Fourteen
May 28th
Ellis bank balance: (￡11,458.38) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 18 Mark: 4
Sucking in her cheeks to stop herself from laughing, Emily tried to muster some sympathy. Mark’s hair was slick with sweat, his T-shirt looked as if he’d swum in it – Tim had given him a proper run around on the court – and there was no water for a shower. At least they’d discovered the problem before a guest did.
‘Find David another hobby,’ she said. ‘It’s like a game of musical chairs with that borehole, and we can’t have it with the B he didn’t need to be reminded he’d lost his job.
‘Remember Charles is mates with Paul,’ she spat angrily. ‘And don’t forget to wipe down that chopping board and wrap the cheese back up properly.’
Reluctantly, Mark sanctioned the cost of Fran. The visitors were taking them out for dinner on their second night, and Fran would cost less than the Ellises returning the favour. If only Fran hadn’t formed a magnetic attachment to his wife’s purse. But then Tim did refer to her as the limpet, and there were compensations – she cooked a good breakfast.
To avoid joining the guests for their first breakfast, Mark ate his in his study. Hearing the front door slam, Mark emerged to fetch a mop for the morning “study puddle”. Could he hear music? He dropped his dirty breakfast plate on the side – damn but that Fran cooked a good fry-up – and slid open the terrace door. Fran was dancing around the poolside – his poolside – in her skimpy bikini! Shouting to be heard over Ed Sheeran, he yelled, ‘I think you’re done here. Thanks, Fran.’
Fran danced up the steps to the top terrace and raised her arms, circling them round his neck. ‘I don’t have to be,’ she whispered, her hips swaying from side to side, close to his own. He settled into her embrace, pressing his body up against her hot one. When was the last time Emily had wound her arms around him? Mostly, she feigned sleep – she thought he didn’t know – or complained of exhaustion from running the B it was the girls who were friends. He gave a short laugh, then said, ‘You’ve never met red tape until you’ve lived in Portugal. It keeps me busy!’ His eyes fell on the outrageous price of imported Spanish ham, and he felt a frisson of pleasure. ‘What about some Iberico ham as one of the starters, probably need two portions for four of us?’
Why did Emily’s best friend have to be married to an accountant? He was bound to know about the NHR, and the wretched man had the same political views as Alex. He’d probably guessed why they were here. Thinking of Alex, he recalled that Jess was also an accountant – had Jess been the real source of Alex’s accusation about his parents dodging tax?
‘The lobster’s good here too,’ suggested Mark, earning himself a startled look from Emily.
She picked up a glass of champagne, handed it to Mary, then took one for herself. ‘Everyone happy for me to order?’ she asked cheerfully.
Charles was persistent though. ‘I understand why you might prefer the Algarve, Emily, but I bet Mark never goes outside. I bet he just sits inside with the aircon blasting. He’s as pale as me.’ Charles pressed his arm up against Mark’s equally untanned one. ‘So, why is he here with you?’
‘That’s enough, Charles!’ said Mary.
Mark ordered the men another beer and tried to be the charming host his wife wanted him to be. He asked Charles if he missed work when he was on holiday? Was the Wi-Fi at Villa Anna strong enough for his Teams calls? But like a bloodhound on the scent, Charles was interested in only one topic. Sotto voce, he asked, ‘Are you out here as tax exiles? Now that I could understand.’
Mark concentrated on his beer. ‘That’s a rather personal question,’ he mumbled, kicking Emily gently under the table. He felt an answering nudge on his shin. ‘Definitely Iberico ham then a large lobster for me.’
Emily gave him a quizzical look. ‘But you never order lobster.’
‘Well, that,’ Mark said snapping the menu shut, with a bang, ‘is what I fancy tonight.’
Emily glared at him then placed their order.
Charles leaned towards Mark, murmuring, ‘I mean, if you were tax exiles, that would make sense.’ Mark didn’t flinch. Charles was no match. Mark was famous as a master negotiator, had trained himself not to give anything away. ‘So, am I right? Have you become tax exiles?’ whispered Charles, grinning.
Mark didn’t mind lying when this man was being so rude. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but no, we are not tax exiles.’
Technically, they weren’t even resident in Portugal, he thought. Thankfully, at last, Pedro had reported he had secured an appointment to alter that, but, although they intended to become tax exiles, right now they were not.
Wondering what was behind Mark’s peculiar urge for lobster the night before, Emily sat on the upstairs terrace, the dogs either side of her, a cold snout on each of her bare legs. Her iPad was open on her lap; the B silly Mark, she should never have left him to tidy up. There wasn’t a picture inside the frame, but instead, a notice headed Polite request , asking guests to refrain from putting anything other than toilet paper down the loo. She blushed. Mary’s eyes swung downwards.
‘I-I had to leave that for Alex,’ stammered Emily.
‘Of course,’ said Mary. ‘Men, eh?’
‘Why not go upstairs and help yourselves to breakfast while I sort this out?’ Emily offered.
She plunged her hand into the tepid murky water and fiddled with the plug, wrinkling her face as the scum settled on her arm. It didn’t budge. Thinking it would be better if she moved Mary and Charles to a different bedroom, Emily withdrew her arm, wiped off the scum with a towel and went to find her friend. She stopped at the sliding door. She could hear her guests spitting angrily at each other. She cocked an ear and heard Mary hiss, ‘I don’t know why they’re living in such squalor, but please don’t say anything else.’
Emily’s hand shot up to her mouth.
Mary added, ‘You were downright rude last night, and Emily is my best friend.’ There was a pause. ‘This is obviously a bed and breakfast operation, and there were strangers with suitcases outside their London house last week. They’ve got money problems, but just shut up about it.’