Thirteen
May 25th
Ellis bank balance: (￡10,158.38) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 18 Mark: 3
Between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, Emily’s guests complained their toilet wouldn’t flush. She refunded half their money and watched them finish their food and scarper out the front door so fast it gave her a sinking feeling she’d just been conned. Determined to resolve the drama, Emily donned a pair of gloves, sank to her knees, and reached deep into the bowels of the toilet. Her bare arm was resting on the cold ceramic lip of the toilet bowl. She grimaced; she should have sprayed it before she started. Wiggling her hand, her fingertips brushed something solid, and Emily wrinkled her nose, gagging, as she pulled out a sodden paper bag. What was wrong with the bin? Why couldn’t they do what the polite notice asked them to do, and why was it never Mark dealing with the toilets? But Mark was away on his first London trip. He’d been to visit Gwen who he reported was on a waiting list for a hip replacement operation. In his absence she’d gotten the villa ship-shape for her new business and updated the red rule book.
It was when she was making tea for a family of four a few days later that Emily recognized the irony of her new life. Lifting the six-litre bottle and sloshing water into the kettle – they couldn’t drink the borehole water – a memory flashed through her mind of sitting with her back cushioned by silk pillows, sipping tea, and chatting to Svetlana while the housekeeper collected dirty laundry. She rustled up a smile and took the mugs onto the terrace, rummaging through her mind to dredge up the guests’ names.
‘Good morning, Cindy. What can I get you for breakfast?’
Cindy moved cutlery around to create space for the tea. ‘Full English, with plenty of toast on the side.’
‘Any plans for today?’ asked Emily, mentally crossing her fingers. ‘There are some wonderful beaches nearby.’
‘I think we’ll just laze around by the pool again,’ said the father, dropping a lump of sugar into his mug.
Emily’s smile slipped. ‘Right,’ she mumbled.
‘Could we have fresh pool towels, please?’ asked Cindy. ‘Yesterday’s towels are still damp and smell of chlorine.’
Emily’s hands tightened around her tray. ‘Right. Breakfast won’t be long.’
While the guests enjoyed their food, she swept the bedroom floors, made the beds, and tidied the bathrooms, listening to the family’s chatter and the scraping of knives and forks across plates. She was on her knees stuffing dirty pool towels – left in a heap in the corridor – into the washing machine, when she heard the glug-glug of the kettle being filled, and barked, ‘Not yet, Mark. You need to wait until I’ve washed up.’
‘I’m just making a coffee, I won’t get in the way.’
Emily set the delay timer for later in the evening when the lower electricity tariff kicked in. She stood up, hands on hips. ‘You know the rules. No one in the kitchen until breakfast is finished.’
Mark tilted his head to one side, like a bird, one eyebrow raised. ‘When did that rule get agreed?’
‘Three weeks ago, when I told you I was starting the B was he now required to scuttle away the moment he heard a key in the front door, like a Victorian chambermaid freeing a room for their master?
He called the London lawyer. He wasn’t sure he wanted to rely on this new source of income; better speed up the Devon house sale.
Between hoots of laughter from the pool, Mark heard his wife talking – she sounded happy. She would be with that Miguel. He gritted his teeth and pulled open the fridge door, telling himself to focus on the money. He crouched to examine the contents, wondering why Emily didn’t find the sound of screeching children annoying. Would he have learned to tune out that noise if he’d spent a little more time around Alex when his son was growing up? Behind him came a pitter-patter noise. He picked up a bottle of water and turned around, his shoes squeaking on the tiles; a child was standing in the kitchen, dripping water onto the floor. Through the child’s legs, Mark saw a trail of wet footsteps. He sucked in his breath and straightened.
‘Please may I have a dry towel?’
‘No. You were given fresh towels this morning. Dry them in the sun.’
He stalked past the child. Emily was being far too lax with the guests, and she spent all her spare time with that designer, tittering over outrageous ideas for the villa. Or was there another reason why that man was always here? Did he have designs on his wife as well as her house?
With Cindy and her family settled by the poolside, Emily was standing beside Miguel trying to imagine twin life-sized lions either side of Villa Anna’s front door. Emily’s idea of tall terracotta pots had been rejected with a dismissive flutter of his hand: ‘Dreary! We can do so much better than that!’
She felt Miguel’s hands on her shoulders, and he wheeled her around. He pointed at the front gates. ‘Of course, we must replace those with a solid structure. Think of it as the curtain going up at the theatre. You can’t have holes in the curtain, the audience gawping at the scenery before the play has begun!’
Emily hadn’t thought of it that way: holes in the curtain. How lucky to have found Miguel. He was so talented. He came up with some ridiculous ideas, but her meetings with him were the balm she needed.
‘Will it be lions, or would you prefer something more dramatic? I’ve seen sphinxes done well. Or what about terracotta warriors?’ Miguel reeled off a list of alternatives – buddhas or mythical dogs? His eyes shone as he moved closer, giving her a blast of spicy citrus. ‘Do you want to be a trendsetter or a follower?’
She chuckled.
‘Elephants!’
Emily snorted, stepping backwards in surprise, unsure if he was being serious or not. ‘Elephants?’
‘No one has done elephants.’ Miguel ran his hands through his hair and darted from one side of the house to the other, backwards and forwards, squatting on his haunches and using his hands to gauge perspective.
The door opened, and Mark glared at Emily. ‘Is he still here?’
‘Darling, let me introduce you to Miguel.’
Mark bobbed his head at the interior designer, the gesture so slight and swift, Emily could easily have missed it. ‘I’m going to organize us a post-box,’ he mumbled, trotting down the steps and flicking the remote control. ‘Please close the door when you’re finished and try not to slam it.’
‘Sorry about that,’ said Emily, as the gates squeaked back into place. Miguel’s advice was free, there was no excuse for Mark to be rude.
Mark was sulking in his office. He’d waited an hour with his completed three-page form to open the post-box and been sent packing because he hadn’t thought to take their passports – to open a post-box? Emily could try her luck next time. He took a bite of sandwich and called his mother. For once, there was a slight sullenness to her voice.
‘I never hear from you anymore.’
‘You can always ring my mobile, Mum, if you ever need me. I wrote the number on your pad by the phone. If I don’t answer, leave a message.’
‘I know, love, but I also know how important work is, and anyway, I don’t like those answerphone thingamy jibs. It’s not like speaking to a person.’
‘Well, how are you anyway? How’s Essex? Has it warmed up yet?’
Mark sat back listening to his mother’s voice wash over him, non-judgmental, undemanding, but over two thousand miles away. How he missed his Sunday visits to Essex.
He heard a sharp buzzing noise.
‘Emily?’ He tilted his chair back and yelled, ‘Can you get that? I’m on the phone.’
The buzzing persisted. He stalked out of his office, phone by his side, and yanked open the front door. Two men were standing outside the gate, dressed in black trousers, white short-sleeved shirts, and ties.
‘Can I help you?’ he shouted.
‘Are you the owner of this villa, sir?’
Mark lifted his phone and muttered, ‘Mum I’ve gotta go, someone official at the gate, call you back.’ He released the gate, and the men walked towards him. ‘How can I help you?’ he said a little cockily.
The men showed him their identity cards. Both resembled their pictures, but they could have been offering their golf club memberships: all the information was in Portuguese.
‘This is Villa Anna?’ asked the man holding a clipboard.
‘Yes,’ Mark replied cautiously.
‘Your website says you offer hot food.’
He peered down at the clipboard, recognizing a screenshot of the website, pictures of the tennis court, the pool. There was a photo of a table laid for breakfast: a hibiscus flower nestled on each of four white napkins, a rack of toast, dainty pots of jam, and four plates piled with crispy bacon, fried tomatoes, and glistening fried eggs. He thought the designer had done a good job.
‘Only for guests, we’re not running a café.’
‘You need a Licenca de atividade de restauracao e bebidas.’
Mark’s stomach clenched. ‘A what?’
‘A hot food licence, sir,’ said the other man.
‘To grill a sausage?’
‘To boil an egg.’
Pedro wouldn’t have made a mistake like this thought Mark. ‘We did everything properly through our lawyer. He didn’t mention anything about a hot food licence.’
‘Did you ask?’
He scratched his head. ‘How do we get a hot food licence?’ he asked.
Mark left two messages for Pedro, then a third which he instructed to be marked urgent. Two days later, his lawyer returned his call.
‘There was nothing on the link you sent me about food, Mr Ellis. I will deal with this, but change the website, and don’t serve hot food until I say you can.’