Twenty-eight
March 7th
Ellis bank balance: (￡157,137.97) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 86 Mark: 84
Alex showered, made the bed, and pulled on a pair of swimming trunks. He slipped onto the terrace, shielding his eyes with a cupped hand, and cast around the garden for his girlfriend. The sunbeds were arranged in pairs around the terrace, and under the pine trees; Jess wasn’t on any of them.
His girlfriend rounded the corner, a plastic laundry basket balanced on her hip.
‘There you are,’ he called out. ‘Fancy a coffee? Have you had breakfast?’
‘I ate with your mum. I’ve just been pegging out sheets.’
The sun was warm on his skin. He could hear dance music from the tennis centre, and the sound of a mower from Tommy’s garden, but Villa Anna was a scene of tranquillity, the only noise the gentle hum of the pool pumping system. Portugal was a fabulous country.
‘You’re on holiday. Mum doesn’t expect you to do the housework,’ he said, following her inside.
‘Only takes a few minutes, and I like to earn my keep. They’ll be dry in a few hours with this sun. I’ll go spruce our room up a bit.’
He took the empty basket from her. ‘I cleaned the shower after I used it. Go and sit outside while it’s not too hot. I’ll bring out your book and sun cream. I want to tell you where I’m taking you for dinner tonight.’
Alex had cleared away after lunch and he and Jess were in the new utility room with a mound of white sheets between them. Behind him, through the open door, he heard his mother call out, ‘I’m home!’
The front door slammed, and he heard the warning beep of the fridge door opening. Alex was about to reply, when his mother’s phone rang, and he heard her excited voice: ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing you, Mary!’
Jess held out two corners of a sheet, her hands twitching at him. He grabbed the sheet and she backed away, pulling it tight. His mother’s voice floated through from the kitchen, revealing her plans to meet Mary for a drink. Same bar as always.
‘Now fold it in half,’ directed Jess. He copied his girlfriend. She walked towards him, handing him her ends of the sheet. ‘This isn’t too difficult, is it?’ she said, giving him a playful shove. ‘Much easier when there’s two of you.’
Alex started to tickle his girlfriend. She ran into the corner giggling, and he poked his head into the kitchen. ‘Hi, Mum.’
His mother spun around, stepped backwards, and tripped over a dog. She stumbled, clutching at the kitchen island for support. Her handbag went flying, Alex tried to catch it, missed, and it skittled across the floor, spilling the contents in a trail of keys, purse, papers, passport, and peppermints.
‘I’m OK,’ said his mother, massaging a knee.
Jess was kneeling beside Alex. She picked up a hairbrush, then a sheet of paper. ‘I’ll tidy this lot up. Alex, why don’t you sit your mother somewhere comfy and check that her knee is alright?’ She was staring at the document in her hand, frowning.
In the morning, to avoid paying for parking, Mark drove to the far end of the pretty fishing town of Olh?o. They all walked back along the wide cobbled pavement, the marina on one side, pavement cafés on the other. In the distance, Mark could see a small ferry drawn up at a jetty, a few pale visitors tipping their faces to the sun, or stretching limbs towards the rays, as if worshipping. Was it the one going to Armona?
Jess lingered a few steps behind, so Mark stopped and waited for her to catch up, listening to the clink of rigging on masts. His son took Jess’s arm and asked her if she was all right. Jess screwed up her face but didn’t answer.
Mark walked on. He hadn’t heard Jess speak all morning, but then he’d been preoccupied with an email he’d received from Pedro. The senior partner had demanded a copy of his special clients list; was Mark about to get a visit from the police? When he got home, Mark planned to ask David for the name of another lawyer. Better to be prepared for the truth, however ugly.
‘When do you think the ferry departs?’ asked Emily, pulling out her purse. ‘Let’s take a water taxi to the island.’
Mark’s shoulders tensed, but he trudged down the gangway towards the line of speedboats. How much extra was this going to cost, on top of lunch at the island? The four climbed into a taxi, Mark sitting in the prow, and the boat pulled away, slowly manoeuvring through the harbour, then accelerating once clear of the other vessels. Mark looked over the side, watching the white crest of the wave, feeling his hair slicking back off his face, and inhaling the salty air. He was leaving his British problems behind like the wake at the rear of the taxi. London would complete in three weeks; the overdraft would be settled. Emily was off this weekend, and she would return recharged. His London challenges were in good shape, but his Portuguese ones still loomed large.
They pulled up at a jetty. Nearby, small, brightly coloured fishing boats bobbed at their anchors, and fishermen sat mending nets and lobster pots. A few hundred yards away were two restaurants.
‘Which one do you ladies fancy?’ he asked.
‘Neither,’ said Emily, claiming there was a third on the other side of the island that Fran swore was well worth the trek.
The men walked in front. Alex was chattering on about Lisbon; Jess wanted to visit the Sintra palaces, and he wondered if his parents had seen them.
‘Not yet. Have you and Jess had a row?’ Mark asked, passing little shops selling the same beach balls and towels he remembered from the Essex beachfront shops of his childhood. Poor Alex, he could still remember trying to learn how to grapple with a girl’s hormones when they got grumpy.
Alex shook his head. ‘No. Dunno what’s eating her.’
Mark felt a surge of sympathy. ‘If you want my advice, talk to her, and whatever you’ve done wrong in her eyes, just apologize.’
His son dropped back. Mark wandered on alone. Emily had mollycoddled Alex, just like Mark’s own mother did, but she’d brought him up with far more help than Gwen had. If only Alex could sort himself out with a job!
Tiny bungalows lined the track that snaked inland, some closer in size to a large dog kennel, but each one, like the beach huts Mark recalled from his childhood, were someone’s idea of the perfect escape. Pastel shades clashed with lime-green and startling purple; some terraces were covered in tiles like an oversized outside bathroom; a few had little shrines to the Virgin Mary carved into a wall. There were bougainvillea, purple and white lantern-shaped flowers curling around the supporting poles of patios, and tattered bamboo blinds pulled down as protection from the sun.
Hearing the cry of seagulls, Mark slowed his pace, then stopped. To the right of the track was a restaurant that screamed holidays . It had table-high turquoise walls, rolled-up rattan blinds secured to the ceilings, and it sat just a few hundred yards from the shore. They chose the table closest to the sea, set out on a little walkway, and ordered fresh fish – whatever the fishermen had caught that morning – grilled on the barbecue, beer, and chilled white wine.
‘You’re quiet today, Jess,’ said Emily. ‘Feeling OK?’
Jess’s gaze flitted between Emily and Alex, unsmiling. ‘Sorry, I had some bad news yesterday and I haven’t slept well.’
‘Anything I can do to help?’ asked Emily.
Jess shook her head. ‘Thanks anyway.’ she mumbled.
The food arrived, the fish skin charred and crispy, the flesh plump and moist. Wine was poured, and Mark kicked off his shoes, digging his toes into the warm sand. ‘If we’re going to be here for a few hours, can I have a second beer?’ he asked.
Across the table, Emily’s eyes twinkled at him. ‘Stay as long as you like. The taxi driver said to call when we want collecting. Fran is popping in to feed and walk the dogs.’
The waiter approached. Alex ordered a second bottle of wine and Mark gritted his teeth. Both ladies patted their waistline at the suggestion of dessert, saying, ‘Not for me, thanks.’
Mark’s jaw relaxed.
‘I’ll have the tres delicias,’ said Alex, and Mark clenched his toes in the sand. He felt Emily’s foot stroking the side of his leg.
‘Isn’t this a treat?’ she said, switching her gaze to the youngsters. ‘It’s so lovely to have you both here. We’ll miss you when you go.’
The waiter was crossing the terrace towards their table, credit card machine in one hand, and Mark mentally calculated the bill. He’d declined a coffee to keep the cost down, but it would still be over three hundred euros. He reached out to claim the bill.
‘Let me pay,’ said Alex.
Mark’s eyes popped open as if he’d been slapped in the face. ‘With your mother’s money?’ he asked sulkily.
‘No, mine. I still have savings from last year and the surfing season starts at Easter. I’ll be earning a decent whack again soon.’
The youngsters spent the weekend in Lisbon and, on Sunday, caught separate flights, Jess to Bristol, Alex to Gatwick. Early Monday morning, Alex’s father telephoned. Alex was already showered and dressed. Svetlana was in the kitchen, washing up after he’d cooked, and they’d eaten at the breakfast counter together. He was upstairs, daydreaming about Jess. Did she really want to work in Barnstaple all her life, pulling together tax returns for farmers from a paper bag of receipts? She’d been invaluable helping him prepare a budget for the business he wanted to run alongside teaching kids to surf – making old-fashioned but “green” surfboards from wood instead of plastic – but accountants were not confined to Devon. Nor were surfers.
The conversation started innocently, with his father asking how he was. Did the couple have fun in Lisbon and were the Sintra palaces as spectacular as promised? But Alex should’ve guessed there was an ulterior motive – when was the last time his father called?
‘Bad news, son. Ovington Square is sold.’
Alex’s jaw dropped. ‘You want me to move to the Croyde house?’ It was miles from Barnstaple, but it would give him time to find somewhere to rent.
There was a pause. His father took a deep breath. ‘No, we’ve already sold the Croyde house.’
He stood up. ‘ What ? Why ? Why didn’t someone tell me?’
‘We don’t need Croyde. We don’t use it anymore.’
‘You never used Croyde!’ spat Alex. ‘Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing, give me some time to plan? I’m starting work again at Easter.’
‘You don’t have to be out until the end of the month.’
Suddenly it dawned on him why his parents didn’t need either house. Rage pulsed through his body. ‘I know why you’re out there, you selfish bastards. You’re evading tax.’
The silence confirmed his – Jess’s – guess. Driving up to Lisbon she’d told him why she’d been so morose at Armona. Collecting the spilt contents of his mother’s handbag, she’d spotted his mother’s itinerary for her London trip and claimed there was only one explanation for the detailed record of days on the page: his parents were tax exiles. It wasn’t their tax status that bothered Jess – all her clients did their best to minimize their tax bills – it was the dishonesty. When Alex accused his parents of being on the NHR, his father had denied it.
Hearing Svetlana vacuuming the corridor, Alex’s chest swelled with anger. One rule for the rich, another for everyone else. He punched the side of the sofa, his whole body shaking. ‘You are, aren’t you? What happened? Did you get fired and skulk off to evade tax rather than find another job?’
‘Avoidance not evasion, Alex. There’s a big difference. Your mother and I aren’t doing anything illegal.’
‘Don’t try and sidestep this on a technicality. It’s morally wrong. The rich should pay their taxes, not leave the problem to the workers.’
‘Wow, listen to yourself,’ Mark retorted. ‘One second, you’re complaining about being turfed out of your rent-free luxury house, and the next, you’re moaning about a man legitimately minimizing his tax bill.’
Alex tried to keep his voice calm. ‘I’m not complaining about having to move, I’d just have appreciated more notice. But I guess you didn’t want to tell me the reason why you no longer need a house in the UK.’
‘The view may be amazing but climb down from the moral high ground of socialism for five minutes. You, son, are a raging hypocrite, cherry-picking the soundbites that suit you and discarding the ones that don’t. Whether or not your mother and I pay a few more quid in tax won’t make any difference. Until the West finds a way of taxing the super-rich, of reclaiming for distribution the wealth that’s been diverted from the old economy into the arms of a few tech billionaires, you lefties are wasting your time.’ There was a pause then his father rushed on. ‘Think about it, Alex.’
The line went dead.
He caught the last train to Devon. Sitting with his nose pressed up against the train window, Alex still felt dazed; his parents had become tax exiles and lied to him about it. He sat lost in his own thoughts, staring sightlessly at travelers milling about on the platform. He could believe this of his father, so proud, determined to cling on to what he’d achieved at any cost, but why had his mother gone along with the scheme and why hadn’t they just told him what they were doing?
The throng on the platform was thinning, the remaining few passengers running to get on board. A whistle blew, doors slammed and then the train gave a tiny judder, before pulling slowly out of Paddington station. A man threw himself into the seat opposite Alex, panting.
Alex placed an elbow on the table in front of him and looked out at the view of a darkening London skyline. Lights twinkled as the train slid past a row of tall Victorian houses, their brick backs facing the tracks, giving passengers a view into rooms yet to have their curtains drawn. The train rattled past Acton, gathering speed as it rumbled through the London suburbs. By the time he reached the outskirts of Reading, Alex had moved on from questioning the reason his parents hadn’t told him and was asking ‘Why do it at all?’ People became tax exiles to shelter large tax bills, but his father wasn’t earning those gigantic sums anymore. In fact, his mother’s reluctance to sub his income, coupled with his father’s snide comments each time his dad picked up a restaurant bill, implied his parents were short of money. Why were they tax exiles?
The train pulled into Tiverton Parkway. Jess met him and drove him to Barnstaple. The next day – with the sun rising over fields of sheep their heads down contentedly munching grass – they drove to Croyde Bay, past the house his family used to own. Alex looked wistfully at it, nestled into the hillside. He could only see the roof but could imagine standing on the wooden terrace – which stretched the width of the house and faced out to sea – wrapped in a dressing gown, the onshore breeze rustling his hair.
Jess parked opposite the beach. Looking at her taut expression, Alex sensed she had something on her mind. ‘Something bothering you?’ he asked. He took his beanie hat out of a pocket and rammed it on.
Jess glanced at him. ‘You know me so well,’ she said, her eyes sparkling at him. ‘Let’s walk.’
The sea was rough, choppy waves with angry white crests crashing against the rocks. He took her hand and led her across the sand. ‘Tell me,’ he commanded.
‘You go first,’ she offered.
Alex told her about the row with his father. He told her he’d been brooding, cross with his mother, but was wondering why they’d done it. ‘I mean he’s lost his job, right, so why become a tax exile?’
She chewed her bottom lip, then asked, ‘But what made him finally admit it?’
‘I accused him after he told me they’ve sold Ovington Square. They’ve sold the house here in Croyde too, he said pointing up at it. I’m homeless. At least I’ll have an income from surfing lessons soon.’
Jess threw her hands in the air. ‘That’s it! Your parents are liquidating their property portfolio. They’re avoiding paying capital gains tax, not income tax.’
‘Income tax, capital gains ... I know nothing about tax. I’ve never paid any,’ muttered Alex.
His girlfriend’s brow was furrowed. ‘But they shouldn’t have to pay tax, not on their home. Unless ...’ She shot a startled look at him. ‘Didn’t you say they haven’t owned the house down here long, that you used to have a much smaller one your parents bought before you were born?’
‘Yeah,’ he said.
She was wagging her head from side to side. ‘That’s it. They’ve used their principal private residence exemption. How long have they had the London house?’
He pinched his nose. How old was he when they moved there, about five? ‘17 years.’
Jess pulled out her phone while Alex drew a circle in the damp sand with his shoe. A little more delving and it became apparent that the Ellises’ potential tax bill was enormous. ‘Wow, if only I was rich enough to have a tax problem that size,’ exclaimed Jess. ‘You can see why it’s worth emigrating. It’s going to run into millions!’
His girlfriend had a point. Who would willingly hand over that sort of money? As Alex mused about the morality of his parent’s actions, giving a last kick at the damp sand, he remembered that something was troubling Jess too.
‘Sorry, I’ve kind of hijacked the conversation. What’s been eating you?’
She chewed at a fingernail. ‘It’s kind of related to tax too.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s been playing on my mind, but I think I have to tell you, then you can decide if you want to do anything about it.’ Alex waited for her to continue. ‘Well, you remember in Portugal, when we were folding laundry in the utility room?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You remember just before your mother tripped and upended her handbag, she was talking about flying to London the weekend we went to Lisbon? Well, that sheet of paper I saw, the one that shows your folks are tax exiles ...’
‘Jess, spit it out,’ said Alex, impatiently.
‘The thing is, getting out of the UK tax system isn’t easy, not if you want to retain links with the UK, like your parents have.’
‘Right.’ Alex’s mind was wandering to thoughts of him and Jess renting a flat together. If he ramped up his new venture, worked flat-out once the season took off at Easter, he could afford his share of the bills.
Jess was still speaking. ‘The thing is, it’s quite complicated being a tax exile and very easy to trip up.’
‘Right.’ He gave his girlfriend a sideways glance. Was it too early to suggest living together?
‘Alex, listen to me please,’ she said in a clipped tone.
He rubbed his chin and locked eyes with her. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Your mother was arranging to meet someone in London. On the Friday night.’ Jess paused.
‘Her friend, Mary,’ Alex said to prove he was concentrating.
‘Well, that would mean she wasn’t catching the late-night flight recorded on that sheet of paper. If she was going to meet her friend for a drink the night she flew out, she must have caught an earlier flight. No one her age arranges to meet for a drink at two in the morning.’
The mist cleared, and he gaped at Jess. ‘Oops!’ he said slowly.
‘Yes. Oops,’ she replied, her eyes wide. ‘I’m not sure your mother has been following the rules.’