Twenty-four
October 17th
Ellis bank balance: (￡10,122.07) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 36 Mark: 26
Bookings for the B he liked his sausages brown. He added the bacon, which sunk beneath the oil. Nothing seemed to be changing colour, so he switched up the heat. The meat started bubbling in the pan. He turned his back on the stove and read the instructions for the vegetables.
Mark placed one of the tomatoes in the flat of his palm and held it a few inches from his face, examining it from every direction like a fortune teller gazing into a crystal ball – where was this green eye that needed removing? He smelt smoke and wheeled round. The contents of the pan were bubbling furiously beneath a fountain of spitting oil. He picked up a fork and poked at a sausage, flinching as a splash of hot fat landed on his wrist.
He heard a cough and turned to find his mother’s doppelganger swatting away fumes.
‘Need a hand in here, love?’
His eyes stung; his nose was running. Mark tore off a piece of kitchen paper and dabbed at his face. ‘My wife normally does this. It’s a lot more complicated than I realized.’
Shaking her head and chuckling, she came in, removed the frying pan with one hand and turned down the heat with the other. ‘You’re not supposed to deep-fry the sausages, love. Let’s get the grill on, shall we?’ She raised her eyes, and they twinkled at him, sending his heart fluttering. ‘Cooking is like everything else, easy when you know how.’ She spread a few sheets of kitchen paper on the counter and fished out the submerged meat. ‘Let’s start again. You going to join us?’
At eleven o’clock Mark picked up three empty plates. His eyes shone as he said to his mother’s lookalike, ‘Dolly, I’m going to move two sunbeds under the shade of those pine trees for you and Rick. While I wash up, can I get you two a beer or a glass of wine?’
It was seven-thirty in the morning, and two compact red wheelie cases stood by Villa Anna’s open front door, a straw sunhat balanced on the handle of one. Rick and Dolly, both dressed in shorts, T-shirts, and open-toed sandals, stood on the doorstep, staring down the driveway.
‘I can’t think what’s happened to it,’ said Dolly, picking up her hat and spinning it slowly round in her hands. ‘You did hit accept, didn’t you Rick?’ she said, a note of concern in her voice.
‘I did,’ Rick replied, shooting his wife the sort of look Mark gave Emily if she asked him to check he’d packed his passport. ‘I’m sure it’s on its way.’
Emily thought of the beds she needed to strip and wash, the greasy trays lined up beside the saucepans, the plates waiting to be rinsed and stacked in the dishwasher. She should be walking the dogs now; Miguel was collecting her in half an hour to visit a new client in Loulé. Emily loved working with Miguel. It wasn’t just distancing herself from housework. Leaving the Villa each morning was liberating. Being dressed in real clothes, not Lycra, knowing there was a purpose to her journey, that if she was late, she wouldn’t just be inconveniencing a tennis partner, she might be upsetting a fee-paying client, all boosted her mood. Was this what Mark missed? Was this feeling of self-worth what he hankered after, holed up in that little study?
Standing next to her guests wasn’t speeding up their driver, but Emily didn’t want to leave them, as if somehow sharing their angst would help.
‘You’ve plenty of time, we really are only twenty minutes from the airport,’ she said, using a foot to nudge a dog away from the luggage.
Dolly huffed. ‘Rick, check the app. See where the wretched car is.’
Three faces peered down at Rick’s screen.
‘Um, he’s still up in the hills,’ said Emily. She watched her guests’ driver crawl closer on the screen, then the toy car image stuttered, turned, and slid in the opposite direction. Emily raised her eyes to meet Rick’s.
He blew out a long sigh. ‘This doesn’t look good.’
‘Shall I try calling you a chauffeur instead? It will be more expensive,’ she warned.
She trotted into the kitchen. She could hear the tinkling sound of the washing machine filling with water. Mark was standing by the sink, his torso jiggling as he scrubbed at something submerged beneath a cloud of washing up foam.
‘What’s up?’ he asked, dumping the frying pan onto the draining board with a thump.
‘Transport drama. I’m calling Rodrigo to see if he’s free.’
Mark grunted and picked up the grill pan.
Rodrigo was on his way to Seville but offered to ring around and find someone else. ‘No, thanks anyway, but I don’t think our guests’ nerves can wait that long,’ replied Emily.
Mark shook foam from his hands and flicked a glob playfully at her. ‘It’s not your problem, darling. Just take the dogs out before Miguel gets here.’
‘I can’t just abandon them,’ she said with an anguished look on her face.
Dolly appeared in the doorway, chewing a fingernail. ‘Any luck?’ she asked brightly.
Emily shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
Dolly’s face crumpled. ‘We’re going to miss our flight.’
‘No, you’re not,’ said Mark. ‘Let’s get your cases in the car, and I’ll drive you there myself.’
He dried his hands on a tea towel. Emily handed him the car keys, and with a glowing sense of pride, watched him hand Dolly her straw hat, pick up her case, and stride out to the Fiat 500.