Nine
April 26th
Ellis bank balance: ￡1,754.01
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 10 Mark: 0
With four people in the room, Villa Anna’s kitchen was cramped. Alex was propped in the doorway watching Fran slicing onions, wondering how she did it so fast without cutting her fingers. Jess waited attentively like a fielder in a cricket match, leaping forward and scraping discarded skin into a food caddy each time Fran tackled another onion. His mother stirred milk into mugs of tea debating the merits of single- and double-handed backhands with Fran.
Tosca squeezed past Alex’s legs. Fran put down the knife and dropped to her knees. ‘What a gorgeous dog. So, who are you my lovely?’
‘That’s Tosca,’ said Alex taking a mug from his mother, ‘and somewhere around here will be her partner in crime Floria.’
Fran scratched behind Tosca’s ears. ‘You are special, aren’t you?’
His mother put a mug of tea next to the chopping board and leaned down to pick up her dog. ‘She’s very special but she’s a menace, and she knows she’s not supposed to be in the kitchen.’
‘I love dogs,’ said Fran, standing and squirting a dollop of blue liquid soap into her hands. ‘Let me know if you ever need any help, I’d love to look after Tosca.’
‘What can I do next, Fran?’ asked Jess.
‘Why not take your tea outside and sit down? I’m being paid to cook your dinner.’
Jess’s nose twitched. ‘I’d rather help, I don’t mind. Shall I grate that cheese for you?’
‘Which do you prefer, helping out with cooking or working at the tennis centre?’ asked Alex.
Fran dried her hands on a towel. She hung it back on a peg and picked up the knife, steadying it above an onion. ‘I don’t have a preference as long as I’m earning enough.’
Alex saw Jess’s eyes swivel towards him.
‘That’s a very mature approach to life!’ said his mother. ‘Do you keep budgets and cashflow forecasts?’
Fran laughed. ‘Nah, simple life mine. Rent is the major cost, not too tricky to forecast that one.’
‘Did you learn that discipline from your parents?’ asked his mother.
Fran turned the sliced onion around on the board and started chopping from a new angle. ‘Yup!’
‘Shall I do the washing up?’ suggested Jess.
Fran pointed the knife at Jess. ‘Out, all of you, clear off and let me finish the prep. Go and have a swim or a shower or something!’
The family ate on the terrace, at a table decorated by Fran with hibiscus flowers and bunches of lavender to keep the mosquitos at bay. Alex sat beside Jess, his eyes flickering over to his mother each time his girlfriend spoke.
‘What made you choose accountancy?’ asked his father.
Alex nudged Jess’s thigh supportively.
‘I’ve always liked numbers,’ explained Jess. ‘The odd thing is I went into the job thinking it would be a steppingstone away from Barnstaple, but I haven’t even moved out of the family home yet.’
‘You’re not alone there,’ said his father, shooting Alex a steely look.
‘Is that a licence to move into Ovington square?’ asked Alex, grinning.
His mother lifted a finger. ‘Nah-ah, you two, not in front of our guest.’ She switched her gaze to Jess, asking, ‘Is it still dominated by men, I mean at the top of the profession?’
‘Same as banking, I suspect,’ said his father. ‘Women don’t stay the course.’
‘I wasn’t asking you.’ His mother elbowed his father in the ribs.
‘Well, this particular girl is planning to stay the course!’ said Jess.
His mother sat back with a smug expression on her face, bringing a smile to his own.
Fran bustled outside, wearing a blue and white stripy apron which hung below her shorts. ‘Everything OK?’ she asked.
Jess started stacking the dirty plates. ‘Fran, that was delicious, why don’t you sit down while I wash up? Alex, are you going to help me?’
There was a burst of laughter from his father. Alex felt his body tense. He rose quickly, collected the stacked crockery, and said, ‘Good idea, Jess.’
A few days later, Alex stood beside the fridge chatting to Fran whose hands were submerged in the sink in front of her. Fran shifted her stance. ‘My muscles are so tight, any minute now that ping you hear will be one of them snapping.’
‘Why not stay for a swim when you’ve finished, loosen them off? Mum won’t mind,’ he said.
Fran turned around and Alex caught a brief flash of a belly stud. ‘But will your girlfriend?’
‘Nah, Jess isn’t the jealous type.’ He grabbed a can of Pepsi Max from the fridge. ‘We’re all finished downstairs if you want to clear.’
Fran reached into the sink and flicked a dollop of soapsuds at him. ‘Have you now, sir? Shame your helpful girlfriend isn’t around. Wouldn’t hurt you to stack the dishes and bring them up, oh pampered princeling.’
‘Can’t be doing you out of a job!’ He snapped the ring on his can and chugged back a few slugs.
Early the next morning, Mark slipped on his running shoes and pulled the laces tight, feeling the shoes hug his feet. In London, he’d been oblivious to guests: leaving before they woke and meeting the party at a restaurant later to pay the bill, but this felt like an invasion. Yesterday, sitting in his office trying to concentrate on a set of board minutes, he’d read the same line three times without recalling a single word.
He’d been trying to ignore the ear-splitting screams. He lifted the window-blind with a finger. Just below him, in the deep end of the pool, his son was treading water, hands cupped and, like a child, was squirting jets of water at his girlfriend. The dogs were standing on a sun lounger, barking along playfully, reminding Mark of the invoice he’d sat on the day before Alex arrived. Please pay, delivery this afternoon! was scrawled in biro across the top; his wife had spent €20,000 on new outside furniture.
Mark ran a hand down his face. There was a guffaw of laughter. He dropped the blind, sat down, and shuffled his papers into a neat stack. A squeal pierced the air, and his son’s voice floated up, ‘I’ll duck you! Come here, don’t think you can get away from me!’ There were splashes, the sound of Emily’s laughter, and her raised voice, ‘Alex, don’t be so mean. How did I give birth to such a monster?’
Another scream. More splashing. He shoved the papers away and stormed outside. ‘Hey, keep the noise down, guys! Some of us have to work!’
‘Sorry, Mr Ellis,’ said Jess.
He heard a second female voice say, ‘Sorry, Mr Ellis.’ Who was that? He walked down another few steps. What was Fran doing lounging by the pool?
Emily beamed up at him. ‘Darling, why not come and join us? The water’s a lovely temperature. Can’t you take a few hours off?’
He gritted his teeth. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘Funny sort of sabbatical,’ Alex quipped.
Now, remembering his son’s taunting voice, he wriggled his toes into a comfortable position in the running shoes and reminded himself there were just two more days of this pantomime Emily was orchestrating: pretending to Alex and his new girlfriend that the parents weren’t short of money. Two more days of chomping through the last of their precious cash – why did Emily choose such expensive restaurants?
He tucked in his running shirt, perking up when he remembered that Emily was cooking for Alex’s last evening, so there was only one more night of holding his breath while his feckless son coaxed his girlfriend into ordering lobster.
Mark eased himself off the bed, his eyes resting on Emily, curled up on her side. She was coping, and the cavalry was in sight: buyers were sniffing around both properties, and London bookings were picking up. May had a few, June had six nights, and July was brilliant – every weekend and a few mid-week bookings too. On its own, July would deliver over ￡50,000.
Mark crept out of the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.
‘Morning, Mr Ellis.’
He jumped and spun around. Fran was coming out of a bedroom.
As if reading his mind, she said, ‘I was out late with Alex and Jess. We thought it best if I stayed over so breakfast is on time. I’ll get going with that fry-up, shall I, while you go and earn it.’
Mark ran down the stairs, bristling at the tell-tale slip-slop noise of Fran’s sandals following him. He marched into the kitchen, collected his water bottle, banged the fridge door shut, and sprinted out, jogging past David, who had a spanner in his hand.
With temperatures barely dropping below twenty degrees, Mark was leaving his office window permanently open behind the burglar bars. His new lair was a pleasant temperature in the mornings and daytime breezes acted as free air conditioning. But today there was an additional reason for the fresh air – the room needed drying out. Mark logged off the banking portal and glanced down. The pool of water, which he’d walked into balancing a plate of Fran’s bacon and eggs at eight-thirty, had shrunk to a puddle, irritatingly just beneath his feet. He pulled up the weather app: no rain forecast for tonight.
Mark ran a finger down his Portuguese red tape list: dog licences, opening a post-box , and registering with the local doctor’s surgery. Top of the list: residency, a prerequisite to enrol on the NHR and ensure they could stay beyond 4 July without falling foul of the Brexit restriction of ninety days in every one hundred and eighty.
Twenty minutes later, with a folder of papers tucked under his arm, Mark was strolling down the tree-lined road to the Almancil town council. Sweat bonded his long-sleeved shirt to his body, and there were damp patches on his back and under his armpits, but he had to be properly dressed for a meeting with authority.
The council’s office was small. A row of five orange plastic seats faced a glass-shuttered counter staffed by two ladies who were so short only their heads and shoulders were visible above the counter. The window gave a view of a car park. The remaining wall was covered by a noticeboard plastered with information leaflets, all in Portuguese. A clock hung above the noticeboard.
The room was quiet. Business at the counters was being conducted in hushed tones. Mark pushed a button by the door and retrieved a pre-numbered ticket: E63. His eyes flicked up at the wall behind the counter where the number E59 was displayed. He took a seat beside a young mother with a toddler on her lap, who stretched out a wavering explorative hand towards Mark’s folder. He wrapped his arms round it, hugging it to his chest. An hour and a half ticked slowly by with Mark fending off the toddler’s repeated lunges toward his possessions. The staff were not inefficient, they simply approached every client in a manner that reminded him of Dickensian bank staff, listening attentively before disappearing into a backroom to re-emerge with forms that were completed together ... slowly.
At midday, the shutter was pulled down on one of the counters. The official disappeared. Mark was alone on the plastic chairs. The toddler was now sitting on the countertop, secured there by his mother’s chest. Business concluded, the officer chuckled and waved goodbye to the child and the mother, glanced at the clock, and pulled down the shutter on her station.
Two hours later, Mark was back at the town council trying to forget his recent encounter with Emily. He’d returned to the villa for a sandwich and tutted when he opened the front door to a blast of cold air. The sliding door was wide open, there was no sign of the youngsters, but he could see Emily swimming, the dogs trotting alongside keeping pace.
‘Fuck! Bloody Emily, she’s not even trying to bloody economize.
‘Emily!’ he yelled above the sound of yapping dogs. ‘ Emily !’ He jogged down the stairs and stood at the shallow end, hands on hips.
Emily stopped at the deep end and turned around, clutching the side, and smiling at him. The smile rapidly evaporated.
‘You’ve got the aircon on full and you’re not even using it! And you’ve left the bloody doors wide open too, so we’re paying to chill the whole Algarve.’
‘You have it on in your office.’
‘ When I’m working . I turn it off when I go out. And another thing ...’ He stopped mid-sentence. His wife had ducked under the water and was performing star jumps like a child, sinking, exploding out of the water with her eyes screwed shut, then spluttering as she took another deep breath before submerging again.
Now, looking into the eyes of the town council official, Mark told himself not to think about Emily. Concentrate on getting residency certificates, use them to join the NHR, then badger the selling agents. He had a fleeting picture of their bank balance. Should he have blown all their capital buying Villa Anna? Was he risking everything like a manic gambler heaping all the chips onto the colour red at a casino? He had to get a move on, get this plan to work.
In front of him, the bespectacled council official reached up and rested her arms on the counter, a comfortable place for them given her height.
Mark cleared his throat. ‘Bom dia, Fala English?’
The official shot her eyes towards the clock then corrected him. ‘Boa tarde. Si, eu falo inglês.’
He unfolded a slip of paper. In large capital letters he had written Villa Anna’s address, together with the couple’s fiscal numbers, issued when they bought the house. ‘Please could you give me residence certificates for my wife and I?’ He pinned the piece of paper to the counter with a finger and slid it under the glass screen. ‘For this address.’
The official picked up the scrap and considered it briefly, before putting it down and pushing it back. ‘No.’
He offered his most engaging client-charming smile – it was a slightly unusual request, as only foreigners would ask for residency certificates – and nudged the scrap of paper back towards the official. ‘Por favor. We just need a certificate, which I understand is issued by the town council, to say we live here in Portugal, your lovely country.’
The official pointed her index finger at the page without touching it. ‘Nao.’
He gritted his teeth and raised his voice a fraction, propelling the slip towards her. ‘I need to prove we live here. Please?’
‘I don’t do that.’
He picked up the battered piece of paper, crushing it in his hands. ‘Who does? Where do I go?’
‘Que?’ The woman shrugged.
Cursing the stubbornness of people determined to exercise power, Mark tore up his ticket and stalked out. He needed advice to navigate a regulatory system he couldn’t fathom. He didn’t have a local accountant. Mark unlocked the Bentley, threw his briefcase at the passenger seat, and dialled his lawyer.
It was her son’s last full day at Villa Anna, and Emily was lying in bed, the sheet rucked up around her, the ceiling fan spinning cool air. She had that feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach that comes when check-out day arrives after a blissful holiday. The gate bell buzzed as it had all week, apart from the night Fran slept at Villa Anna, like a temporary alarm clock. She threw back the sheet, slipping on her silk dressing gown as she walked barefoot across the cold stone tiles, and pressed the release button. The fan whirred on behind her.
Emily opened the front door. Fran, dressed in shorts, a skimpy T-shirt, and flip-flops, peered through the bars of the gate as they slowly cranked and creaked their way open.
‘It’s another gorgeous morning.’ Fran smiled. ‘Want the weather forecast?’
Emily’s empty feeling evaporated, buoyed by Fran’s cheerful tone and the prospect of a girly chat. ‘Go on then.’
‘Hot, then hotter, then really hot with big sun!’ Fran chortled.
A cold snout nudged Emily’s calf and she bent to stroke Floria’s ears. ‘That won’t stop my men from wanting a cooked breakfast. You start, and I’ll just let the dogs out, then make us a cup of tea.’ Emily shut the front door. It didn’t close all the way. She tugged, then yanked, but it wouldn’t budge. Using both hands, Emily dragged the door wide open, then slammed it shut.
‘Mark!’ she yelled.
Fran’s voice floated out of the kitchen. ‘He’s probably still out jogging.’
‘Well, if you see him before I do, tell him to get his toolbox out,’ snapped Emily.
Lunch was a simple picnic on the terrace around the dining table that matched the new sun loungers, a brief interlude for Emily and the youngsters from draping themselves in the sun, reading, or cooling off in the pool. Alex was sipping a beer, the ladies a chilled glass of white wine.
‘I’m going to miss you two tomorrow,’ said Emily, topping up Jess’s glass. ‘Another beer, Alex?’
‘Umm please, Mum.’
Jess was already standing. ‘I’ll go.’
Emily put her arm out, tapping Jess lightly. ‘No, sit still, you’re on holiday.’
Jess jabbed Alex in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Let him get his own beer, he can get more water for us while he’s inside.’
Alex grunted but got up. Emily hid her smile.
That night, the barbeque was glowing, and tiger prawns were sizzling. Emily had marinaded them in olive oil, garlic, and dill. Turning the prawns over, she sniffed; the sweet aniseed smell of the herb was masked by the more pungent one of garlic, reminding her of the Paris metro. She and Mark should get away together – it didn’t need to be expensive, didn’t even need to be another country; maybe they could drive up to Lisbon. She was sure that Fran would dog-sit. Initially, Emily was surprised how much she enjoyed Fran’s company, but the girl was so positive, it was infectious. It was Fran who, over one of their many coffees, had told her about the Sintra palaces where the Portuguese aristocracy used to retreat from Lisbon for a cooler summer.
Emily shifted her grip on the tongs, listening to the soft chirping of crickets, and the throatier croak of a toad. The last prawn turned from grey to pale pink. Emily picked up a skewer with her fingertips, flinching from the burst of fierce heat – should’ve used the ton gs – and dropped it onto the serving platter.
‘These are piping hot, so be careful,’ she warned, passing round the skewers. ‘It’s been such fun having you here, Jess, do come back.’ She sat down and picked up her gin and tonic.
‘I’d love to,’ said Jess. ‘Maybe later in the year. I have to get back to work now.’
Emily squeezed her slice of lemon, dropping the rind back into the glass and licking the tartness from her fingers. ‘Alex needs a job,’ she whispered.
Mark sat down on the sofa. ‘Aha, my sentiments entirely. Alex, what are your plans for financing the rest of the year?’ He fixed his eyes on their son.
Emily closed her own, recalling the three hundred euros she’d given Alex earlier.
Alex stomped off.
Sensing the holiday atmosphere collapsing like a souffle removed from the oven too early, Emily announced breezily that she was hungry, and the food was ready. ‘Please find the white wine, darling.’
Later, listening to her son slurring his words holding forth on the possibility of the Labour Party gaining power, Emily kept her eyes on her food. There was a clanging noise. She looked up; Mark had thrown his knife and fork onto his plate.
‘What utter nonsense. You have the political savvy of the average boy of your generation, despite your education.’
Emily glanced at Jess. The younger woman’s mouth hung open as she slouched back in her seat watching the warring men.
Alex laughed. ‘Dad, accept it. You hardly have your finger on the pulse of the UK electorate anymore, parked out here in the sun.’
Emily said light-heartedly, ‘I thought you youngsters never voted? Jess, would you like a top-up?’
‘Not for me, thanks,’ mumbled Jess.
Alex tossed back more wine. ‘Social media is changing that, Mum.’
‘We capitalist dinosaurs know how to use Twitter too,’ said Mark.
Alex pushed his chair away from the table, angling himself towards his father. ‘So, how’s the sabbatical going? You aren’t actually out here on a sabbatical, are you? You’re on that NHR tax scheme, skulking out here dodging tax.’
Emily heard Jess gasp. Keep an impassive expression, girl, she told herself.
‘No, we’re not on the NHR.’ Mark sneered at his son. ‘And spare me a lecture about the oppressed masses living in the gutter. You’ve been living rent-free in our holiday home with a housekeeper. Talk about Champagne Socialism.’
Emily bit her lip. There was a big difference between not telling Alex and lying to him.
Alex stood up, hurling his napkin at his chair. ‘Not anymore, Dad!’ he shouted. ‘You’ve rented it out, and Mum says I can’t live in Ovington Square either. Where do you expect me to live, once my ninety days run out?’
‘That, son, at the age of twenty-two, is your problem. Get a job and sort yourself out!’
The men glowered at each other. Emily avoided eye contact with either of them. Did Alex really believe they were out here to avoid paying tax?