Sixteen
June 10th
Ellis bank balance: (￡6,782.78) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 21 Mark: 9
The redesign of Villa Anna had progressed inside to the entrance hall where the tantalizing scent of eau de Portugal hung in the air. Emily had arranged the meeting to conclude well before she collected Mark. The designer was standing beside her, running a hand over his chin.
‘Yes, this is indeed a big problem.’ He waved his arms, drawing a large circle to indicate the size of his client’s predicament. ‘You need somewhere to hang coats. It does rain in the winter, and of course you must have a cloakroom.’ He tutted. ‘You cannot expect guests to wander around the house searching for a bathroom like a game of hide and seek.’
Miguel understood Emily in a way Mark used to before he lost the rhythm of their relationship. The night before he left for his business trip, Mark scowled – he never used to scowl – as she dropped a hot cottage pie in front of him still in its microwavable plastic container.
‘Only paying guests get cooked meals?’
She’d sat down and cut away the plastic top of her butter bean and lentil bake. She didn’t owe him an explanation! Dipping her fork into her dish, she’d peeked up at him. He was shaking his head from side to side, his cheeks sucked in. Now what? She was close to throwing something at him.
‘Run out of plates, have we?’
‘I’m not one of your juniors at the bank that you can yell at!’ she said. ‘This way, there’s less to go in the dishwasher. And while we’re on the topic, can you remember to empty it when it’s your turn?’ She blew on a forkful of hot food, wishing he’d just shut up and eat. ‘Miguel thinks we should change to a solid gate.’
Mark grunted.
She screwed up her eyes, trying to recall how the designer had explained the idea. ‘We need to set the stage. He says it’s like having holes in the curtain at a theatre.’
Mark put down his cutlery and folded his hands behind his neck, eyes narrowed at her, then leaned over his food snarling, ‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with the gate we have.’ He glared at his pie and reverted to the attack. ‘So, what’s next on your hit list? Is that effing rule book going to ban drinking water from a glass? Do you want me to drink straight from the tap?’ He raised his beer. ‘See. I’ve already got the message that I have to drink lager from the can. I can’t have bottles because there’s already too much going into the glass recycling box, and I must squash the cans because that,’ he mimicked his wife’s posher accent, ‘minimizes the space it takes up in the recycling bin .’ I mean we can’t have you making a second trip to the recycling bins, can we?’
She picked up her meal. ‘I think I’ll eat outside with the dogs. They’re better company.’
He didn’t follow her, or come out to apologize, and in the morning, they drove to the airport in silence; she dropped him off without kissing him goodbye and sped off, hating herself for feeling liberated at the thought of five days without him.
Emily dismissed the unpleasant memories of the last marital meal and channelled her thoughts on Miguel. ‘I’m so glad you understand. Mark doesn’t agree.’ She waved a hand around the hallway. ‘My husband wants to cut a slice off one of the spare bedrooms for a cloakroom and buy a coat stand.’
Miguel raised his hand like a traffic policeman. ‘Stop, stop, please. A coat stand?’ he queried as if she’d suggested the couple might install scaffolding to store their coats.
Emily giggled. She laughed a lot when she was with Miguel. There was something niggling her brain about these sessions though; who did Miguel remind her of?
This was work to him, but he seemed to have as much fun as his client. And it must be lucrative – he drove a Porsche. She didn’t enjoy running the B like swallows searching out warmer climates, tourists were scarce in winter. She wondered if this was a side angle she could dip into.
‘Yes, I don’t like the idea of a coat stand,’ she confessed.
‘Oh, darling, it’s hardly a statement piece of art, is it? I do hope we can do better than that.’ He removed his sunglasses from where they’d been pushed onto his head like an Alice band, releasing his hair, which flopped forward over his forehead.
‘Any ideas?’ she asked.
He waved the sunglasses at her, his face crinkling with a smile before purring silkily, ‘It’s a pity the previous owners put the boiler under the staircase. I agree that would be the best place to solve both problems, but there is an obvious solution.’ He stood to one side tapping his sunglasses against his leg.
Suddenly it came to her; Miguel was as much in thrall with his job as her husband had been with his.
Emily’s eyes roamed the hallway, then she shrugged. Maybe she wouldn’t make such a good interior designer. Miguel returned the glasses to his head and pulled out his notebook.
‘Darling, we simply build another staircase,’ he said.
There must be a more pragmatic solution. But Miguel knew his market. Should she follow his advice and redevelop the house for sale? Plenty of people earned a decent income from property development.
She’d never met them, but after a few weeks running her own B it was hard work mowing the lawn in this heat. There was a gap between B it hadn’t been assembled with her in mind.
Charles let her in, pecked her on the cheek. ‘Mary’s thrilled you could join us. She misses you. She’s in the kitchen.’
‘Thanks, I’ll go give her a hand.’ She pushed the bottle of wine into Charles’ hands and sidled past.
Descending to the basement, Emily heard the extractor fan working overtime. The kitchen door was open, and she saw her friend, a white pressed apron round her middle, calmly slicing a bunch of herbs.
‘Hi!’ she called out.
Mary looked up but didn’t smile. Maybe she was behind on the cooking schedule.
‘Can I help?’ offered Emily.
‘I’m glad I’ve got you on your own.’ Mary pointed the knife at the rank of bar stools opposite her. ‘Take a seat. There’s something I want to say.’
Emily’s heart fluttered. She brushed aside a Fortnum the other guests were on their way down, and she willed them to speed up. She didn’t want to hear what Mary had to say, but how could Mary know for sure that Mark wasn’t on a sabbatical?
‘Hello ladies!’ said a familiar voice.
Emily spun around and nearly fell off her chair. Paul was standing in the doorway, resplendent in purple and white braces and a matching bowtie. She gripped the seat of the bar stool, her lips pressed together in a straight line. Emily’s heart was beating like a woodpecker hammering a tree trunk. Mary shouldn’t be punishing her this way. The last person she wanted to have dinner with was that man. How dare Mary subject her to this ordeal?
Mary hissed at her, ‘I’ve known all along Mark was sacked. Why didn’t you tell me the truth? I’m supposed to be your best friend!’
Mark heard his mother’s footsteps on the stairs, a little creaking noise: the top step with the slightly dodgy floorboard below the leaky roof. He heard her pause outside his childhood bedroom door, and smelt the toasted bacon sandwich ...
He woke with a start, shivered, and sat up. He wasn’t in Colchester, in the house his mother hadn’t lived in for over a decade. He was in Portugal, in his study, and a jet of water was pulsating through the open window. Mark pushed himself out of reach. The arc juddered across the room, reached the closed side of the opposite window, and splattered the glass. He got up, his eyes tracing the water spraying his lawn and calculated the source. Tommy’s irrigation system was on; this water should be falling the other side of the fence, watering the barren land! That effing man was the source of the water in his study.
He pulled the window shut and ran out the front door, sprinting around the side of his house, and halted, his fists bunched, listening to the hammering noise of his neighbour’s irrigation system hitting the study window. The arc pulsed further away. Mark ducked clear of the water and darted over to the fence line. Holding down the sagging fence with one hand he stepped over. No wonder this area was so dry! He could see a thin, black plastic pipe, with a six-inch spike protruding from it and water pumping out. Mark crouched down, wrapped his hands over the water source. It pushed back against his palms. Water was squirting out of the sides of his hands, his arms were wet, his face dripping. Closing his eyes and spitting out water, he twisted, pulled, tugged, but couldn’t wrench the spike free. He jumped up, cold water spraying his legs and stamped on the jet. There was a cracking noise followed by an explosive hiss. He looked down at the spike, now bent sideways, the water flowing in a constant direction onto the parched land.
He mopped up the puddle in his study and was soon rubbing his fingers over the miniscule third set of screws for the front door lock, cursing Emily for her constant door slamming. Crouching, he slotted the tiny screwdriver – from a set David kept for fixing his sunglasses – in place and twisted, but the screw kept revolving, rather than tightening. He refused to buy a whole new lock, and Emily was coming home today, so he had to get it working.
By Friday afternoon, the lock was reassembled, but Mark’s mood had darkened. The Bank of England had hiked rates to 1.25%, and the London mortgage – now at the lenders SVR of 3.25% – would cost nearly ￡7,000 a month, upping their monthly run rate to ￡16,000. July, and its bumper crop of London bookings couldn’t come soon enough for their bank balance. The couple had yet to net a penny from renting out Ovington Square. Only yesterday, he learnt that Emily had spent nearly ￡10,000 sorting out the pool, replacing the damaged automatic cover, and purchasing a new running machine, as well as servicing the rest of the gym equipment. Initially, Mark assumed he could charge the repairs on to the guilty guests, but they denied they’d even been into the basement. Who’d caused the damage, a poltergeist? Mark instructed Svetlana to take photos of every room in the house from now on, as a record before future guests arrived.
There was a loud hissing noise. Emily dropped the frying pan, and it sank into the water, a cloud of steam rising from the basin.
‘All done,’ she said. ‘Tray’s ready. The mother is the one with no egg. And what did the experts have to say about messing with my website?’
Mark fumbled with the tray.
‘Careful there,’ said Emily. ‘Well?’ She ran a damp cloth over the greasy spits of oil by the hob.
‘It was a mistake. They’ll sort it.’
She squirted a jet of multi-surface spray over the counters and pulled on a pair of Marigolds as she listened to Mark serving the breakfasts.
The mother’s voice piped up, ‘Could you put a load of washing on for us please? You know what kids are like.’
‘We’re not running a launderette,’ snapped Mark.
Emily’s fingers curled around the end of the frying pan. Why couldn’t Mark just be courteous? It was like trying to run a business with a rival’s sabotage agent embedded in your team. There’s no way he spoke to clients at the bank like that. She heard the father asking for a clean mug, saying in a non-judgmental voice, that his had tea stains.
There was a bark of laughter from Mark. ‘No. It’s clean. I pulled it out of the dishwasher myself this morning.’
‘Could I have a different one, please?’ the father asked again.
‘It’s clean. Let me show you. Come over here where the light is better.’
She heard the scraping sound of a chair being pushed across the floor tiles, then Mark’s voice growing more forceful. Emily peeled off her rubber gloves and hurled them onto the counter.
Out on the terrace, over by the railings, Mark was bent over, holding a mug in his hand with a finger inside it as if inspecting an antique for cracks. Emily placed a clean cup on the table. ‘Here’s a fresh mug for your husband,’ she said. ‘Oh, and I’m putting on a load of darks myself later; if you let me have your washing, there’s plenty of room.’
The other woman patted Emily on the arm. ‘Ta, love.’
‘Mark. A word, please,’ said Emily tartly.
Both men turned around. The guest raised his eyes at her and walked back to his family. He sat down mumbling, ‘Take a piece of advice from me, mate. Stick to the day job. Don’t ever consider a career in the hospitality sector.’
‘I was only explaining—’
Emily cut him off with a look, then smiled at her guests. ‘Enjoy your breakfast and let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable.’
Once inside, she closed the sliding door, hissing at Mark, ‘You can finish washing up. It’s Sunday, so you can’t be busy.’
Mark stood with his arms crossed. Was he about to defend his actions? It was hard work running a B she knew it. ‘Someone has reported that we haven’t cleared all our land. That someone must be Tommy. What have you done to antagonize him now?’ she asked in a flat tone.
‘That man is an effing pest!’ said Mark, laughing and picking up his washbag.
Why was he laughing, thought Emily. ‘This war between you stops now. We don’t know our way around Portuguese regulations like Tommy does.’
‘I hear you.’
That didn’t sound like a commitment to call a truce, she thought. ‘This is going on your list. I don’t want to hear any more about it. Just get it sorted, and don’t pick any more unnecessary fights.’
‘He started it,’ whined Mark.
She gritted her teeth. Was this the way he’d behaved towards Paul, goading him for four years? No wonder the man took his revenge as soon as he could. ‘Well, you finish it. And get the land cleared.’
‘Fine, fine,’ said Mark. ‘It’s on my ever-growing list.’
‘Put it near the top. If we don’t sort it, the council will, and then they’ll send us the bill.’
Emily hadn’t expected to be back in Ovington Square so soon. It was less than a week since her dinner at Mary’s, and she was standing in the cloakroom, sniffing back tears, and gagging at the sharp stench of stale urine. The grey marble Lusso basin was hanging off the wall at a peculiar angle, the cistern was clogged with soiled toilet paper, and the surrounding walls were splattered with yellow stains – it looked as if a pack of male dogs had cocked their legs all over her hand-painted wallpaper.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and heard the familiar reassuring voice of Svetlana. ‘This is the worst room. I’ve called a plumber.’
Emily turned to face her housekeeper. ‘Why didn’t they use another toilet when this jammed up?’
Svetlana shrugged. ‘The policeman told me there were hundreds of people here when they came to break up the party.’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ suggested Emily, pinching her nose. She closed the door on the mess and stood in the hallway, her shoulders drooping. ‘How the heck did they manage to pull the sink off? Did they sit on it?’ She made eye contact with Svetlana, imagining her taking the call from the police.
Emily didn’t want to go back to the drawing room and see the curtain poles lying on the floor. At least the perpetrators had moved most of the furniture to the basement, locked the door, and disabled the lift.
‘Can we get it ship-shape before the next booking?’
Svetlana gave her employer a sympathetic look. ‘I’ve made up the attic bedroom for you. I don’t think the party went up there – too far away from the music. Between us, a plumber, and a handyman, we can sort this.’
Emily gulped back tears. ‘You’re such a treasure.’ She missed this woman. On her last trip, sorting out the pool problem without Svetlana’s cheerful presence, time had dragged. ‘Hang on, I’ve got something for you.’ Emily shot up the stairs, returning with a Fortnum besides, Emily would’ve taken out her anger on Mary. She told herself to let Mary vent her fury, apologize to her, and explain it wasn’t Emily’s decision to keep the Ellis tax status a secret.
Mary was sitting at the bar, a half-drunk martini in front of her and a pinched look on her face.
Emily hung her head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear Mark deny it that night. I wouldn’t lie to you, but Mark didn’t want anyone to know.’
Mary picked up her glass. ‘So, it’s a family secret.’
Emily didn’t want to compound the problem. She hesitated.
Mary’s eyes widened. ‘Surely your son knows!’ she said waving her drink at Emily.
‘The thing is—’
Mary cut her off. ‘If you don’t tell him, I will!’
‘No,’ cried Emily. She could imagine Mary calling Alex. Mark had lied to their son too, and Emily was complicit in that lie; she couldn’t deny hearing that conversation. ‘Let me tell him. You know how he’s going to react.’