Twenty-nine
March 20th
Ellis bank balance: (￡131,834.82) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 88 Mark: 86
In Villa Anna’s new kitchen, Emily was debating having a tiny glass of champagne. Alex had found his feet: Jess was the making of him. This time last year, who’d have thought he would be running his own business? The villa renovation was a success – Mark agreed the money was well spent – and there would soon be pots of money; she was emerging like a red squirrel from its winter torpor. Champagne seemed appropriate, especially as later this week she was going home. She’d been doing a lot of thinking lately – this would be the last time Ovington Square was her home. What did she want from London in the future?
Mark walked in. ‘Travel pack,’ he said, dropping the pages onto the breakfast counter. ‘Do me a favour, don’t load the credit card.’
‘I wasn’t planning to, but why are you still being so stingy?’ she snapped.
‘Just wait until we have the money.’
‘But we’ve sold the houses.’
He closed his eyes and started laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.
‘It’s my fault,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘We won’t get the cash for London until the buyers complete at the end of March.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ She’d hardly splashed the cash, but she wouldn’t have leant Fran so much if she’d known. ‘Sorry! Want a drink?’ she offered, lifting her glass.
‘Bit early for me, thanks,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.
She glanced at her itinerary, then back up at him. ‘I’m going for three days, not two.’
‘Yes, three days.’ He spoke slowly, as if addressing a child. ‘You’re on the last flight which stretches two tax days into three.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I thought I had three proper days in London. I’ve got plans.’
‘Well, you’re a big girl now. You can use the phone and change them.’
‘Ha, ha.’
She shook the travel wallet at him, flapping it up and down as if swatting at a fly. ‘You’re obsessed with this 90-day rule. Do you imagine I’m being stalked by a tax inspector checking every flight I board?’
She sighed heavily and stomped off with her glass.
Before dinner, Mark drove Emily to Faro airport. He’d tried copying her pre-flight napping in the lounge, pushing three leather seats together as a makeshift bed and propping his head against a rolled-up jacket, but it was no quieter in the lounge than on the plane. How did Emily do it?
Letting himself back into the villa, he was worrying about Pedro. For several days his lawyer hadn’t been returning calls or responding to emails, and earlier that afternoon, Mark had discovered that Pedro was “on leave”. Mark had an appointment with a new lawyer the following week; it couldn’t come soon enough.
The dogs greeted him, jumping up and bouncing off his legs. He opened the sliding door, closing it once they’d slithered between his legs.
Mark cooked himself an omelette. Tomorrow, he had a dinner date: David was teaching him to make a sausage casserole. He washed up, then restocked the wood-burning stove and settled into his second beer, a bowl of crisps balanced on the sofa beside him, Bloomberg on the screen.
His phone rang.
Alex. They hadn’t spoken since their row. He muted the TV. ‘Hey. How’s tricks?’ he asked carefully.
‘Dad, I need to tell you something.’ Mark took a pull of his drink, preparing for the onslaught. ‘I don’t agree with what you’re doing, and I’m still mad you lied to me, but I think Mum has cheated. Last time she came to London, I think she caught an earlier flight than the one she was booked on.’
Mark sat bolt upright, dropping his can. A wave of beer shot out drenching the cover of a magazine and sliding off the glossy surface onto the table. He listened to his son explain his – or rather Jess’s – suspicions. He became conscious of his breathing – he was almost panting – and was itching to check Emily’s tax file. What a bloody stupid thing to do!
He mopped up the spilt drink with a wodge of tissues, grabbed the can, shaking it to check it wasn’t empty. The dogs were scrabbling at the door, their paws leaving long trails of mud on the glass. He glowered at them and shot past into his study. His fingers trembled as he leafed through his papers, pulling out Emily’s records, and throwing them onto his desk. He could feel spikes of tension in his neck. He peered at the schedule, running a finger down the column, and adding up the numbers. She had three days left.
Except, if Alex was correct and she had taken an earlier flight two weeks ago, she only had two. He dialled her number; it rang, then clicked into her message system. He took a swig of beer. His heart started to race ... had she pulled this stunt before? He bent over the schedule a second time, checking when she’d used the late-night specials. Four times: July, August, September, and earlier this month.
He dug back into the file, pulling out her travel packs, each one bulging with supporting documents. He could see each of the boarding-cards stapled onto the itinerary, back to front. Mark drank the rest of his beer, eased over each boarding card, and felt the throb in his neck subside – they were all for the 22.20 flight. Emily still had two tax days left. She’d only cheated once. Was she that desperate for a cocktail with Mary? Why hadn’t she told him? He downgraded her from stupid to silly . She would have to use up the last two days on this trip packing up the house, instead of whatever she had planned. Her fault, her problem. He dialled her phone again, wondering what he would say when she answered.
Forty minutes later, Mark abandoned the Fiat in the airport’s short-term car park. He’d booked himself onto the last London flight, irritated to discover there were no extra-leg-room seats, until he remembered he had no intention of boarding. He charged into the empty departure hall, up the escalator, and through to Fast Track. At security, taking off his shoes one-handed, he tossed them into the plastic box and hit redial. Reaching her message box, he cursed and threw the phone in with his other possessions, watching the container sweep along the conveyor belt. Mark jiggled in his socks, waiting to be called through. He collected his kit, dancing on each leg in turn to replace his shoes, doing up his belt on the run, sprinting round the corner, and down the stairs to passport control, then up to the priority lounge. It wasn’t busy; a couple sat in a corner, large glasses of wine in front of them, watching a news channel as they mowed their way through bags of snacks.
No sign of Emily.
He caught his breath checking the display screen; the flight hadn’t been called. She would be in Duty Free. He set off at a brisk trot. In the virtually deserted shops, it was obvious Emily was not among the handful of passengers idly browsing. Mark returned to the lounge where, at reception, he learned Mrs Ellis had been in the lounge earlier that evening.
‘Super, thanks. Where is she now?’
His phone beeped: it was the EasyJet app with his gate number. She must be there already; he’d warned her to get to the front of the queue and board before the overhead lockers filled up. Mark set off at a run.
In the corridor above the gate, he peered down at the mêlée. He could hear the gentle hum of conversations below him, the squeals of excited children. The speedy boarding queue reached the back of the room. His eyes raked along it quickly – was she in the toilet? He swore and jogged down the stairs, trying her mobile again, scanning the glassed-off lounge in front of him.
This time, she picked up! He breathed out a long sigh. He could prevent Emily from boarding the flight and spending ninety-one days in the UK.
Earlier, he’d sat in his study, shaking with relief. Why hadn’t she just told him the truth? He went to let her dogs in, sliding back the door and allowing them to push past him, leaving a trail of muddy pawprints on the tiles. They dashed to the wood burner and plopped themselves down, snouts inches from the scorching-hot glass. Mark returned to his study to finish tidying up.
Closing the tax file, worrying ideas kept popping up, spurred by the memory of her casual dismissal of his obsession with the 90-day rule, her assertion that it didn’t really matter ... no one cared. He pushed down the lever on the file, releasing the travel wallet for Emily’s trip earlier in March. Mark pulled out the itinerary with its receipts for coffees and food shopping, and for a few moments his eyes rested on the boarding-pass clipped back-to-front, in the middle of the bunch. This was for the 19.20 plane – was that why it was stapled onto the sheet, not just the wrong way round, but hidden, so he didn’t notice? Mark sifted through paper until he found a credit-card receipt from the cocktail bar Emily and Mary always went to. She’d told him she’d met her friend on the Saturday night, but Alex claimed he’d overheard her arranging the meeting for the Friday night.
Which one to look at first? Boarding card or bar bill? He took a deep breath and turned the boarding card over as carefully as if he was snipping the tripwire for an explosive device. It was for the 22.20 flight. Was Alex wrong? Had Emily caught the last flight? He ripped off the bar bill, took one look, and had the sensation of falling into a sinking pit; how could she have settled a bill in central London at 23.00 on Friday, when the flight she claimed to have caught had barely taken off?
How many times had she lied? How many times had Mark filed her travel papers with the wrong boarding card stapled to them? She couldn’t have pulled this stunt on her first trip. He’d dropped her off after dinner; the earlier plane would have left already. She’d probably concocted the wheeze over a glass of wine in the priority lounge that night, staring at the departures board and spotting the earlier flight. Then, for subsequent trips, she’d timed her arrival, not to catch forty winks as she’d claimed, but to catch the earlier flight. Emily had been quite adept with her EasyJet app over the summer, boarding with an electronic pass stored on her phone but retaining and handing him printed passes for flights she’d never caught. He upgraded her from silly , straight past stupid , to unbelievably arrogant . If she’d cheated in August and September, as well as earlier this month, then tonight, Emily would take off having already blown through her full 90-day allowance. Once disembarked, she would walk back into the UK tax system, and drag him into it with her!
Now, Mark pressed his face against the glass, his eyes raking the speedy boarding line? darting around the space, glowering at her fellow passengers.
‘Where are you? I need to speak to you urgently!’
‘Darling, I’m in London, in the taxi queue. I decided to catch the earlier flight and it landed early. What’s the problem? Please tell me nothing’s happened to Alex?’
‘You effing idiot!’ he shouted. ‘This isn’t the first time you’ve pulled this bloody stunt. This is day ninety-one!’
He rang off, bashing the phone against his forehead, his whole body shaking. He couldn’t talk to her. She knew the rules. How could she have done this? His phone rang. He hit the red button and stalked back towards the departure lounge. His phone rang again. His heart racing, blood pumping the rage through his veins, he raised it to his ear and yelled, ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for your pathetic explanations. How could you do this? You knew the bloody rules!’ He heard a gut-wrenching sob. ‘Crying won’t get you out of this mess.’
A female voice spluttered, ‘Oh, my love, I’m so sorry.’
Mark tried to place the voice. It wasn’t Emily. It was an Essex accent.
‘I’ve been ringing and ringing, but I couldn’t get through. Your phone was either off or busy, and I didn’t want to leave a message.’
‘I’m sorry, who is this?’ He stopped. He recognized the voice. His throat felt so tight he couldn’t swallow.
‘It’s Deidre, love. Your mother died of a massive heart attack an hour ago. I was with her at the end. She didn’t die alone.’