Fifteen
June 5th
Ellis bank balance: (￡5,976.89) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 21 Mark: 4
‘Stop swatting, Mark. It’s not a fly. You need to drive down harder on the ball, transfer all that energy from your leg muscles to your swing and then down onto the ball. Watch.’
Tim was dressed in his usual sports kit, nylon shorts and T-shirt, a peaked cap, and dark shades for his eyes. Today, Tim’s clothes were light-grey and appeared dirty next to Mark’s crisp, sparkling-white cotton shorts and collared T-shirt. The coach stepped up to the baseline, tossed the ball high, corkscrewed down, bounced back up, and stretched overhead to slam the ball, which skimmed over the net, deep into the opposite service box, ricocheting off the back fence.
Mark scrunched up his lips, collected a few balls from the basket, and took his place beside the coach.
‘Line yourself up. Visualize where you want the ball to land,’ instructed Tim, standing back from his pupil.
Mark bounced the ball a few times at his feet, stood sideways to the net, and then threw the ball into the air. He felt a tug on his racket, stopping his swing, and then the racket was pulled downwards. Above Mark’s hand was Tim’s suntanned one.
‘Woah, that ball is way too far forward. It’s going straight into the net.’
After an intense ten minutes on serving technique, Mark asked to rally.
‘Why pay me to play with you?’ Tim rearranged his hat further back on his head, and removed his sunglasses, resting them like a headband on the crown of his cap. ‘Why not join one of the doubles matches?’
‘I can’t remember when I last played doubles. I don’t know where I’m supposed to be, or when or why,’ said Mark.
Tim slipped his sunglasses back on. ‘I can teach you. And the other players won’t bite.’
Mark frowned. ‘I’m not good enough.’
‘Well, playing will improve that.’
‘No,’ said Mark firmly. ‘Practice first. Don’t you practice stuff you’re not good at?’
Tim shrugged. ‘I’m not afraid of making a fool of myself. People generally laugh with you, not at you.’
Tim scooped a few balls out of the basket and trotted to the other side of the net, then served. After just a few minutes, Mark was panting his way around the court, forced to sprint to return each shot. He dived for a ball, skidded, and banged into the fence face-first. His nose was throbbing. Tentatively, he wrinkled it then ran a thumb and finger gently down either side. Hearing a giggle, he turned to find a group of women standing by the gate.
Mark bounced over to his bag, drank some water and – taking deep breaths – wiped the handle of his racket with a towel. Back at the base line, Mark steadied himself, breathing normally. He dashed from side to side returning shots but lost the point to a spinning ball that clipped the line. There was a ripple of applause from the women.
‘Good shot!’ called out a tall woman.
‘Lovely spin on that one!’ chimed another.
Mark glanced up at the audience and moved further behind the base line. Tim served. Mark saw a flash of yellow, then heard the fence behind him ringing. There was a roar of applause.
‘Let’s call it a day.’ Mark lowered his racket.
‘We’ve still got five minutes,’ said Tim, ‘but your lesson, your call.’
Mark collected his bag, dumping his racket inside and jerking the zip shut, then stalked off. Tim jogged around the court gathering up the tennis balls.
At the bar, Mark ordered a beer and took a seat close to the court where the women were warming up. A men’s foursome finished and pulled up chairs next to the ladies’ match. Everyone watched the women practicing their smashes, stretching high over their heads.
‘They know how to play.’ Tim rested his frame against Mark’s table and pulled the ring on a can of soft drink.
Mark grunted, then watched the tall woman serve gracefully, striking the ball high above her head.
‘Lovely action,’ murmured Tim.
The receiver mistimed the return, sending the ball careering over the restraining fence. It bounced close to where the men sat. No one got up to help.
‘Hey, can you toss the ball back please, guys?’ called out the tall woman, smiling at her audience.
‘It’ll cost ya,’ yelled Tim.
‘How much?’ asked the server, walking towards the fence.
‘A drink.’ Tim’s eyes twinkled above his can.
She reached the fence, and leaned against it, her fingers looped through the chain-link. ‘I have to have a drink with you just to get my ball back?’
‘Yup.’
‘That’s an expensive tab for one tennis ball.’
‘Depends on what I choose to drink,’ said Tim, crunching up his can and tossing it onto the table.
‘OK.’ The woman shrugged.
You had to hand it to Tim, thought Mark, as the youngster retrieved the tennis ball. The man had no money, no prospects ... What did that woman see in him? At Tim’s age, Mark had been pulling down a six-figure sum. When he met Emily, Mark already oozed the heady cocktail of confidence, swagger, and happiness he could see in Tim. Mark hadn’t felt confident or happy for months; his swagger had been replaced by a nervous twitch every time he opened the banking app.
His coach tossed the tennis ball onto the court, took off his hat, and ran a hand through his sandy-coloured hair. Was that why Emily was so withdrawn? Had Mark allowed Paul to destroy not just his career but his pride too?
Mark arrived at Heathrow and took a taxi to Ovington Square. This was his second trip, and he would enjoy every minute. There was plenty to occupy his time in Portugal: the country produced red tape at a prodigious rate, and trying to keep up was like being lady’s maid to an Edwardian mistress who changed clothes every hour, sloughing off another outfit before the previous dress was even stored away. But sitting alone in that study couldn’t be his future – he wasn’t ready to retire.
Sadly, these sojourns back into the cut and thrust of commerce were limited by the 40-working-day tax limit. On this trip, he had two board meetings and was looking forward to both; hours of serious business when his views on weighty matters would be asked for, his advice valued. This mini break was carefully mapped out, necessitating crisscrossing London multiple times, and dashing to Essex for dinner with his mother, but he was still using five of his precious forty days and he was lucky: on this occasion, his meetings dovetailed.
As the taxi weaved its way through traffic on the Brompton Road, Mark gazed out at the bustle. He recalled the same weird sensation as last time. It was so busy – cars, lorries, buses; everyone and everything in a hurry, seeming to have a purpose. Paying the driver and fishing out his English keys, Mark reflected on how much he missed London. He tossed his bag towards the lift doors, picked up the post from the floor, then raised his voice.
‘Svetlana, cold beer!’
He showered and changed. Irritated to find a Fortnum bag hidden in the locked cupboard the couple used to store personal items, he snatched it out, untied the bronze-coloured ribbon, and pulled out an expensive looking bottle of perfume. He didn’t recognize the brand as one Emily wore – what a time to be experimenting with a new scent!
Mark stormed downstairs to reclaim his temporary office. While here, he could forget about the house rules, a list that seemed to grow by the day. The latest directive concerned the stacking of the dishwasher which, Emily stipulated, needed to be done from the back, working forwards. Did she make this nonsense up just to annoy him? Today, Mark could read through the post and his business papers with no interruptions from Emily, a dog, or an entitled guest.
At his first board meeting, three investment banks (excluding his former employer), were pitching for the mandate to advise on a listing on the London Stock Exchange. Earlier that week, Mark had sampled the first sweet taste of revenge, by wasting his old bank’s time with truckloads of work. Mark destroyed their written submission, pointing out their lack of understanding of the business model, casting doubt on their valuation assumptions, undermining their credibility, and eliminating them from the shortlist invited to today’s formal presentations.
‘Morning, Ellis,’ hailed his fellow noddy as he was shown into the boardroom. ‘This is your show, really. You’re the point man on City matters.’
The executive team filed in and took seats around the table, all greeting Mark with similar comments. Mark sat back preparing to enjoy the pitch from the buyer’s, rather than the seller’s, perspective. He fired challenging questions about process, probing each bank’s assumptions on timing, and basked in the warmth of admiration radiating from his fellow directors ... but he would much rather have been sitting on the other side of the table, fighting to secure appointment.
With a tingle of excitement, Emily watched the man counting out her money. He shuffled it into a wad, folded it, and held it towards her.
‘Added an extra tenner, to say thanks for looking after us.’
She blushed, fingering the crisp, clean new notes. Cash, excellent! She would hang onto that. She slipped the money into her back pocket and went to strip the beds. That task completed, she poured herself a glass of water and sat on the terrace with the dogs slumped nearby, panting warm breath onto her feet. Emily opened the iPad and pulled up her website. Fran had mentioned that her parents offered a discount if guests booked a longer stay. Could she boost sales that way? She peered at the home page; something was different ... What was it? She tucked her legs away from the dogs, opened the calendar, and felt a stab of pride; she wouldn’t have to offer discounts if bookings carried on at this rate.
Emily clicked open an enquiry. It was a message from a couple asking if she could provide a cooked breakfast. She frowned, then scrolled back to the home page. The picture of the table laden with cooked breakfasts was missing. She read the copy on the home page slowly and realized that the word cooked had been replaced with continental . Who’d been meddling with her website?
His mother opened the door before he’d even paid the taxi, Romeo framed between her legs. The dog was peering out at the falling rain, ears flat against his head, no doubt hoping this was as close to the deluge the welcoming committee was expected to get. Mark ran to the front door, his jacket held over his head. As if joined together like a pantomime horse, his mother and the dog moved backwards.
‘Not very nice out, is it, boyo?’ she chortled, shaking his jacket before hanging it, still dripping, from the newel post.
Mark sucked in a deep breath. His mother had aged. She was smiling, but standing lopsided, with one hip raised and her foot off the ground like a large flamingo. Her face was pallid and drawn. It was chilly for June. Would a blast of sun help?
He hugged her, squeezing some of her love into him, inhaling the smell of freshly baked bread and scones clinging to her housecoat, that yeasty sweet smell that made him feel cocooned and safe, like a child tucked up in bed while a storm raged outside. She didn’t wear expensive perfume like Emily; this was her scent, and he loved it.
‘Mum, are you unwell?’ he spoke into her housecoat, before releasing her.
She pushed him upright, smiling. ‘Mustn’t grumble, lad. Romeo has been a bit of a pest, playing his Houdini games.’
‘Where do you want me, Mum? Front room, or kitchen?’
‘Front room. Romeo and I will get you a beer to start with, then we’ll eat in the kitchen. We’ll be there in a minute now.’ His mother limped off, the corgi trotting in her footsteps like a four-legged shadow.
He left his case at the foot of the stairs and, holding the bouquet he’d picked up from the station florist, crossed to the doorway of the hallowed room and the painting he’d known all his life, a salutary reminder of the fate that awaited him if he didn’t study hard. He may not have ended up down the pit, but he had been determined to escape the life his mother lived, housed by the council, fitting in jobs around childcare, waiting for her feckless husband to call. Mark gave a curt nod at the picture, as if thanking it for reminding him that his lifestyle was worth fighting for. His plan would work. Devon was due to exchange contracts – committing the purchaser – by the end of the month, and Ovington Square was now under offer. By September, the Ellis bank account would be swelled by millions of pounds, and he could start sleeping through the night again, instead of staring at the overhead fan, fretting about a bank balance that seemed to be in freefall.
He glanced along the corridor. His mother was shuffling awkwardly towards the kitchen, her right leg swinging oddly each time she used it. He heard a peculiar noise and held his breath, his mind spinning, trying to identify the sound. It was a wheezing noise – since when had his mother become asthmatic? At the kitchen door, Romeo shot a glance in Mark’s direction, then trotted into the room after his mistress. The door shut.
Stealthily reopening the kitchen door, Mark caught a whiff of home cooking, a mixture of fried onions and baking pastry. He was already salivating. On the table was a plate of griddled Welsh cakes, the pastries speckled with dark currants like blots of ink. He sidled over and snatched up a cake, biting into it and letting the crumbly creamy texture coat his tongue.
‘Yum,’ he said.
‘Ready for that beer?’ she asked.
Mark was used to his mother whizzing around the kitchen, and he winced as she limped about familiar tasks.
‘Let’s go private on that hip, Mum. You’re obviously in pain.’
‘Save your money, boyo. My turn will soon come. I can’t be doing with queue-jumping – it’s not right.’
‘I don’t like to see you in pain. Let me sort this out.’ He held up the bouquet. ‘I got you these.’
She took the flowers, dipped her head into the blooms and sniffed, then ran water into the sink and pushed the stems in.
‘You should listen to young Alex,’ she said. ‘I can’t be doing with this privatization of the NHS. Before you know it, we’ll be back to my parents’ days when you couldn’t afford to see a doctor unless you were rich.’
He ignored the comment. ‘Are you on painkillers?’
His mother rubbed her hip with one hand, gripping the side of the sink with the other for support. Slowly, using the edge of the counter, she moved to the cooker and bent down to peek through the oven door. Mark thought she was ignoring him, then she stood up, and patted her hip. ‘Popping them like sweeties, boyo. Now, onion gravy, peas and sweetcorn?’
He wasn’t giving up at the first hurdle. ‘Have you been given a date for the operation?’
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourself. You know where the glasses are.’
He opened a beer and poured the contents carefully into a tall, slim glass, keeping one eye on his mother as she dragged herself about the room, draining vegetables, piling them onto plates and adding butter.
The game continued: ‘You have to badger them.’
‘I’ve told you, I’m under the doctor, and he says it’ll be seen to. That’s the end of it. Now sit yourself down, else the batter will sink and that would be a shame when it’s risen so well, wouldn’t it?’
A plate appeared in front of him, and he was engulfed with love for his mother, seeing her grinning face as a stream of thick, brown gravy speckled with streaks of white onion smothered his vegetables. She avoided the batter, knowing he preferred it crisp.
Mark looked up from his plate of sweet-smelling food and examined his mother closely. Her face was pale, drawn. He reached out and grasped her hand as she lowered herself into the chair opposite him, her right leg sticking out in front of her as if glued into position.
‘Why don’t you come out to Portugal and get a bit of sun? Emily would love to see you.’ If they could shut the B&B for Mary and Charles, they could certainly do it for his mother!
As he stroked her hand, her face softened. She picked up her knife and fork and shook her head. ‘No, lad, I don’t want to leave Romeo, and I can’t be eating strange food – gives me indigestion. Now tuck in, we don’t want it going cold, do we?’
His mouth watered as the fork got closer. When was the last time he’d eaten like this? When could he spare the tax days to visit again?
He arrived at Heathrow to catch the mid-morning flight, feeling as gloomy as the London weather. He was worried about his mother’s health, and the Ellis overdraft, and returning to a life he didn’t want to lead. Standing in his socks, watching the plastic trays inch along the conveyor belt towards him, praying his container wouldn’t be diverted to the queue requiring the time-consuming hand search, he reflected on his problems. The common root cause was his inability to spend sufficient time in the UK. He shrugged his jacket back on and laced up his shoes. Surely there was a way to stretch out his allowance.
The key was planning. The tax rules were designed to catch the unwary, but he’d taken expert advice. The important point was the individual’s location at midnight on any given day. If in the UK, that counted as one of your 90 days. So, a flight landing in London at 22.30 wasted a day, even though you were only physically present for just over an hour. Had he missed a trick?
Emily called while Mark was choosing a bottle of duty-free champagne to buy her as a gift.
‘Darling, can you give me the number of the website designer?’ she purred.
‘Why?’ He slipped the bottle noiselessly into his basket.
‘Someone’s been messing with my website.’ Mark gulped. ‘They’ve deleted the breakfast image.’
He chewed his lips, listening to her complain that the word cooked had been replaced with continental , and managed a faint laugh. ‘I’m at the airport. I’ve plenty of time to sort that out for you. Probably updated the wrong website by mistake.’
He ended the call, bought the champagne, and rang Pedro, leaving a message asking for an update on the hot food licence.
In the lounge, Mark helped himself to a pre-flight drink, mulling over how to maximize his time in the UK. He was fond of the national carrier, and after twenty years of globetrotting first-class, advising on cross-border deals, he had more Avios points than the average person could use in a lifetime. But British Airways only operated a handful of flights to Faro. Could he have caught a late-night plane back to Portugal yesterday with a different airline, saving a tax day? He carried his beer to a remote table, opened a packet of crisps, and joined the lounge Wi-Fi. Several operators offered later flights from London to Faro. They weren’t much later, but one of them offered a considerably later flight on the outward leg. Now that was interesting. The EasyJet timetable revealed that their last flight departed Faro at 22.20 and didn’t reach London until 00.40 the following morning. If he’d caught that plane on Monday, he would’ve entered the UK a tax day later, while still being able to attend the same meetings. Admittedly into Gatwick, which wasn’t as convenient as Heathrow.
By his second beer, he’d worked out that, in theory, he could return to the UK without being present for tax purposes at all, by arriving at 00.40 and departing before midnight on the same day! That would be useful to shave a day off each trip. Five days would drop to four for the minor inconvenience of arriving a little later and a little further away from Ovington Square. Crucially, these midnight flights would help Emily, who seemed to be rampaging through her allowance at a frightening pace, like a student at university freshers’ week downing cocktails during happy hour.