Thirty-six
Emily had never expected to become an expert on the topic of football. But being both tolerably knowledgeable about the off-side rule and, more crucially, able to recognize the players’ names, had become a necessary tool for her full-time job with Miguel. Premier League footballers were not used to explaining who they were.
‘Did you secure that one?’ asked her boss.
She put down the phone, beaming across at him. ‘I did.’
He pointed a finger at her. ‘I was right to take you on full-time. You are a natural.’
Reading the words, astute advice , Mark felt the laughter rippling up from his stomach. How often had he been complimented on that? But never by a twelve-year-old child referring to a recommendation of where to eat the best pizza in the Algarve. Mark reread the comments, his face glowing – his first five-star review.
‘Penny for them?’ asked Emily, resting her hands on his shoulders.
He thrust his computer her way. ‘Read that,’ he commanded and watched her eyes track across the screen.
‘Well done, you!’ she said, giving him a mock salute.
‘Wait there, dinner in twenty minutes. Glass of wine?’
Precisely twenty minutes later, Mark walked onto the terrace carrying a tray. Emily was sitting at the table, her low-heeled work shoes lying discarded underneath, being nosed gently by the dogs.
‘More wine?’ he asked, handing over a plate.
She gazed down at the food. ‘Wow, this is amazing. I forgot I married a chef! You really are remarkably good at this.’ She picked up a spear of asparagus and nibbled at it while he filled two glasses of wine, then took the bottle back inside.
He sat down in front of his own plate, poking a piece of asparagus into the hollandaise sauce. The first time he’d served her an egg-based sauce, she’d confessed she had never attempted one herself, too nervous it would split. Mark approached cooking with the same detailed planning he had an M it wasn’t just the heat but the light, there was something so vivid about the light in the Algarve. Mark picked up their empty plates and planted a kiss on Emily’s head saying, ‘Let me know about tennis.’
It was Saturday afternoon. The big pitch was on; the client wanted to meet at his Villa on Quinta do Lago, and Emily was on her way to collect the mood boards. It was only a few hundred yards from the car park to the office, but the small of her back felt damp and she sensed the prickles of sweat on her forehead. A trickle slipped down her nose, her sunglasses following. She slid them back into place and sped up, her sling-back shoes rattling on the pavement. She stuck out her lower lip and puffed a breath upwards at her hot face, praying the client wouldn’t want to meet outside.
Emily’s phone rang. Slowing down, she poked around in her handbag, fished it out, and stopped dead, phone in one hand, office key in the other. Damn, she should’ve blocked that number. She stuffed the phone inside her bra, muffling the sound, but could still feel it vibrating against her ribcage. She lifted her arms like wings – sweaty armpits would not be a good look for the pitch – and unlocked the door. The air conditioning was turned off, and the muggy heat hit her like a blast wave; she left the door open and ran to Miguel’s desk. The phone rang into her message system, sending out an alert that, to Emily, felt like a stab from her moral compass, but she ignored both the call to action and the still-small voice of her conscience, grabbed the boards, and turned to go.
There was a ping from under her blouse. Her instinct was to ignore the written message too, but people don’t always follow their instincts. For the second time, she pulled out her phone.
I’m at Faro airport. I must see you. I will be at your villa in an hour.
Her jaw fell, and the mood boards clattered onto the floor. Emily sat at her desk, her head in her hands, thoughts spinning like garden leaves in a winter storm. She was trapped. Thank goodness she hadn’t blocked the number. How long would this pitch take? Was there a better rendezvous spot? At least they’d be alone at the villa. She chewed a fingernail, then replied. I’m at work, come in two hours.
Humming to himself, Mark unwrapped a clean tea towel, draped it over a pan, and pushed the pan to the back of the counter, out of the sun; with the doors shut, the kitchen would soon be hot enough for the dough to prove. He flicked his head back, then jerked it forwards; his sunglasses obediently dropped into place and, still humming, he stepped outside, knelt to dip a finger in the dogs’ water bowl – tepid – poured the contents into a nearby lavender pot, then refilled it, letting the cold water run through his fingers.
He punched in the alarm code and locked the villa. All his paying guests were at the beach and not due back until early evening, but if someone did need to get in, he’d told everyone he and Emily were playing in the Saturday social mixed doubles, so to just come and find them at Martin’s tennis centre.
The gate slid open, and Mark noticed David pegging washing onto a rotary line. He called out, ‘I’m trying out a new recipe for focaccia bread. Pop round for a beer later. Seven suit you?’
David turned, two green plastic pegs dangling between his lips. He mumbled something, the pegs bobbing up and down. Mark chuckled, pointing a finger at his own mouth. David pulled out the pegs, fastening a pair of socks with each one. ‘Yes, please. Rather you than me on court, it’s over 30 degrees.’ He dipped his hand into a laundry basket at his feet, emerging with a pair of shorts. ‘Emily not playing?’
‘She’s got a big pitch on, and it’s running late. She’s joining later.’
David turned his back on Mark, his arms reaching up to the washing line, calling out, ‘See you at seven then. Play well!’
Mark did play well. He was partnered with Martin – who was standing in for Emily – and he was at the net, poised to take advantage of Martin’s serve. The opponents were at their base line, discussing tactics. He could see another foursome on the next court battling out a rally, shouts of yours and mine , and the squeaking of tennis shoes on the court intermingled with the background throaty roar of high-performance sports cars, their drivers revving the engines as they raced past the centre.
Hearing a screech of brakes, Mark glanced up. The sun was glinting off the little Fiat as it accelerated up the dirt track, spitting out clouds of dust. He raised his racket in greeting, expecting a toot in response, but Emily sprinted past the fence, without looking his way.
Martin called out from behind him, ‘Come on, guys, let’s play, eh?’
Mark knelt. He caught a glimpse of a second car, driving more slowly up the dirt track. It was a BMW Z4 sports car, and the roof was down. The driver stopped, turned his head towards the courts, and Mark did a double-take. He straightened and felt a searing pain on the back of his head.
‘Yikes! Sorry, Mark, thought we agreed you would duck,’ said Martin.
‘Ouch!’ Mark fingered his head, screwing up his face. Was that who he thought it was?
Watching the sports car glide into Villa Anna’s parking area, Emily felt her throat tighten. Why did he have to hire such a flashy car, and why drive with the roof down instead of using the aircon? Emily’s breathing came in short fast snatches as if she’d just returned from a run. The driver climbed out, a turquoise paper bag in one hand, and her lips clamped into a straight line. He smiled at her, but she didn’t return the gesture.
‘Hi,’ he said, his smile faltering. ‘Charles told me the villa was in a great location.’
So, that’s where he got her address from.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ she replied, glaring at him.
He held his hands up in surrender, the little bag dangling from one. ‘I brought you something from Fortnum’s.’
‘I don’t want it,’ she said, her words clipped.
‘You don’t even know what it is yet.’ He advanced slowly towards her. She could smell his aftershave – why did he have to wear Douro eau de Portugal? She smelt it every day on Miguel, a constant reminder of all she had risked. She folded her arms. He reached out for her hands, a pleading expression on his face, but she tucked them under her armpits as if to warm them.
‘Are we going to have this conversation on your doorstep?’ he asked, raising an eye at her.
‘There isn’t going to be a conversation,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to discuss. You shouldn’t have come. It’s over. I told you this eighteen months ago. I met you for lunch a year ago and I couldn’t have made it any more obvious that I hadn’t changed my mind.’
‘That lunch gave me hope. Didn’t you get the presents I sent you?’
Would Paul be here now if she hadn’t been polite, if she’d ghosted him, never agreed to a final lunch?
‘I was crystal clear. If you chose to misinterpret me, you’ve only yourself to blame. I love Mark.’
His neck stiffened, and he said coolly, ‘You used to say it was me you loved. What changed? You and I are made for each other.’
Her throat felt dry, images of the pair of them, naked, danced through her mind. ‘I-I made a mistake.’ A dreadful mistake.
His eyes seemed to become dark dots, aimed lazer-like at hers. ‘You can’t do this to me, Emily.’ His voice was little more than a hiss. ‘I put my career on the line for you. Mark was the department’s biggest fee earner. I gave up all that revenue, so I could get you back, so we could be together.’
Emily felt dizzy. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she grabbed at the door frame for support. Would Mark still be at the bank? Would she still be living in Ovington Square if she hadn’t ended her affair with Paul?
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said haltingly.
He peered into her eyes. She saw his waver and she knew her former lover hadn’t sacked Mark just to persuade Emily to leave him. She gave a brief shake of her head. ‘Don’t try that emotional blackmail shit on me.’ Her voice rose, but she couldn’t dispel the slight tremor in it as she said, ‘You never did that for me, you did it to protect yourself. Mark was always better than you. You fired him so he couldn’t threaten your position.’
Emily was very late for tennis. Mark was sitting in the shade with the other players, a cup of espresso in front of him, his black hair slicked back off his forehead which was shiny with sweat. She heard him laugh, and the sound made her feel lightheaded. How could she ever have considered swapping Mark for Paul? She hung her head in shame. Paul wasn’t even a good lover, but it was never about the sex, it was about the attention Paul had lavished on her while her husband’s focus was entirely on work. The time Paul carved out for her – discreet dinners with his phone turned off; lunches without checking his emails – it wasn’t a difficult choice to make. Dinner at The Ivy, the evening charged with the anticipation of forbidden sex, or dining alone at home waiting for Mark to notice she was alive. But she couldn’t and didn’t blame Mark for the affair. It was her own fault. One last attempt to be the girl her father had always wanted her to be, partnered with a man who could trace his career back to the Royal Green Jackets. That regiment was still making her pay, years after her father had died!
She took small steps towards Mark, listening to the clink of ice and little titters of laughter. Had he spotted Paul in that flashy car? Mark raised his head, watching her so intently, it was like he was looking straight through her. She swallowed. He’d seen.
Mark rose and walked towards her, leading her out of earshot, and took her hands in his. ‘I have only one question.’ She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of her own breathing. ‘Is it over?’ he asked.
She let out a tiny sob. ‘It’s been over for eighteen months,’ she spluttered. ‘I am so very, very, sorry.’ She lowered her eyes, screwing them shut to hold back tears. ‘Do you want to know more?’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I neglected you for years, took you for granted. I’m sorry too. But let’s never speak about this again.’
She leaned into his chest, sobbing.
‘I lied. I have a second question,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘Where are we going to live?’
She tipped her head back. ‘Do I still get to choose?’
There was a faint smile on his face. ‘You do,’ he said.
She listened to the wind rippling through the pine trees, felt the warmth of the sun on her back. There was no contest.
‘Portugal, please,’ she replied.