, and I’m too busy.’
Emily snapped. ‘Not busy enough. You forgot to turn the dishwasher on last night.’
‘No, that was deliberate – it wasn’t full.’
She raised her voice. ‘It still needs to go on each of the days specified in the rule book. You can’t duck your days for emptying the dishwasher by delaying putting it on. That’s unfair.’
‘That’s a waste of electricity, and you know—’
She cut in, parroting his Essex accent: ‘ Electricity is expensive .’ She stood up and waved her notebook at him. ‘Well, if we’re that short of money, help me get this new idea off the ground.’
‘Is it really that unpleasant emptying a dishwasher?’
‘I do more than my share of housework. You know the house rules,’ she shouted.
He sucked in a breath, then exploded, ‘House rules! There were no house rules in London! Stop trying to chop off my balls. And why can’t we economize more? Why can’t you cook instead of buying pre-prepared meals?’
‘Why should I? You cook if you want to save money.’
She pushed her chair back, scraping it against the tiles, and stalked off, grabbing her keys, and slamming the door behind her. Outside, she stabbed at the gate fob, clenching her teeth as the ancient mechanism groaned into action like a weary soldier forced to head into battle. There was a merry whistling sound coming from the borehole – bang goes my evening shower, she thought, as she stalked down the drive.
To avoid playing hide and seek with the golf course evening sprinkler systems, she turned right down the track into the pine forest. Each step further away from Villa Anna raised her spirits. She tipped her head back, inhaling the resin smell of the trees, as soothing as the scent of the body oils she used to have massaged into her skin. She could do this. She would design the website, show Mark that she didn’t need his help. It would be her money, and she would deduct a little for herself.
Her eyes were adjusting to the dim light; ahead, she saw the track narrowed, one side lined by a head-high drystone wall. She stumbled on a rut, and a stone scuttled into the bushes making a rustling noise. A dog growled, and her body tensed, eyes darting around to find the animal. Emily froze, and flattened herself against the wall, feeling the rough stone grazing her flesh. In front of her, on the roof of a house, was a dog the size of a small pony. Its body was rigid, its snout pointed towards her, teeth bared. The house was built hard up to the track and ran alongside it for fifty feet. The animal was looking down at her, its jaws a mere hop away. She recalled Fran’s claim, hoping this Portuguese dog was trained not to overstep its boundary too. Inch by inch, her shoulders scraping the wall, she sidled back the way she’d come with her eyes lowered and her heart pumping. In her peripheral vision, she saw the dog’s paws tracking in lockstep. The animal reached the edge of the roof – would it jump? Emily turned and sprinted, vowing that if she managed to get away, she was finally going to take control of her life.
In the morning, the little pink notebook beside her, Emily sat with an iPad angled away from the sun, a half-drunk mug of tea on a side table. She was wearing a full piece swimsuit, revealing her deeply bronzed limbs.
She peered up as the chair beside her was dragged away and Mark sat down still wearing his running shorts.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Writing a business plan.’
A few minutes passed, with just the gentle rustle of a breeze through the pine trees. The peace was broken by a high-pitched whining noise that subsided into a soft roar before rising again.
‘Christ, what’s that racket?’ huffed Mark.
‘It’s Sunday lunchtime, so it’ll be Tommy with his leaf blower. Why is everything so expensive? I can’t find a smart scatter cushion for less than a hundred euros.’
‘You’re doing this, are you?’
Emily ripped a few pages from the little pink notebook. ‘ We are doing this. That’s your DIY list.’ She handed over the pages. ‘Properly please. We’re charging a lot of money, so if you can’t do it right, get someone who can. Give me Pedro’s number – he can help me – and I need contact details for the website designer you used for Ovington Square.’
He scanned the DIY list. ‘I’ll make time to deal with Pedro and the website. You’re right, we need the money.’
First thing Monday morning, Mark called his lawyer. On Tuesday afternoon Pedro returned the call, and Mark learned that he needed a licence to set up the new business. He sighed. ‘Can you help speed this along?’ He’d had a sneaky peek at the business plan, and once the villa was open for business, the income would repay the overdraft in a few weeks.
‘What are you selling? Have you designed a website?’
Mark thought for a few moments. To save time and money he’d told the website designer to base the B&B on the Ovington Square website. ‘I’ll send you a link to a London website – it’s a maximum of three bedrooms instead of the whole house, and we don’t have a gym here in Portugal. Do you need the room rates?’
‘No,’ said the lawyer decisively.
‘Pedro, any news on residency?’
‘Which do you want me to do first, Mr Ellis?’
Both, thought Mark, preferably yesterday. ‘Business first, please Pedro, and fast as you can. Oh, and Pedro.’
‘Yes, Mr Ellis.’
‘Keep in touch, eh?’