Nineteen
July 9th
Ellis bank balance: (￡6,134.98) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily:28 Mark:14
The post – forwarded from London by Svetlana – was stacked on Mark’s desk. He ripped open a white envelope: the London electricity bill. His eyes widened – should they start charging guests extra for heating the swimming pool? He slit open the second envelope and unfolded a typed letter. It was from the bank Ovington Square was mortgaged to, dated a week earlier. Mark’s jaw dropped.
Dear Mr and Mrs Ellis,
We notice that you are renting the above property in breach of the terms and conditions of your mortgage.
The letter demanded that the problem be rectified and specified the route: Mr and Mrs Ellis should repay the existing loan and apply for a buy-to-let mortgage.
Mark stared at the letter, dumbfounded. Shit. Shit. Shit ! Shylock wouldn’t open his wallet to the couple in their current circumstances. Mark would have to beg forgiveness from the lender, plead misunderstanding, promise to take the website down immediately, and cancel all future bookings. He pulled up his cashflow forecast and, wincing, deleted the “London rental income” line . Mark chewed a thumbnail. There must be some fat somewhere. Svetlana! He pounced, selecting the line for deletion, then paused. He couldn’t sack the housekeeper; it wasn’t only unfair, he couldn’t afford to do it. It was cheaper to employ her until January than make her redundant – she’d been employed by them for over fifteen years.
How much should he tell Emily? The London agent reported the house market was dead for the summer while the UK went through another tortuous contest selecting a prime minister. The houses would sell in the autumn. They had to.
Outside, on the terrace, Emily was folding laundry.
‘I need to talk to you,’ Mark said.
Emily fished around in the basket for a matching sock. ‘What about?’
Mark was holding a letter, tapping it against his trousers. She heard the screech of a jet engine climbing above her, but Mark didn’t say anything. He hitched up his trousers and sank onto the edge of a lounger.
‘Are you going to tell me?’ Her stomach started to churn. She reached out for the letter, her throat tightening, but Mark stuffed it into his pocket, closed his eyes, and let out a deep sigh. ‘We’re going to have to stop the London rentals.’
She tutted and rolled the matched socks together in a ball. ‘Well, you won’t get any complaints from me or Svetlana. It’s been a slog running that business.’
Mark spoke softly. ‘You don’t understand. This isn’t a choice. The mortgage company are forcing us to stop. But we can’t afford to pay the mortgage without the income from the rentals.’
Her hands clawed at the side of the basket, eyes darting back and forth between the laundry and her husband. If they couldn’t pay the mortgage, would the bank foreclose? Was she going to be evicted from her London home? Had their life deteriorated that much? ‘Yikes,’ she said.
‘Yes. Yikes.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘We start living like church mice. And I mean we . Not lip service anymore. We are stony broke. No more visitors, no more eating out, no more Fran. No more shopping at Fortnum’s.’
Emily blushed, then felt the anger burst through. She’d done nothing to deserve this, and she wasn’t throwing in the towel. ‘We need to maximize bookings here,’ she said, defiantly. ‘No one can shut this down.’
Mark massaged his neck. ‘No. We have a B she flicked a strand of hair from her face, picked up her wineglass, and fluttered her eyelashes at Terry. Surely, she could see through that man. He wasn’t happy, he was just drunk. But when had she last laughed at anything Mark said? He must make her happier.
Regretting the huge glasses of red wine – Terry had been too efficient keeping her glass topped up – Emily sank into a chair after serving breakfast, letting her arms dangle by her sides. A warm wet snout nudged her hand. She stroked the wiry hair, feeling the whiskers twitch against her palm; it was good to just sit in the sun for five minutes without answering questions about restaurants and day trips or where to find the nearest pharmacy. There was only one family today and they were catching a train to Lisbon in the morning, so they’d wanted an early breakfast. She must tell Mark; she couldn’t have him underfoot while she was cooking.
Tosca hopped into her lap, placed her paws on her chest, and started licking her face. On the table in front of her, Emily’s phone vibrated. She read the message from Mary and gasped.
Pushing the dog off her lap, she rose abruptly, collecting her car keys and the recycling box. The shopping must be done today; she wouldn’t have time tomorrow because the rooms were booked out by two new couples, and she’d be flat out preparing them. Closing the front door behind her, Emily worked out that if she was super-efficient, she could strip the beds and catch thirty minutes of cheap electricity before the expensive tariff kicked in at 8 o’clock.
Early the following morning, Villa Anna’s kitchen was a hive of activity. The smell of grilled bacon filled the room and the oven hummed gently, its interior light glowing, illuminating a tray piled with cooked food. In the corridor – the current utility room – was a laundry basket filled with pool towels waiting to be hung out to dry. Emily sliced the last of the mushrooms, and scraped them into the hot frying pan, then took a step backwards as the butter sizzled and spat. She heard footsteps behind her, and then a female voice announcing they were gasping for a cup of tea.
‘Nearly ready,’ Emily called over the noise of the oven, shaking the pan then turning down the heat. She flicked on the kettle and dashed to the bedrooms.
Five minutes later she was stuffing soiled bedclothes into the washing machine, which was pre-loaded with detergent. She slammed the door shut and hit the start button. At the sink, she squirted soap onto her hands then picked up the kettle. It felt lighter than it should. She shook it. She was sure she’d put in enough water to make four mugs, but the sloshing sound suggested otherwise.
Just before 8 o’clock, an alarm sounded.
The guests had left amid promises of rave reviews, the kitchen was immaculate, and it was time for stage two of operation turnaround. Emily checked the washing machine – still forty minutes to gobble expensive electricity – and went to fetch the basket of damp pool towels. It wasn’t in the corridor.
She heard Mark’s voice, a hint of cockiness in it. ‘Lost something?’
‘I put a basket of clean towels down somewhere, and I can’t find it.’
His arms snaked round her waist, and he placed a gentle kiss on her neck. ‘I hung them out for you.’
She pushed his hands away and whirled round, shouting, ‘You idiot!’
His eyes widened with a wounded look. She rushed past him and ran outside. Three jets of water were dousing the previously clean towels, now sagging on the washing line.
‘I was only trying to help,’ he said softly.
‘And no doubt making yourself a coffee while I was downstairs stripping the beds. No wonder there wasn’t enough water for me to make four cups of tea.’
A few days later, returning from his morning run, Mark closed the front door softly and crept past the kitchen.
Emily’s voice floated out to him. ‘I need your help.’
He backtracked to the kitchen. She was wearing a white tennis dress. ‘The guests are late, and if I don’t go now, I’m going to be late for tennis with Tina.’
Mark’s eyes were wide with fear. ‘You’re leaving me here on my own?’
‘They only want toast.’
A morning when they didn’t need a hot food licence! Why was Pedro taking so long to sort that problem?
‘They won’t eat you, Mark. Just try to be nice to them. Remember – they are paying our mortgage.’ She picked up the car keys and trotted out of the kitchen.
‘Do they want it now?’ he yelled after her.
‘Ask them!’ she shouted back.
She was right. He didn’t need supervising to make toast.
Mark imagined it was his mother sitting outside on the terrace. His face relaxed into a smile as he walked out into the warmth. ‘Are you ready for your toast?’ he asked.
Delighted that the guests were spending the day at a beach, Mark escorted them to their car and waved them off.
‘That front door lock’s holding up well,’ called out David.
‘Not really. Emily still likes to slam it. I’ve superglued those damn screws in place.’
David walked to his fence line, resting his hands on the hedge. ‘What made you decide to cut down the tree?’
‘I haven’t cut down any trees,’ said Mark.
David laughed. ‘Well, someone has.’
Mark froze, his hand clutching the door handle. ‘Which one?’
David was scratching his chin. ‘You didn’t cut it down, did you? I saw you jog past then I heard the chainsaw. It’s the one that overhung the rustic land and Tommy’s pool in the evening.’
Mark slammed a fist into the door frame. ‘Effing Tommy!’
The screeching noise of a chainsaw started. Mark sprinted off, banging the front door shut behind him.
Toni let Mark in, her mop of grey curls hidden under a straw hat. Mark pushed past her. He could see Tommy and, beyond him, stretched across the rustic land, the fallen tree, with some of its limbs shorn off. The sagging fence was crushed beneath the trunk. Why hadn’t Emily intervened?
‘You cut down our tree!’ Mark shouted.
Beside him, Toni looked startled.
‘You’ve no proof it was me,’ said Tommy silkily.
Mark’s hands balled into fists. ‘I’ll just go and ask those tree surgeons who’s paying their bill then.’
‘Tommy!’ said Toni, her eyes bulging.
Tommy laughed, ‘How’s your Portuguese?’
‘Outside, Tommy. Now !’ shouted Mark.
In the garden, they stood chest to chest, eyes drilling into each other like two prize fighters at a weigh-in. Mark puffed out his chest. He was taller than Tommy, a decade younger, and much fitter. He grabbed the older man’s forearms and tried to wrestle him to the ground.
‘Stop!’ wailed Toni.
The other man grunted, and Mark felt rough hands gripping his arms, then a foot snaked round his ankle. Mark tensed, dug his feet into the grass, and clung on. The pair danced around the garden like a pair of sumo wrestlers.
Toni was swatting at Mark with her straw hat. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body, imagining that it was Paul he was wrestling.
‘Let go, you brute!’ shouted Toni.
Mark released his grip and shoved Tommy in the chest. Tommy staggered backwards and grabbed the branch of a lemon tree. ‘I’ll be off,’ Mark said. He pointed a finger at Tommy. ‘Toni, get my fence dog-proofed by the end of today, and keep your husband his side of it.’
On Saturday mornings, Emily shopped at a traditional Portuguese market in Loule, where farmers sold seasonal vegetables, eggs, home-produced cheeses, and home-pressed olive oil beneath makeshift sunshades. There was an enclosed section, a cool high-ceilinged building, where meat and fish were sold alongside little tapas bars. Row after row of fishmongers offering silvery stacks of shiny fish, piles of dark blue lobsters and speckled brown crabs. There was no unpleasant smell, just a faintly sweet aroma of meat. Emily had no idea why Mark invariably joined her – there were a few tourist stalls, but he never purchased anything from them, so that couldn’t be the pull.
Nowadays, instead of standing in front of her Pilates instructor, Emily was often to be found standing in front of the “egg lady”. Today, the Portuguese woman was only eight inches off the ground, sitting on a plastic stool beneath a faded yellow parasol. Her grey hair was tucked behind her ears, her face fell in folds of wrinkles, but her dark eyes shone as brightly as a child’s. Her gnarled hands bobbed about, pushing each of her wares towards Emily. The women shared no common language, but through nudges and hand signals, Emily secured a tray of eggs, avoided the sweetcorn and the parsley, and succumbed to the temptation of a bunch of spinach tied together with red nylon string. Emily placed her purchases in her bags, her eyes circling the little cafés, sifting through the tourists eating breakfast and the groups of Portuguese men with bottles of beer so small that a Brit would think they were samples.
Where was Mark? At last, she saw him, sitting alone at a table, a tiny cup of coffee in front of him, his phone in his hands. Anger bubbled up inside her. The phone reminded her of Mary’s last message. Emily couldn’t even look forward to her London trips anymore – Mary was threatening to tell all her girlfriends she was avoiding tax. And if Mark had the time to sit and play with his phone, he could help more with the B this was going to be a real bore. Emily started the car, reached over to select reverse and the car stalled. For a few moments, she sat staring down at something she hadn’t seen for decades, recalling her first car from twenty-five years ago – a bright red Mini – which was the last time she’d clapped eyes on a gearstick. She looked down at the pedals – yup, there was a third. She swiftly added shopping to Mark’s list of chores.
Why should she forgive him? He hadn’t even warned her the car was manual! Her life had imploded. He may miss his job in the City, but he spent his days tucked away in his study emerging only to offer opinions on how she spent hers. Her diminished life was his fault, and the solution was his idea. She felt tricked. What concessions had Mark made?