Thirty-four
With British schools on holiday for May half-term week, Villa Anna was full. Mark wanted to concentrate on his guests, but his thoughts were stuck in the time-warp of his Fran drama. How bad was it? A drunken one-night stand, given the circumstances, his wife might forgive him for. But fathering an illegitimate child changed everything.
It wasn’t just his relationship with Emily that was troubling him. Since his mother’s funeral, Alex and Mark often spoke, Mark offering advice on his son’s new business venture, Alex calling to update his father on sales forecasts. That would all grind to a halt faster than an underperforming Premier League manager’s contract if Fran’s claim was true.
Seeking something, anything, to divert his thoughts, Mark went outside. For a while, he gazed over at the piece of rustic land, wondering if there was a deal to be done with Tommy. That plot wasn’t wide enough to build more than a hut and maintain a 5-metre-wide gap between the new house and its boundaries. If he could only free himself from the straitjacket of Fran’s claim, he’d tackle Tommy about it.
A football landed at Mark’s feet. He aimed and kicked it back with a satisfying thwack, watching two pairs of feet churn the pool as two boys swam towards the prize, dousing him in cold water. They reached the ball simultaneously, both shouting mine and hooting with laughter.
Mark called out, ‘Oi, your parents are trying to have an afternoon snooze.’
One child pushed the ball under the water, and sat on it, his body bobbing up and down as he fought to keep the ball under control. From underneath a parasol a sleepy female voice mumbled, ‘You suspend all rights to a holiday snooze when they reach that age.’
Was it a coincidence that Mark was being reminded of the responsibilities of parenting a young child? That was a joke. Mark was hardly involved in bringing up Alex. Would he be better at the job second time around?
‘They’re having fun,’ replied Mark, walking towards the voice. ‘Have you decided what to do about dinner tonight?’
The mother, a mousey-haired woman in a black all-in-one swimsuit, propped herself upright on one elbow. ‘Is there an Italian restaurant nearby? Nothing smart, all we want is somewhere that serves pizza for the boys.’
Mark had a fleeting memory of a past family holiday on the Amalfi coast. A two-week break in a stunning villa set in an olive grove with breath-taking views out over the cliffs. The family had been there two nights before Mark was hauled back to London, but he’d managed to get back for the last few days. He glanced across at the children in his pool, one still balanced on the football, using his hands to churn the water around him. The ball escaped from under the boy and shot out over the side of the pool, scooting across the grass. Alex must have been about the same age. Mark remembered his son raving about the pizzas his father had missed, claiming to have eaten a different topping each night.
‘My son was hooked on pizza at that age. There’s a rather decent Italian in the centre of Almancil. I can draw you a map if you like?’
Alex and Jess stood hand in hand watching the waves explode onto the beach then roar up the sand towards them. They had driven an hour north of Lisbon to the seaside town of Nazare – surfers paradise! They were only in Portugal for the weekend, Alex couldn’t afford to be away from his business any longer. Alex was mesmerized by those waves. Imagine tackling one, he thought, the crest looming taller than two double-decker buses stacked on top of each other. He clenched his toes, pictured his muscles straining to control the board as he steered through the tunnel of water, battling to ride the beast before it could claim him, spinning him in an embrace he may not survive. It was an exhilarating thought.
‘Bit scary, don’t you think?’ said Jess.
He felt her hand gripping his tighter and glanced sideways at her. ‘Watch me have a go?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Seriously?’
‘Come on, it’s a bit like giving a dog a big juicy bone to sniff then putting it in the fridge for later!’
‘Alex, I love you, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.’
‘I love you too, every part of you, and if you love me, you have to love all of me. I’m a surfer at heart, so you must let me take that risk.’
He watched her chewing her lip. Alex took both her hands in his. ‘I’d love to live out here,’ he said, his eyes dancing with excitement. ‘Let’s do it. It’s only an hour from Lisbon. We could live halfway; you’d easily get a job if you learnt the language. One of the big international firms would get you a work sponsored visa, and I’m sure I can find work somehow. Dad says he knows a great lawyer.’
‘It’s not difficult to learn Portuguese if you already speak Spanish, I guess, but move overseas and live together? That’s kind of bold?’ She paused. ‘Your mum would love it.’
Alex thought about it. He didn’t think it would only be his mother who’d be pleased. Since he’d ratted on his mother, he and his father spoke regularly; he was a great sounding board for business ideas. Alex squeezed Jess’s hands. ‘I don’t just mean live together; I mean get married.’
He watched his girlfriend swallow, then her face broke into a smile, and he kissed her, drawing her close. Slowly, gently, she pushed his face away, cradling it in her hands. She let go of him and stepped away.
Was she about to say no?
The last guests departed on Sunday afternoon. Early Monday morning, Emily was rinsing wine glasses under the hot tap, trying to put her finger on why she felt sad. She wasn’t surprised Alex and Jess were getting married; they were well suited, she both liked and admired her son’s choice and was confident she would grow to love the girl. Jess was good for Alex. Emily was genuinely pleased, but standing with the hot water running, she became aware of a sinking sensation. It was like taking the champagne stopper off a half-full bottle, hearing the reassuring pop, and then spotting the lack of bubbles as you pour. Why did she feel flat? It wasn’t work – she and Miguel were due at a breakfast meeting with a new British client who owned the most spectacular villa in Praia de Luz. She glanced at her watch; it would take them an hour to get there, and her boss would be here soon.
Emily picked up a glass cloth, then put it back down and pinched the skin on the back of her hand, counting the seconds as the fold sank back into place. Was she getting old, was that what this was about? She polished the glasses and, leaving them on the draining board, went into the cloakroom and stood in front of the mirror, her chin jutting towards it as she used both hands to smooth the skin from her cheek bones, stretching it taut. She turned her head sideways to consider the view from a different angle, deciding it wasn’t too bad, nothing that a quick jab of Botox wouldn’t improve.
She heard the front door close – Mark was late for his jog this morning – and returned to the kitchen, wondering if this deflated feeling could be pinned on her son forging his own future. Did this herald a new chapter in her own life? And where should that chapter unfold, Portugal or London? She stared at the empty draining board; she was sure she’d left the glasses there. She gave a small tut. Must be having a senior moment and forgotten she put them away.
Although Martin’s tennis centre didn’t open for another hour, two men in sports kit were outside. Mark had delayed his run to seven o’clock and, instead of taking his usual route, jogged there wondering with each step how he would break the news to Emily if this test didn’t go his way.
Tim skidded to a halt and got off his bicycle, letting it smack to the ground, plucked a key from his pocket, and squatted to unfasten the padlock. ‘No one will be here before seven-thirty,’ he said. ‘That’s when the cleaning team starts.’
Mark pulled one side of the gate wide and crunched across the gravel car park. His coach pushed the other, securing it against the fence with a loop of chain.
Tim wheeled his bike towards the clubhouse. ‘Coffee?’ he offered.
‘Ta.’
They reached the terrace. ‘Espresso, right?’ said Tim.
Initially, Mark had been livid when Fran pulled him aside and whispered that she’d told Tim who the father was, but he wasn’t surprised. The pair were clearly an item again. Tim was always massaging Fran’s neck or fetching her a cushion or a glass of water. Mark now understood why Tim had run him ragged on the tennis court that first lesson after the night at the Garao beach bar. Tim must’ve guessed his sometime girlfriend had spent the night with Mark. Did his one-night stand with Fran cause Tim to realize how much he cared about the girl?
Halfway through his next lesson, when they were collecting the balls, Tim had mentioned that Fran had ordered the DNA test. Mark sat back on his heels, squashing a tennis ball in each balled fist. This was between him and Fran – no one else should be involved. Then it occurred to him that if it proved necessary, he’d rather negotiate arrangements with Tim than Fran as she stroked her swollen belly. Mark had dumped the tennis balls in the basket hoping he wouldn’t need Tim’s help to broker anything!
He stalked the Ellis post-box for days and pounced like a hungry cat at its dinner bowl on a white padded envelope. He ripped it open, still standing in the street, then let out a howl. The covering letter, the instruction leaflet, everything was written in Portuguese. He banged the little plastic door of the post-box shut. He needed a translator. Tim?! The man had been brought up here. Mark stuffed the paperwork back into the envelope, hid the package in the side pocket of his tennis bag, pulled the zip tightly shut and drove home, a step closer to proving his innocence.
Today, with Tim’s guidance, Mark was performing his part of the DNA test. He pulled out a seat, wishing he was at the tennis centre for a lesson.
‘One espresso.’ Tim slid the tiny cup onto the table. He drew up a chair, shook off his rucksack, and pulled a creased sheet of paper from a side pocket.
‘Fran’s blood sample is being taken by a nurse this morning. Did you bring the swab?’
Mark placed a white envelope on the table and shook the package, spilling the contents. Tim consulted the instructions. ‘We put your swab into that ...’ – he poked at a capsule and reread the leaflet – ‘... and it goes into this pre-addressed envelope.’ He raised his head, a self-satisfied look on his face, as if he’d passed an exam.
A phone rang from inside the clubhouse. ‘Bloody tourists! They forget we’re on the same time zone as the UK. As if we’d be open this early.’ Tim rose and trotted across the terrace. The ringing stopped, and he retraced his steps, sat down, passing Mark a stick like an elongated cotton bud, the sort of tool Emily used if she messed up her eye makeup and needed to remove some. ‘You can do this in the gents in front of the mirror, or I can do it for you. All they need is a few cells from the inside of your cheek.’
‘Reckon I can find my own cheek without a mirror,’ mumbled Mark, taking the stick. He wasn’t going to outsource any part of this test!
The phone rang again. Tim didn’t budge.
‘That’s your mobile.’
‘No drama. They’ll call back. We’re nearly done.’
Mark took a firmer grip of the swab, opened his mouth, and poked around inside, then removed it. Both men peered at the swab, then at each other. Tim held out the capsule. Mark dropped in the loaded stick, and Tim screwed the cap on, then put it in the envelope. A phone rang again. Tim rolled his eyes.
‘Gotta be a woman,’ snorted Mark.
‘Two ticks,’ Tim said, running inside.
Mark sat on the decking drinking his coffee, listening to the sprinkler system chugging its way around, spraying water onto the clubhouse lawn – an unnaturally glossy dark green against the unirrigated, parched, brown land beyond the perimeter fence. His fate was sealed in that envelope; if the child was his, he’d make sure it was provided for both financially, and emotionally, and accept the consequences to his own life. He should never have had unprotected sex.
If the child wasn’t his, he would slay his other demons; Mark wasn’t going to live in fear anymore.
Tim returned, saying, ‘Mum. Might’ve guessed. I told her to leave a message next time. Do you want to take this to the surgery, or do you want me to?’ he asked, handing over the envelope.
Mark took it and sealed it. ‘I’ll drop it myself, just tell me where to go.’
‘I’ll sketch you a map. The leaflet says results in less than a week. They go to Fran and come to your post-box too, but of course it’ll be in Portuguese.’
It was three days since the Praia de Luz meeting and every one of them had been frantic, with Emily forced to work afternoons as well as her morning shift to keep up with demand. This morning, the maestro Miguel was out, and she was holding the fort. She chivvied the seamstress about a curtain order, tracked down a missing shipment of furniture to a depot in Lisbon, and sold a pair of lamps to a couple remodelling their bedroom. At lunchtime she checked her personal emails, noting another booking for the B the woman wasn’t an experienced negotiator. He was more interested in why Tim wouldn’t make eye contact with him. ‘Look at me and let’s try this again. How much does she really want?’
Tim glanced up at him from beneath the protective flap of his hat, but his eyes didn’t travel as far as Mark’s face before he lowered them to the pavement again. ‘Maybe I can get her to accept less.’ Tim scratched his cheek.
Mark said calmly, ‘You can tell Fran it’s two-fifty or zero. I’m not negotiating. It’s more than generous. She will own her own home.’
‘But have nothing to support the kid. I think it needs to be closer to half a mil,’ Tim said in a cocky voice, looking over Mark’s shoulder.
‘In your dreams,’ tossed back Mark. He pursed his lips, then said, ‘You can’t even look at me, can you, Tim?’
Tim shuffled his feet, then turned his head, his eyes grazing over Mark’s.
Mark had seen this body language so often in the City. He knew when someone was lying, but what he couldn’t figure out was, why.
There was one obvious explanation and he grasped at it, ‘It’s not mine, is it? You’re just trying to fleece me. Why?’
Tim swallowed. ‘She shouldn’t have slept with you.’
‘That was her decision.’
‘She’s my girlfriend.’
Suddenly the mist cleared from Mark’s mind. ‘It’s yours, isn’t it?’ Mark started laughing. ‘All those phone calls you disappeared to answer when you were’ – he made two sets of apostrophe marks with his fingers – ‘“helping me” with the DNA test.’
Tim covered his eyes with his hands.
‘She’s your girlfriend. Chances were always much higher it was yours. You had your own cheek swab that day, you just swapped mine for yours, which is why this letter confirms the child is mine. And it’s not, is it? The baby is yours.’
Mark could hear himself breathing, waiting for Tim to reply. He was convinced he’d rumbled Tim, but he didn’t think he’d got to the bottom of this scam. It didn’t stack up. Fran wasn’t a devious person. Was she being fooled herself? Did she know about the swapped DNA swab?
‘Have you told Fran the truth, that you’re trying to swindle a financial cushion off me, and ruin my life into the bargain? Do I need to force the three of us to go through another round of DNA tests?’
The seconds ticked past. Mark listened to the distant roar of planes taking off from the airport.
Finally, Tim said, ‘You’re right. I’m the father.’
Mark huffed. ‘You’re a waste of oxygen, aren’t you? Why have you put me through this?’
‘Revenge. You’re loaded, you wouldn’t have missed the money.’
Mark thought about his coach’s motive. Why hadn’t he been as decisive eighteen months ago? He would’ve plotted his own revenge far more diligently than this prat.
Mark had a flashback to his childhood, his mother’s expression of stoic pride on Prize Day, sitting there in her second-hand unflattering hat, clapping for two parents, while Mark’s eyes raked the crowd seeking out his wayward father. He took two paces towards his would-be blackmailer.
‘I won’t interfere in your relationship with Fran. But you make sure you make a fist of it with the child, or I will report you for attempted blackmail and fraud.’