Twenty-one
August 10th
Ellis bank balance: ￡3,785.03
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 30 Mark: 21
With Mark away, Emily hosted a small drinks party, inviting Martin from the tennis centre, Tina and John, and two other ladies she played tennis with, suggesting they bring their husbands. She extended the invitation to Miguel and Fran; Mark wouldn’t entertain either of them, but he wasn’t there. The wine was chilling, the canapes arranged on plates, there was a pile of paper napkins folded into triangles, and the smell of lemon hung above the upstairs terrace where four citronella candles were alight, their flames blowing sideways in a stiff breeze.
The group drank their way through eight bottles of wine, Fran was getting frisky with Martin, and Emily called last orders. Tina was having a heated discussion with one of the women about Brexit, claiming it was responsible for the UK’s rampant inflation.
Emily looked from one to the other of her warring guests. ‘The last time we were on court, I don’t recall either of you claiming to be an economist. Why not agree to differ and have another glass of wine?’
‘Top up for me,’ demanded Fran, tapping the side of her empty glass with a wobbly finger.
‘I think you’ve had enough already,’ said Emily, picking up Fran’s glass. ‘I’ll fetch you a glass of water. You can thank me in the morning!’
Miguel followed her into the kitchen, carrying the empty plates. He stood to the side of the sink, his back to the countertop while she rinsed off the crumbs.
‘You are very good with people, Emily.’
She grunted and turned off the tap. ‘My husband has his prickly moments. I guess I’ve learned over the years.’
‘Don’t underestimate your skill. I could use you in my business.’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ve my arms full running the B plenty of space for breakfast. She imagined herself working alongside Miguel each day, advising rich clients on how to redecorate sumptuous houses, spending their money the way she used to spend her own as if it was as easy to come by as air. In her mind’s eye she was laughing, and so was he.
Her mouth twitched into a smile, and she stood up. ‘Sadly, it’s a case of needs must. We’re fully booked, and it wouldn’t be right to cancel people’s holidays.’ She raised her eyebrows at Miguel and shrugged. ‘Come and help me persuade Fran to go home.’ She held his dark eyes with her own. ‘Preferably alone.’
Twenty minutes later the guests left, Fran hiccupping her way down the front steps, draped between two of Emily’s tennis friends, like a puppet whose strings had been snipped. Emily closed the front door behind them, reflecting on what Miguel had said. She shouldn’t be slaving away at a job she didn’t enjoy, simply to pursue Mark’s dreams.
That night, Mark flew back to Faro, offering to catch a cab home. Emily was woken by pounding on her bedroom door.
‘Coming!’ she cried.
She could hear birds singing behind the blackout curtain. She pulled on a dressing gown, flung open the curtains, the warmth of the sun bursting through. She could see down into Mark’s study; he was showered, dressed and already at his desk. Why hadn’t the guests taken their problem to him?
‘Yes?’ she said blearily as she opened the door.
‘There’s no water.’ The man was naked apart from a towel wrapped around his waist.
Emily avoided looking at the wiry hairs scattered across his chest. ‘You’ve no water in your shower room?’
‘There’s no water anywhere in the house. I checked.’
‘Give me a minute.’
She went into the bathroom. A sopping wet towel hung over the shower screen. A bathmat sat in a pool of water like a giant sponge. She gritted her teeth; had Mark used all the hot water? She turned on the hot water tap. Nothing. She tried the cold. Still nothing. Cursing David, she stormed out.
Emily placated the furious guests, plying them with cups of tea and coffee – for once having to use bottled water to cook with was an advantage – a hearty breakfast, and gave them half their money back in cash. That was when she saw David. He had a spanner in his hand and was bent double examining the contents of the borehole hut like a schoolboy puzzling over a new Lego set. ‘David!’ she hollered. ‘Turn our water on please!’
Why couldn’t she be as forceful with Mary? She’d kicked that can down the road claiming she wanted to tell Alex face to face. She was behaving like a child delaying doing their holiday homework.
At 2 o’clock precisely, she answered the door to Miguel. The scent of his cologne drifted in. She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling, allowing her thoughts to drift on the heady smell; how appropriate – eau de Portugal, originally crafted for Percy Croft of the Port family of the same name. Miguel had an artist’s portfolio folder in one hand, and in the other, a little bag which he passed to Emily. She pulled apart the handles and peered inside.
‘From simply the best bakery outside Lisbon. If you’re a very good girl, I will tell you where it is,’ he offered, his face crinkling into a smile.
Seeing the little custard tarts wrapped in paper napkins cushioned inside a plastic box, her mouth watered. They looked as cossetted as Emily had been when she lived in London. In the kitchen, she arranged the cakes on a wooden board, made a cafetière of coffee, and carried the tray onto the small terrace. Miguel rose, plumping up his hair with his hands.
‘Maybe over there, darling.’ He patted his case and indicated a side table. He unzipped the portfolio and pulled out a board the size of a tabloid newspaper. ‘Close your eyes,’ he ordered.
She did as she was told and listened to the gentle thud of boards being laid on the table. Each soft thud was the sound of opportunity. She counted twelve.
‘Ready!’ cried Miguel.
She opened her eyes. The pictures were laid out face-down. Slowly the designer turned over the first prop and she saw the front of Villa Anna as it would become, illustrated by the first of the computer-generated images she had commissioned at vast expense, but without Mark’s agreement. Years of marriage had taught her that sometimes it was better to plead forgiveness than seek permission, and she had a right to spend money – she was earning more than Mark now.
‘Now that is what I call a launchpad!’ exclaimed Miguel, sitting back triumphantly, taking a nibble of his pastel de nata.
Emily clapped her hands. ‘Wow!’
They leaned over the picture together, Miguel holding his food away from it. The gravelled drive was replaced by a carpet of cal?ada, the polished black and cream stones laid out in a complicated flowing pattern of swirls and circles. The narrow steps up to the front door were wider and flanked by five-foot-high elephants, their trunks held aloft, in an S-shape, with the tips turned down. They wore saddles of shocking pink, mixed with tangerine and vibrant purple, and in each saddle was a tall hurricane lamp.
‘I do like these.’ Miguel pointed his half-eaten tart at one of the elephants. ‘What do you think of the candles?’ He sat back, finished the food, and wiped his hands together, dusting the crumbs off his fingers. Before his client could voice her opinion, he declared that he had changed his mind. ‘No, it would be so dull having to change the candles.’
‘What about electric ones? Would that be possible?’ asked Emily.
Blowing her a kiss, Miguel said, ‘You see, you are good at this!’
Standing by the open window of his study, Mark listened to the pair discussing pictures he knew would cost several thousand pounds to produce in London, without a golden triangle sized margin. Miguel was leaning over the CGI of the front entrance, poking a finger at one of the elephants.
‘I can’t promise, but I might be able to get their trunks to spray water, so they become a sort of fountain.’ The designer glanced up at Emily, chortling. ‘Wouldn’t that be such fun?’
Mark listened to the simpering Miguel compliment his wife on her exquisite taste. He was unsurprised to hear that a fully costed proposal would be with her shortly, and that Miguel had secured the best, most reliable firm of builders, and was holding them on standby, pending her sign-off.
Sheer willpower stopped him interrupting the meeting when he heard Miguel announce the tremendously good news that he’d managed to source the elephants. Tragically they might have to be Indian rather than African elephants – the larger ears would have had more oomph , didn’t she agree? He would, of course, try to persuade someone to produce the right style of ear.
On and on, the man gushed about the bloody elephants. Risking another glance out of his window, Mark saw Miguel reach out for a second tart before revealing, ‘The seriously good news on the elephants,’ – he waved the cake at his client – ‘they are not going to be nearly as expensive as I thought!’
Mesmerized, Mark watched the designer take a bite, holding out his hand to catch the flaking pastry. ‘Guess!’ he said, widening his eyes at Emily, as if inviting her into his secret. Mark wanted to yell at them to stop. How could she possibly have any idea what a good price was for a pair of ruddy stone elephants, regardless of the size of their bloody ears? There was a pause. Emily didn’t enter the game, and Miguel finished his tart.
‘I am optimistic that with a little pressure from me, I can buy them at a shade under 20,000 euros.’ Miguel leaned closer and added, ‘Each.’
Mark coughed a laugh, before learning that it was going to cost a teensy-weensy little bit more if Miguel succeeded in persuading his supplier to alter the mould to produce the larger ears. Oh, and of course if their trunks worked ...
Enough! He marched into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. There was a shiny, bright-pink ribbon wrapped around the fridge, making it look like a gift. He stepped closer, bent down, and with a fingernail picked at the Sellotape securing the ribbon. It buckled but held firm. He snatched up the car keys and charged out of the villa, bursting with rage. He rode the clutch on the Fiat 500, wishing it was the Bentley, then floored the accelerator and, with a high-pitched yowl, sped down the driveway.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, wondering where Mark was, Emily heard the gate bell. She released the lock, but moments later it rang again. She poked her head out of the front door, screwing her eyes shut as the bright sun hit her full in the face. There was a small car at the gate, the driver’s door open, a woman standing behind it, flapping a pair of sunglasses at her. Emily released the lock a third time. Nothing happened.
‘Hang on a tick, problem with the electrics,’ she hollered to her new guests. ‘Let me get the master key.’
She rummaged around in the key safe, sending the keys rattling against each other but couldn’t find the right one. Emily went back outside, wracking her brains for ideas. Walking towards the guests, an apologetic smile on her face, she heard a melodic whistling. The door to the little borehole hut was open, a torso bent forward at the waist.
‘David, have you shorted the electrics to our gate?’ she asked.
A face peered out, a picture of innocence. ‘Could be a power cut?’
‘Nope. Kettle’s just boiled.’
‘Ah,’ said David.
The sunglasses were flapping again, their owner peering through the front gate bars, shuffling her weight from one foot to the other. ‘Could we hurry up please? I’m bursting for a leak.’
Emily approached her guest. Why hadn’t Mark had a serious conversation with David about the borehole, and where had he gone?
Emily watched the Fiat 500 accelerate through the gates. Mark retrieved two carrier bags from the boot, slammed it shut, and staggered up the steps. She held the door wide. He marched past without a greeting.
‘You missed a spot of drama while you were out,’ she said, jauntily. ‘Mr Fixit shut off our electrics while playing with his toy, the borehole. Our new guests had to climb over the fence to get in.’ She laughed, but Mark didn’t seem amused. He was scowling. Again. Was she supposed to be a font of positivity as well as money?
‘Where am I meant to store this lot?’ he asked, lips drawn into a sneer.
She opened a carrier bag. ‘Mark, we’ve got plenty of milk.’ She pulled out a wedge of cheddar. ‘And cheese.’ She peered into the carrier bag. ‘And butter. What did you buy all this for?’ she raised her eyes; his arms were crossed over his chest. ‘How am I supposed to know what’s in the fridge?’ he sneered.
‘Well, open it?’ she said sarcastically.
‘I can’t, can I?’ He pointed at the fridge. ‘Not when it’s trussed up with a pink ribbon!’
‘Oh, don’t be so childish. I offered to chill a bottle of wine for the couple staying in the room next to ours. I didn’t want you opening it.’
‘Well why not just tell me? You knew where I was. And was there really any danger I would open a bottle of wine in the middle of the afternoon?’ He stormed out, leaving the carrier bags of food on the floor.
She shouted after him, ‘Instead of skulking back to your study, why not do what you promised for a change and go have a word with David about the borehole?’
Mark was so ungrateful. It was always Emily solving the problems, and him complaining.
Emily unpacked the bags, stowing everything in the fridge, lining up the packets of milk in date order. She chose a magazine and settled herself on a lounger. A few minutes later, Mark flopped onto the lounger next to hers and pulled the ring on a can of lemonade. He’d been in the fridge despite the pink ribbon. She tutted to herself and flicked over a page. Glancing sideways, she saw him swatting at a fly buzzing around his can. His eyes were narrowed, his brow furrowed, and he was throwing karate chops at the insect, his shoulder juddering with the effort. She held her magazine up, pretending not to notice.
He gave a load huff, then announced, ‘You need to stop giving refunds and spend less at Aldi.’
Flicking over her page, she replied, ‘You need to start helping and stop criticizing. You can start by taking over the shopping. I can’t get to grips with that silly little manual car.’
‘You want to take over the accounts?’ he jeered.
She arched her eyebrows. ‘Trade you the accounts for the toilets.’
‘I’m just saying, you need to treat this more like a business and less like a hobby.’
‘A hobby ?’ She hurled her magazine at him. Mark raised his hands deflecting it. ‘You think I enjoy managing a B&B?’ she cried, her face flushed.
He picked up the magazine and handed it back to her. ‘I’m just saying, try to be a bit more cost-conscious. Economize.’
‘Christ, how I hate that word! You expect me to survive on less than I used to give Alex for pocket money! And on the topic of money, Miguel has offered me a part-time job.’
He sat upright. ‘Does it pay as much as we get from running the B&B?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. ‘If we only rent one room.’
‘Well,’ he said smugly, dropping back onto the lounger. ‘It’s a no then, isn’t it? Because for the next few weeks there are at least two rooms booked.’
She felt a tic starting to flicker at the corner of her eye. Why did Mark get to do what he wanted while she didn’t? The B&B was earning more money than his noddy roles combined. ‘Here’s a money-making idea,’ she said. ‘Why don’t I take the part time job, and you can run the B&B by yourself?’
‘I’m busy with my non-exec roles.’
‘But the B&B makes more money.’
‘It’ll shut at the end of October when the tourist season dries up. My noddy income won’t.’
‘You got us into this mess. What’s the plan to get us out of it, Mr Strategy?’
He sat up again. ‘No, you don’t. We decided on the strategy. I didn’t stiff-arm you into moving here. The houses will sell. Don’t sweat the little stuff. We’ve just been unlucky.’
‘Unlucky or jinxed?’ she yelled.