Twenty-seven
February 11th
Ellis bank balance: (￡12,120.76) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 86 Mark: 81
The fan heater blew a stream of warm air over Mark’s outstretched hands as he leaned closer to the heat source. The electricity-guzzling machine was on to celebrate excellent news: the Ovington Square buyer wanted to accelerate completion to March 31.
Mark would need to speed up the formal valuation of the London house. As overseas tax residents, the couple had to report the London sale within thirty days and pay tax on any increase in value since April 2015. But that would be a fraction of what would be due if they hadn’t emigrated! Mark had filed the Croyde submission (and paid tax on the gain since purchase) two weeks ago. He would chivvy the London valuers along; he didn’t want to draw His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs attention by being late with a filing deadline.
He logged into the banking app and swore. Emily had withdrawn a thousand euros. He thought she’d ditched her spending habit – why couldn’t she have waited a few more weeks before splurging? He’d shown her Miguel’s bill, told her it ate up the cash from the Devon sale. She’d be back working mornings for Miguel soon, which should divert her, but would it galvanize the interior designer to invoice the balance of the Ellis bill?
Reluctantly, he removed his arms from the jet of warm air. He couldn’t stay hunched over like a downhill skier all morning. He searched around his desk for something to stop him chasing the valuers a second time, then turned off the fan.
He found Emily in the sitting room; she’d drawn up a chair by the window and was hunched over reading. Good, reading was cheap. He coughed, and she lowered the book, resting it on her lap, then scrunched an eye to look at him through the sun.
‘What are you reading?’ he asked.
She turned the book over. ‘It’s a vocabulary book,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Miguel bought it for me. I thought if we’re going to be out here for another four years, I should try learning some Portuguese.’
‘Impressive,’ he said.
‘Alex called. He’s asked if he and Jess can come and stay for a few days.’
‘When?’
‘Middle of March.’
Mark thought about the overdraft. Would Emily expect to hire Fran and eat out? ‘Have you told Alex we’ve sold the London house yet?’
Emily twitched, as if an insect had landed on her.
He sat down next to her. ‘He’s got to find somewhere to live. He can’t live with us, not without getting a sponsored work visa or marrying someone Portuguese, and this relationship with Jess sounds serious.’
‘Why don’t you tell him?’
He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘I want to try building a relationship with Alex, but he’s always so cold towards me.’
‘Only because you’re so cold towards him.’ She picked up her book. ‘Your plan, your treat, darling. This adventure was your idea, not mine. Do your own dirty work.’
They ate dinner in the sitting room, on their knees, next to the wood-burning stove. The nights were still too chilly to eat outside, and the tall glass doors of the kitchen extension, which would keep the room cool in summer, made it glacial in winter.
‘That was delicious, thank you,’ Mark said.
‘Alex and Jess will only be staying until the Thursday,’ Emily told him. ‘I’m off to London that Friday so they’ve rented an Airbnb in Lisbon.’
Mark put his empty plate on the sofa and reached for his beer. ‘Did we pay for that?’
‘No.’
He smiled that smug smile she knew he reserved for when he suspected she was fibbing.
‘I didn’t,’ she said defensively. ‘I haven’t given Alex money for months.’
Emily collected their plates and added them to the pile of dirty saucepans and the greasy baking tray with charred blobs of unidentifiable vegetables. She heard Mark calling her from behind, but blanked out his voice. Emily went back into the sitting room and pointed at the kitchen. ‘You can clear up the mess.’ She picked up her wine glass. ‘I’m off for a bath to warm myself up before bed.’
His eyes twinkled at her. ‘I could do that for you?’
‘I’m too tired tonight,’ she said, walking off.
Emily checked the underfloor heating was on before walking barefoot into the refurbished master bathroom. While the water was running, she poured in a capful of bath oil and swished it around with her hands. She lit the scented candles, switched off the lights, and slipped off her robe, letting it fall at her feet, then stepped into the warmth, sinking down and smoothing handfuls of perfumed water over her shoulders.
Miguel had transformed this suite, the whole house, really. Emily needed to show it off, see if she could hook a few customers for his business. Clenching her tummy muscles, she sat up and reached for her wine glass, thinking she might invite Tina back for dinner, and maybe that nice couple that had been at Tina’s dinner party last October, the man with the trucking business. Taking another sip and allowing the stem of the glass to dip below the water, she decided she should throw a party. Emily ran through a possible guest list. There would have to be caterers, Fran couldn’t do the food alone, but Mark shouldn’t mind the expense; why was he still moaning when both houses were sold. He’d promised her she could spend all the money she liked once they had it, he was turning into a right Scrouge. Her mind wandered replaying her afternoon with Fran. Before their coffee arrived, Fran blurted out, ‘I’ve lost my flat. I was hoping to stay a bit longer at yours.’
‘However did you manage to lose your flat?’
Their drinks arrived. Fran looked down into her cup of coffee as if searching for an explanation, then glanced up and said a little sheepishly, ‘I was sleeping with the owner and his wife caught us.’
Emily shifted in her seat, feeling a little priggish. ‘I can see why she would want to throw you out, but can she do that? I mean you’ve got a legal contract and presumably it doesn’t stipulate you can’t have an affair with the owner.’
‘Huh. This is Portugal.’
There were a few minutes of silence. Emily finished her coffee, expecting more explanation. ‘Meaning?’ she probed.
‘Meaning there is no contract.’
Emily whistled. ‘That is bad luck. Whatever will you do?’
‘No idea. I’m staying at a hotel, but I can’t afford that much longer.’
Emily wagged a finger. ‘You need structure in your life.’
Emily had spent most of the day with Fran, surfing the net, searching for somewhere to rent. She drew out a thousand euros to lend her friend. Fran begged to be let back into the villa, but Emily knew she’d run out of road with Mark.
Now, rising from the scented water, Emily reached for a fluffy white towel. Her own life seemed to be getting back on track just as Fran’s had veered off course. Maybe she should ask Mark to be more lenient, have a bit of compassion; the B even Mark’s archenemy Paul hadn’t earned that title until he fired him. The other neighbour was standing beside Mark. He listened to the rumble of voices behind “effing” Tommy’s door. Through the glazing he saw a shadowy figure, an arm reaching forward, and then Toni’s smiley face appeared.
‘Good morning, we haven’t seen you all year. Pleased to be back?’ she asked.
Anger bubbled up from Mark’s stomach. ‘I was until ...’
‘Now, now, Mark,’ said David, giving him a lopsided smile. Mark felt the older man’s arm round his shoulder, and he closed his eyes to shut off the memory of his flooded lawn. There’d been a thunderstorm the night before, and this morning was the third time Mark had woken up to carnage, but instead of wading through the icy water, he’d marched round to David’s.
In a calm voice that reminded Mark of his old headmaster, David said, ‘Sorry, Toni, this isn’t a social call. Is Tommy in?’
Toni’s smile slipped. She pulled the door wide, flattening herself against the wall. ‘He’s on the terrace.’
Mark heard the door click shut behind them and followed David through the kitchen and outside. Tommy was sitting in a deckchair, his hands propped behind his head. His eyes were closed, his face turned towards the early morning sun.
‘Who was it, love?’ asked Tommy.
‘It’s your neighbours,’ said David, raising a warning hand to Mark, who clamped his mouth shut.
Tommy opened his eyes and shuffled onto his side to face them. Mark thought he saw a flicker of alarm cross his face.
‘Both your neighbours,’ added Mark, copying David’s flat tone.
Tommy grunted. ‘What’s up?’
Toni walked out onto the terrace, a shower cap in her hand and a curious expression on her face. ‘Tommy, we’ve got no water again,’ she said.
‘No,’ said David, ‘and you won’t have any until your husband promises to unblock the storm drain and start behaving in a more neighbourly fashion.’
‘Tommy!’ scolded Toni.
‘It’s not your borehole, David. It’s shared three ways. You’ve no right to stop my water,’ said Tommy in a cocky tone.
‘Stop your water, Tommy? Why would I want to do that to someone who blocks driveways and storm drains and tosses their garden refuge onto neighbouring property and secretly applies for permission to build a house right on someone’s boundary?’
Toni gaped at them, her eyes flitting between the visitors and her husband. Tommy flinched under her gaze.
‘It’s an empty threat, love,’ he told her. ‘The water’s a three-way share.’
‘And where’s the agreement that specifies that?’ asked Mark in a tone he’d so often used in the City.
‘The borehole is in my garden and you’ve no right to come onto my land,’ said David. ‘We’ll see ourselves out, Toni. Come on, lad.’
Mark scratched the side of his face to hide his smile as they walked past the startled Toni.