Twenty
August 4th
Ellis bank balance: ￡217.78
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 30 Mark: 20
Little orange foam tubes were poking out of Mark’s ears. He waggled them with a finger, driving them in deeper. They muffled the sound, but he could still hear squealing. Why, when all the guests were adults? He knew they were, because after she’d cooked the guests’ breakfasts, Emily had left him to take care of them while she walked the dogs. All adults and all irritating, asking him for hot milk and herbal teas and wanting to chat about restaurants. There wasn’t a single child booked in, and he’d been relishing the prospect of a quiet morning in his office to work on cashflow forecasts. Yesterday, the Bank of England had nudged up rates; the London mortgage costs would balloon, but Emily was earning enough to cover it.
There was a frantic sound of splashing, then a high-pitched squeal. Think about the money and stop being so critical he told himself; no wonder Emily got so exasperated with him, he’d become an intolerant beast.
He focused on the spreadsheet. Once the funds cleared from the sale of the Bentley, even after shaving the London mortgage by ￡100,000 things would improve. The Fiat 500 hadn’t cost much. On the flip side, the income from the B the mortgage company hadn’t asked where Mr and Mrs Ellis were living while they rented out Ovington Square. It was a prerequisite of every standard UK mortgage that the borrowers are resident in the UK – the London mortgage was illegal and repayable on demand just like their overdraft.
He was on recycling duty when Mark heard his name called. He threw the last box of glass into the car and turned to find David clutching the gate bars, shaking them as if trying to force them open.
‘Has he told you what he’s gone and done now?’ he shouted.
Mark closed the boot. ‘Who? And what?’
‘Who do you think?’ said David, his voice trembling.
Mark’s neck tensed. He sucked in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. ‘Tell me,’ he said, letting David in.
‘He’s got permission to build on that empty land at the side of his garden. It was his all along. There’s going to be one hell of a racket for eighteen months, and he’s not warned his neighbours. Selfish brute.’
Mark clapped his hand on his forehead. ‘But he can’t. It’s rustic land. Everyone knows you can’t build on rustic land.’
David coughed a laugh. ‘Rustic land’s only rustic until it’s not. Just ask the poor souls now living bang up against the Almancil Bypass; they used to live next to rustic land too. I’ve been suspicious since he cut down your tree and I’ve just come back from the council and seen it with my own eyes! It’s going there,’ David said, pointing to the side of Villa Anna’s tennis court, ‘right up against your fence.’
That’s why Tommy chopped down the tree – it was shading his building plot. Mark’s hand was itching to phone Pedro.
It was early evening on a Monday. Alex had been living in the spare room at the Pooley house in Barnstaple for five weeks. There were two plastic baskets in front of him, and Alex was separating his laundry; there wasn’t much. He rinsed out his own work clothes, his swimsuits, daily. Evenings were busy affairs for the Pooley family, conducted chiefly in the kitchen. There was an unofficial cooking rota, based on whoever got hungry first, but household chores were conducted in a frenzy of evening activity involving everyone, and the kitchen was a muddle of people milling through, preparing food, laying the table, fetching laundry off the washing line, or just chatting about their working day.
With a mug of tea in one hand, Mick, Jess’s father, was using the other to stir the contents of a large saucepan. The sweet smell of cooking onions hung in the air reminding Alex of sitting with Svetlana during half-term holidays. Mick’s wife Cathy, bustled in, ironed shirts on plastic hangers dangling from the waistband of her trousers making her look like a peculiar version of the mobile that used to hang above Alex’s cot when he was a baby. Cathy was a carbon copy of her daughter and still wore her hair long, although often fastened to the top of her head sometimes with a large hair claw, this evening with a black bulldog clip. Cathy worked from home, running the family plumbing business, juggling call outs for Mick, his two colleagues and Jess’ brother, the apprentice.
‘Mick, its Mrs Wilson, problem with her hot water.’
‘Hey Alex, take over while I deal with that will you?’ said Mick, putting down his mug and taking a phone off his wife.
Cathy sniffed and tapped Alex on the arm as he walked past her, ‘Turn the heat down, those onions are starting to burn.’ She suggested, before striding off, the shirts swishing round her knees.
Mick hollered after her ‘what time’s my first appointment tomorrow, Cath?’
Alex lowered the heat. Jess walked into the room and started laying the table. He winked at her, ‘Fancy a drink later?’
Mick was talking to his customer, ‘If you didn’t have any water of course I’d come, but it sounds like the elements gone in the boiler. I can get to you for eight or you’ll have to wait until the end of the day. Sorry I’m fully booked.’
A large hand grasped the spoon from Alex, then released it. ‘You finish off here. Chicken next, then add the tomatoes and the herbs,’ said Mick.
‘ Me ?’ gasped Alex.
‘Yes, you,’ said Jess and Mick together.
‘I’ll supervise,’ added Jess, ‘while Dad books in that new job.’
After supper, Alex borrowed Mick’s van and drove Jess inland to a pub away from the touristy coastline; a piece of North Devon the landlord was preserving for Devonians, serving locally brewed craft cider, beer, and English wines.
Pushing open the pub door for Jess, Alex spotted some of her friends gathered around a makeshift table made from an old ale cask; like Alex, the men wore faded shorts and sweatshirts. Alex dropped a kiss onto Jess’s neck. ‘White wine?’ he suggested.
‘Um, Bacchus please.’
At the bar, Alex stood beside a man wearing a blazer. Three glasses were lined up in front of him, an inch of white wine in each. Alex waited while the man made a show of knocking back each one in turn, grimacing with each swallow as if he was drinking medicine. ‘Don’t you have a decent Sauvignon Blanc?’ the man asked petulantly.
Alex locked eyes with the landlord, whose son he was teaching to surf, and raised his eyebrows. ‘Usual for Jess and me when you’re free please, Bob.’
Alex left blazer-man sampling red wine and carried the drinks back to his girlfriend.
‘You’ll be on your own tomorrow night, I’ve a council meeting straight after work,’ said Jess.
‘I know. Your mum’s going to teach me how to make an omelette.’
‘Glad I won’t be around to sample that,’ she jibed.
‘Jess, I miss seeing my Mum. I thought I might check on Svetlana then go and visit Gran; do you mind?’
‘Course not, family is important.’
Later that week, in London, Alex rolled over onto his side, aimed the remote, and flicked on the TV, surfing between channels, skipping past chat shows. There was a knock on the door.
‘Yeah?’ he called out.
The door nudged open, and Svetlana’s round face beamed at him. She was carrying a loaded tray, steam rising from a mug. ‘Brought you breakfast in bed,’ she said. ‘Coffee, toast, and fruit. You want eggs tomorrow?’
He sat up, stretching his legs out in front of him to form a makeshift table. ‘Cheers, Svetlana. Mum must miss you.’
‘You want lunch?’ asked the housekeeper, bending to pick up a dirty shirt.
‘There’s a pair of socks down there somewhere, I think they may be under the bed.’ He buttered a slice of toast, still warm enough to melt the butter, and added, ‘I’ll fish them out and bring them down.’
Svetlana peered at him. ‘Thank you. What about lunch?’
‘Why don’t I cook something?’
‘ You ?’ scoffed the housekeeper.
Pacing around Pedro’s tiny conference room, Mark’s eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall. He’d arrived punctually at 10 o’clock for his meeting. It was now half past. Hearing laughter, he glanced through the glass door; Pedro was lounging against the reception counter, the tails of his short-sleeved shirt hanging outside his trousers. Mark took a seat – would he ever adapt to this casual approach to business? The lawyer straightened, slicked back his hair with both hands, tucked his shirt into his trousers, and picked up his notepad from the reception counter.
The door to the little room opened.
‘Good morning, Mr Ellis,’ Pedro said with a breezy smile. ‘Good news – I have an appointment with the inspection team for the hot food licence.’
Mentally, Mark sent up a little cheer. ‘Well done. When?’
Pedro consulted his notebook. ‘The seventeenth of January.’
Mark was baffled by the triumphant expression on Pedro’s face. ‘Next year?’
Pedro looked up from his notebook. ‘Mr Ellis, these are very busy people. There might be a cancellation ...’
‘Forget it. I’ve a much more important topic to discuss. How can I contest a planning application?’
In the Ovington Square basement, Alex swam another length, letting out little contented gasps with each stroke. It was like a bath. Yesterday, the heating was switched off, and the pool a bone-chilling seventeen degrees. He’d soon sorted that! He stopped at the shallow end, held onto the side, and kicked his legs out behind him, churning up the water. Hearing the lift doors cranking open, he peered over his shoulder. Svetlana was standing at the deep end.
‘You need to get out,’ said the housekeeper, ‘if you want to catch that coach.’ She waved a towel at him like a matador’s cloak.
He climbed out and dashed for the towel.
‘If you stay another night, you will be able to see your father tomorrow.’
Alex dried his face and chest and wrapped the towel round his waist. ‘Nope. I’m not staying here without Mum as a referee.’
At Liverpool Street station, Alex bought a box of chocolates and a spray of carnations in cellophane and boarded a train to Essex.
There was an answering woof to the doorbell, a rustling noise, the click of a latch being drawn, then his grandmother’s round face was beaming at him. Alex stepped inside, his stomach growling at the sweet scent of baking.
‘Hi, Gran,’ he said, wrapping her in his arms. His hands met behind her back, still clutching the gifts.
She chuckled into his neck. ‘You’re early, lad.’
‘Caught the train not the coach.’ He pushed himself away. ‘For you,’ he said, holding up his offerings.
Her face was flushed with happiness. ‘For me?’ Her mouth gaped as if she’d been given a diamond bracelet. ‘Come on in, you little tinker. You shouldn’t be spending your money on me.’
Over tea and blueberry muffins, still warm from the oven, Alex told his gran about his new girlfriend. How they met in Portugal, that she still lived at home and was an accountant. His gran listened without interrupting, then put a hand on his knee, squeezing it gently. ‘And have you made up your mind what to do with yourself?’ She gave him a stern look. ‘If she’s a working lass you won’t keep her unless you get yourself sorted. She sounds much smarter than I was at her age.’
Alex reached for another muffin, contemplating his gran’s question. She was the second woman today to offer careers advice. On the train, watching the Essex countryside hurtling past, Alex had asked himself what his long-term money-making options were, then spoke to Jess, who suggested he use his degree and train as an accountant. That sounded hideous. Alex was certain he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life indoors in a suit like his father. He popped the last chunk of muffin into his mouth and, with a serious expression on his face, said, ‘Nope. Any thoughts?’
The plate was nudged closer to him. ‘Go on, love,’ she said. ‘I baked them for you. I’m not supposed to eat cake at the moment.’ She patted her tummy before picking up a muffin. ‘What about something to do with surfing? Your dad says you’re very good at that, says he’s proud of you.’
Alex did a double-take. His father wasn’t proud of anything he did.
‘Now, how long are you staying? There’s no time limit. I can make up an extra bed, your father’s not coming until tomorrow.’
Alex wiped his sticky fingers on the edge of his T-shirt. ‘Just tonight, Gran. Got to get down to Devon. I’ll leave you two in peace.’
It was Mark’s first late-night flight. He’d booked himself into seat 1D on the 22.20 flight from Faro – he was spending two whole days in London, for the price of a single tax day. He cleared security and settled into a corner table of the lounge with a beer. His phone alerted him to the gate number. There was no rush, the EasyJet app showed the inbound plane on its approach to Faro airport. minutes later he finished his beer and left the lounge. The terminal was deserted; shutters were drawn on the Duty-Free shops, the cleaning team pushing mops and polishing counters.
There were only a few people waiting to be checked through at the gate.
Mark handed over his boarding card. He needed to be able to prove he’d arrived when he claimed, left when he said he had. He kept all Emily’s boarding cards in her tax file too, together with a receipt for something purchased past security, preferably on the plane itself.
Waiting to be processed, Mark shuddered. The gate lounge was teeming. The men mostly wore shorts, their suntanned legs enjoying a last outing. The women sported skimpy, brightly coloured sundresses, and there was an alarming number of little children for such a late flight, still fizzing with energy, darting around with little evidence of anyone claiming responsibility for them. He was handed back his documents.
‘Where do I go next?’ he asked.
‘Speedy boarding on the left, sir.’ The stewardess pointed to a queue that extended from the glass partition of the gate to the back of the lounge. ‘That’s the line, sir.’
‘But there must be fifty people there already.’
She shrugged, already moving on to the couple behind him. ‘Next passenger, please.’
Mark huffed and stuffed his passport into his overnight bag. He must warn Emily to get to the gate early when it was her turn. The speedy boarding line was beginning to move, and he jogged to join it. The queue shuffled its way towards the plane where he claimed his aisle seat at the front of the aircraft. Mark popped the latch on the locker above the front row of seats. It was full. He searched for space in the opposite one, tried the two lockers either side of the aisle behind his row. They too were packed with luggage, bags of Duty Free, and souvenirs. He finally found room in row six, before fighting his way back against the incoming tide of passengers.
He settled his head against the neck support, buckled up and thought back to the last time he and Emily had flown together. A first-class long-haul flight to the far east: complimentary pyjamas, glasses of champagne, and proper cutlery, crockery, and linen napkins. A flat bed, discreetly made up with a sheet, duvet, and pillows by the cabin crew while you brushed your teeth. Were those little extravagances worth the money he’d spent? This seat was a bit narrow, the armrest shared, but he could already feel his eyelids fluttering, and once asleep, did any of that matter? Not to him, but as the plane taxied to the runway, Mark was worrying if Emily would think the same way. She was adjusting to their new life better than him, but she never smiled at him anymore. He was always Mark and never boyo. He was in awe of her running the B he tore off his clothes and flopped in without brushing his teeth. Less than four hours later, the crickets woke him. He turned over and slept for another two hours. Mark staggered towards the lift shortly after eight, inhaling the comforting greasy smell of grilled sausages percolating up from the kitchen. Heaven – a cooked breakfast and no washing up. No wonder the B it didn’t taste like an “egg lady” egg. The guests were always cheerful, and often took their dirty plates through to the kitchen, complimenting Emily on the free-range eggs, or the crispness of the bacon. Was that because they were on holiday? It wasn’t Svetlana’s fault Alex had used up the housekeeping money. Mark picked up his mug and the full cafetiere of coffee and carried them down to the kitchen.
The housekeeper was drying a frying pan.
‘Svetlana, fancy a cup of coffee?’
The frying pan slipped out of the housekeeper’s hands and hit the floor with a clunk.
Mark’s mood darkened when he read the electricity meter. He rushed around the house, turning off boilers and radiators – it was August, the heating shouldn’t have been on. He checked the basement and let out a string of expletives. Every cardio machine was blinking at him – who’d switched them on and why didn’t they turn them off afterwards? The pool was uncovered, steam rising from the water like a natural hot spring; he checked the thermostat – thirty degrees.
Alex!