Thirty-three
At the end of Mark’s next tennis lesson, his coach – who’d been much gentler – suggested a beer. Tim tried to coax his pupil into playing an actual game of tennis, placing his elbows on the table, and saying, ‘This group are a little better than you.’
Mark winced. ‘That’s a bit nerve-wracking.’
‘No, that’s good. You could learn a lot.’
‘I learn a lot from you.’
‘Trust me, you’re ready for this. And they’re great fun.’ Tim stood up and raised his empty bottle, waving it at the clubhouse. ‘Can I tell them you’re in?’
Mark thought for a few moments. Maybe a match would give him a few hours’ peace, dispel those images, always lurking at the corner of his mind, of Emily in shackles in a jail with her hair shaved off. He knew it was extreme, but he couldn’t rid himself of the fear. He finished his beer. ‘Yeah, all right then,’ he said, settling back in his chair.
He watched Fran carrying two fresh bottles towards their table. She stumbled across the terrace, dumped the beers, clamped a hand over her mouth, and rushed off, gagging, towards the changing rooms. Mark narrowed his eyes at her departing back.
‘Is that woman permanently hungover?’
Tim grunted, swinging the fresh beer to his lips. ‘It was always going to happen.’
‘What was?’
The coach leaned forward, glanced over his shoulder at the empty terrace, then muttered, ‘She’s preggers.’
Mark spluttered into his beer.
With the B this must have been delivered in the last few hours. She twisted over the price tag, her ears tuned in to her boss.
‘Yes, yes. You and I know your husband has given you a budget to furnish the entire house, not just the one room, but’ – his voice rose a few octaves – ‘you could make an innocent mistake, couldn’t you?’ He gave a throaty laugh.
The call finished and Miguel joined her by the marble table.
‘Do you think this would work in my entrance hall, below the picture of the dogs?’ she asked.
He inclined his head towards her. ‘Darling, it would be sublime! And for you, I can do a lot better than that tag suggests.’
Emily spluttered with laughter. ‘No, I’m not in the market for extravagant tables. But I might have a buyer, and she’s coming round in a few days. If you get it dropped off and pay me my usual commission, I think I could sell this.’
‘Deal,’ said Miguel. ‘Now, how about a cup of coffee? I know you’re not working, but have you time to help? I cannot decide between two silks for a set of bed hangings and I’m seeing the client in an hour.’
Her eyes were instantly drawn to the swatches on Miguel’s desk, and she felt that buzz of excitement she used to get whenever she walked down Sloane Street.
In the evening, Emily opened her door to Fran, standing on her doorstep again like a persistent salesman.
‘I need your help,’ said Fran.
‘Actually, I was quite offended by what you said, so maybe you should ask someone else for help!’ Emily was closing the door when the younger woman started crying. She sighed and held the door a little wider. She didn’t want to end their friendship.
Emily led the way through to the kitchen, Fran trailing behind, a rucksack slung over one arm. ‘Tea, or would you prefer a glass of wine?’
‘Tea, please,’ said the younger woman, resting her bag on the floor.
‘What’s up this time?’ asked Emily, flicking on the kettle and pulling out two mugs.
‘I’m pregnant.’
Emily’s jaw dropped. She spun around. ‘Pregnant?’ she gasped.
‘Please,’ wheedled Fran. ‘Let me stay the night, just one more night?’
‘Fran, you need somewhere permanent to live,’ cried Emily.
‘I can’t afford it.’
‘But what about the father? He’ll have to help,’ Emily said, putting down the mugs.
‘I-I can’t ask him.’
‘Why not? Who is it?’
‘I can’t tell you who the father is.’
‘Can’t you even narrow it down a bit?’ Emily probed. Fran blinked but remained silent. ‘Well, whoever the father is, he must face up to his responsibilities. He can’t abandon you and the baby. Even if he won’t offer emotional support, he must be made to shoulder some of the financial burden.’
Fran screwed up her face, chewed her lip, and let out a barely audible sigh.
Emily watched the other woman and guessed, ‘Is he married? Is it your old landlord?’
‘Well, maybe ... but the thing is ...’ Fran spluttered to a stop like an engine running out of petrol.
‘What about your family? Can they help?’ suggested Emily, thrashing about for ideas.
Fran shrugged. ‘I haven’t told them yet.’
Emily sucked in her cheeks, then huffed. ‘Come on then, let’s get you a bed for the night. But this is the last time, Fran. Mark is back tomorrow and, in the morning, it’s straight-talking time! If you’re having this baby, you’ll need to stop acting like one yourself. You need a plan. Some structure in your life.’
Walking into the sunshine at Faro Airport, Mark felt at home. For once he hadn’t enjoyed his trip; sitting through a remuneration committee meeting comparing similar sized company salary packages to justify rewarding a management team he believed were underperforming, left a sour taste in his mouth. The Fiat 500 drew to a stop beside him, and Emily waved, lowering the window. ‘Mark, where’s your suit jacket? You haven’t left it on the plane, have you?’
He shook his head, pointing to his bag. ‘I packed it.’
‘But you always tell me that crushes it.’
He shrugged, stowed the bag in the boot, and climbed into the passenger seat. Who cared about a crushed jacket when any moment now Mr Jones would call again?
‘Would talking about it help?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want to drive? Take your mind off whatever it is?’
Mark sat gazing out of the window while Emily drove back to Villa Anna, chattering about her morning with Miguel. Later, he concluded that if he was offered money to replay what Emily spoke about on that trip home, he wouldn’t earn a penny.
Mark opened the front door and his eyes fell on a marble-topped table. He dropped his overnight bag. ‘That’s new,’ he muttered through gritted teeth.
Emily’s arms wrapped around him from behind, squeezing. He felt a soft kiss on his neck, and then she whispered, ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’
He unwound her arms and stalked to his study, dragging his case. Behind him he heard a burst of laughter.
‘Only joking, boyo. I think it’s perfect for Tina’s entrance hall and I can earn a chunky commission if I sell it to her when she’s here playing tennis tomorrow.’
Mark sat at his desk for an hour staring at spreadsheets, tapping in revisions, tweaking assumptions. Without the B he heard the bed squeak, but he didn’t look up. He ripped off his long-sleeved shirt, rolling it up into a ball and tossing it behind him towards the laundry basket. Glancing under his armpit, he saw he’d missed and braced himself for a waspish comment.
‘I’m so pleased you’re playing a proper game and not just having another lesson.’
He turned round, an aertex T-shirt in his hands. Emily was standing by the laundry basket, holding his dirty shirt, and gazing at his chest.
Slipping the T-shirt over his head, he mumbled through the fabric, ‘Has Fran sorted herself out?’
‘Well, the thing is—’
He cut in, ‘I take it that’s a no.’ He stretched the fabric, pushing both arms into the sleeves. ‘Is this another one of your stray dogs, Emily?’ He sat beside her on the bed, inserting a foot into a sock and jerking it on. ‘She is, isn’t she?’
‘You know me so well.’
He finished lacing up his tennis shoes, then peered up at her. ‘Promise me you won’t offer her a bed. She can find someone else to sponge off.’
Emily shot him a loving look. ‘We’re going to be OK, aren’t we, you and I?’
Mark bounced off the bed, tucking his T-shirt into his shorts. ‘We’ve got a lot of talking to do. See you later.’
He was early for tennis. Mark raised his racket in a friendly greeting to Fran, who was standing alone on the terrace, her hands clasped in front of her tummy. Now that he’d banished her, he was feeling a little more charitable – silly girl.
‘I was hoping you’d be here before the other players,’ she said.
Mark walked the last few yards to the terrace. If she asked to stay at Villa Anna, he would be firm. He wasn’t feeling that generous! Before he reached the top step, she patted her bulge. ‘I think this is yours.’
He gulped, his eyes darting around the empty courts.
‘There’s no one else here except us two.’ She coughed. ‘Well, us three!’
He pushed past her and tossed his bag onto a chair, then turned to face his accuser, running a hand through his hair and then down his face.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ He still couldn’t recall sleeping with this woman, but then he still couldn’t recall anything past midnight that night. ‘How can you be sure it’s mine? You’re hardly a paragon of virtue, are you?’
‘That’s a bit cheap!’
‘Have you told anyone else?’
She stroked her chin. ‘What? Like Emily?’
‘Well?’
‘Not yet.’ She stared out at the car park. ‘Here come the other players. Shall we continue this conversation later? Meet you down at the bar on Garao beach?’
He had to hand it to her – nice choice for a catch-up spot to rub his face in the mess.
Mark hung his head and stared into his empty glass. The barman caught his eye. Mark nodded and sat back on his bar stool. A few minutes earlier, Fran had been sitting beside him, sipping a glass of water, asking him what he intended to do for her and their baby.
‘It must be yours. You didn’t use any protection.’
He coughed into his beer. ‘No way. I’m not falling for this.’
‘Why would I lie?’
‘Because I’m probably a lot richer than the real father, but don’t take me for a fool. I earned every penny.’ She shifted on her bar stool, then patted her belly. He cringed. ‘Can you please stop doing that?’
‘You are the father.’
His eyes fell on her stomach. He couldn’t be, surely.
‘Do you want me to pay for a termination?’ he offered.
She gaped at him, eyebrows raised, and let out a sharp cough. ‘You what? It’s not our baby’s fault you’re married!’ She reached out, placed a hand on his arm. ‘We both need to deal with this.’
He left her hand where it was and took a long slow pull of beer, letting his eyes circle the bar. There was no one around who could overhear this conversation, but this conversation needed to be over before anyone he knew arrived. How could he explain to Emily why he was sitting in a bar having an earnest chat with Fran?
He met her eyes. He didn’t like it, but she may just be telling the truth, and if not, she could do enough damage spreading rumours. He pushed away his glass, dislodging her hand. He wanted a clear head. His mind was whirring– was this baby his? What would he do if it was? He wouldn’t abandon a child the way his own father did, but how could he afford another kid if the taxman demanded payment? Would Emily divorce him? And what would Alex think about becoming a brother? He needed to know the truth.
‘I want a DNA test,’ he said.
‘Fine.’
‘And if the test proves you’re right, what support are you asking for?’
She wriggled on her bar stool, picked up her glass, and took a small sip. ‘We won’t have anywhere to live, and I can’t afford to buy anywhere.’
‘Let’s be accurate.’ He couldn’t bring himself to talk in the plural. ‘ You don’t have anywhere to live right now.’
‘Is that an invitation to move in?’
He wanted to keep her away from Emily. ‘Go and stay with your parents. I’ll pay for the ticket.’
‘You’ll pay for more than that if you don’t want me to tell Emily what happened.’ She sat forward, prodding a finger towards him. ‘We’re quite good mates. Maybe I should tell her anyway!’ Fran pushed herself off the stool, tucking the chair back under the bar. ‘I’ll be off now then. Let you come up with a more sensible offer than just paying for me to get out of your way.’
Mark picked up his discarded beer and gulped it down. His stomach felt like someone had tied it in knots. For the last year, he’d been fighting a multi-headed monster. Each time he swatted away one disaster, it was replaced by another more dangerous one. Oh for the days when he was nervous about the hot food licence! Why was he worrying about the taxman when he might have fathered a child outside his marriage? He couldn’t take his wealth with him, Villa Anna wasn’t mortgaged, what did they need all that money for? He certainly didn’t want to live like that bunch he’d met at Tina and John’s barbeque, stressing about their golf handicaps and landing slots for their PJs. And Alex thought inheritance should be taxed at 100%.
Was this adventure doomed from the start? Was he going to end up penniless, divorced, estranged from one child, and helping to raise another with a comparative stranger? Effing Paul, this was all his fault. None of this would’ve happened if that man hadn’t fired him. Mark balled a fist and pummelled the palm of his other hand with it. That effing man was going to cost Mark his whole life. He could feel the tight bearhug of rage constricting his chest. No wonder Emily always got angry whenever Paul’s name came up; when he sacked Mark, effing Paul destroyed her life too.