Twenty-three
September 4th
Ellis bank balance: ￡267.98
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 34 Mark: 26
The redesign of Villa Anna took a step backwards when Emily presented Miguel’s estimates. She confessed she herself was a bit surprised by the six-figure budget. ‘But,’ she gushed, ‘Miguel assured me all the structural work can be done while we’re in London for Christmas. So, there won’t be any need for us to rent, which is a big saving.’
Mark wasn’t surprised by the total and didn’t believe the work could be completed in the seven-week timetable suggested. ‘No.’ He pushed the estimate to the side of his desk like an empty plate.
‘No to which bits? I agree he’s got a bit carried away, but this market is very OTT. We can ditch his ideas for the cinema room and bar.’
‘Just no. Since we sorted the damp problem, there’s nothing wrong with this house.’
He flipped open the computer screen and logged in.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Villa Anna is closer to a building site than a home. Take out an overdraft or a second mortgage on one of the houses.’
‘Don’t you think I’ve thought of that?’ he demanded, thumping his fist on the table. ‘We can’t borrow. No one lends to people like us.’ He scanned his emails, searching for any updates from the UK selling agents. Please, just let one of these effing houses sell!
He could feel her anger roasting him from the doorway.
‘I’m not going to beg for the money,’ she snipped at his back.
‘Good. Cos we don’t have any. And you’re off to London again this weekend, so that’s more lost revenue from the B she would catch a taxi back from Faro on Monday evening.
Mark went to take a shower.
No water.
He pulled on a pair of jogging shorts and a T-shirt.
After watching a movie together, David offered to cook Mark an omelette. The older man whisked a bowl of eggs while Mark regaled him with a stream of City war stories. David poured the eggs into a frying pan and picked up a wooden spoon. Mark let the laughter subside, then casually said, ‘David, something’s puzzling me about our shared borehole.’
David dipped the spoon into the pan, drawing circles in the mixture. ‘What’s that, lad?’
‘I hate that effing Tommy as much as you do, but when you mess with the water, it affects me and Emily too.’
‘Ah . . .’
‘Could you maybe find another way of tinkering, so it’s just Tommy you cut off?’
‘I’m an engineer, lad. All you had to do was ask. Another one?’
Mark looked at his empty bottle. ‘Go on then, they’re only small.’ He waited for the older man to look up. ‘David, can you explain what you’re doing with those eggs? I’d like to have a go.’
It was mid-morning, and the scent from the umbrella pine trees was making Mark feel uncomfortable. He inhaled. The aroma of vanilla reminded him of the cramped Colchester kitchen as a child, with his mother bustling round, Mark’s eyes trained on the glass door of the oven, waiting for it to be lowered and a tray of biscuits or a cake removed. Maybe the smell had something to do with the tree sap being warm. His mother’s voice purred on in his head. He wanted to see her, hug her, not just hear her. Sometimes he forgot she was thousands of miles away and he couldn’t just put down the phone and catch a train to Essex.
‘So, Deidre says there’s nothing to worry about,’ Gwen said.
‘And when did she pass her medical exams?’
His mother laughed. ‘Go on with you. Did I tell you she won fifty quid on the Bingo last week?’
Mark’s attention drifted as his mother relived the Bingo evening. He walked past the dogs sulking under the shade of a lemon tree. With Emily away, he should’ve taken them out for a walk first thing, but he went for a run instead, to get some endorphins circulating and rid him of the terror of the interest rate market.
Reaching the terrace, Mark slumped into a chair waiting for a break in the flow of words. He wasn’t going to be diverted by bingo stories. ‘But you don’t have a weak heart, Mum.’
‘No, boyo, strong as an ox I am, but I’m not going to lie to you, like. It’s best to let this specialist poke around, check why I’m having these palptations.’
Mark’s ears pricked up. He ignored his mother’s mispronunciation. Unlike most people born in Essex, he understood that disarming Welsh phrase. I’m not going to lie to you – his mother was definitely about to lie to him.
‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ she said. ‘They come and go.’
‘What palpitations, Mum? You’ve never mentioned them before.’
‘I didn’t like to worry you, love, not with your busy job.’
Job! He hadn’t been working at the bank for eight months, even his mother knew he hadn’t been there for six. ‘When was the last time you had one?’
‘I don’t know, love, but would you be able to come with me, to this specialist that the doctor wants me to see?’
Mark closed his eyes. Even if he caught one of the late-night specials, the trip would probably cost two days.
‘Can you not go with Deidre? Isn’t it better to have a woman with you?’
She sighed. ‘I know you’re busy. And is it still warm?’
He gazed past his perfectly manicured lawn, out to the scrappy patch beyond. He still hadn’t solved that problem. The quotes to clear the scrub were getting more expensive by the day, and the Council had sent a reminder letter which Fran translated for him. He’d even considered asking David to lend him a strimmer and clearing it himself – he wasn’t paying five grand for someone else to do it for him. Mark switched his gaze to the patch of rustic land Tommy was going to build on. Would Pedro be able to sort that one?
‘How’s Romeo?’ he asked. ‘Still chasing skirt?’ He pictured his mother’s face cracking into a grin.
‘Think I’ve got him penned in. He can’t get over, or through, and now he can’t tunnel under the fence either, so I think I’ve won. Thing is ...’ his mother’s voice purred at him, ‘he knows he can’t get out, but would you believe it, he’s started howling. It’s a terrible noise, cuts right through you, sounds like the poor animal is in total agony,’ she tailed off, laughing at her own story.
‘Mum, gotta go. Tell me when you know the date for that specialist. If I can, of course I’ll come. If I can’t, I’ll organize a driver for you and Deidre.’
Mark checked his tax days. Ninety days sounded a lot, but living within its confines was challenging. He frowned at the screen. He was worrying unnecessarily; his mother wouldn’t be an urgent case, she didn’t even have a weak heart. Her doctor was just being cautious, getting her a slot in the queue.
At 4 o’clock, Mark was ferreting around in the fridge for milk when the bell rang. Emily returning early? He opened the front door. There was a small red car at the gate. A stocky man in checked shorts and matching short-sleeved shirt – a bizarre outfit that reminded Mark of a clown – was gripping the bars, peering through them like a caged animal.
‘Can I help you?’ spat Mark.
‘Villa Anna?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr and Mrs Tilney. We’re here for two nights.’
‘Right.’ Mark released the gate lock. He ran inside, dashed into each downstairs bedroom then trotted upstairs; there were bare mattresses in all three. Where did Emily keep the linen?
He tucked in his T-shirt and jogged downstairs, an image of himself dressed in one of his handmade navy-blue suits leading a team of bankers to greet a business client in his mind.