Page 19 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
‘Beer for me, thanks,’ said Mark, sitting beside Emily.
‘Sun goes too early by the pool. When you’ve a moment, Mark, I’d like to discuss chopping down that pine tree of yours.’ Tommy reached past the guests, picked up the crisp bowl, and placed it snugly on his lap.
Emily bristled – it wastheirhouse not just Mark’s. She hid her irritation by launching into the afternoon drama with Tosca while Tommy crunched his way through another handful of crisps. ‘So, the hero of the day,’ said Emily, patting Mark’s leg. ‘He found her just in time, yards from the road ...’
‘Is that where she ended up?’ said Tommy, exposing a wodge of masticated crisp. ‘I saw her clambering over my fence, had tochase the blighter around the garden for five minutes before I managed to shoo her out the front gate.’
Emily’s eyes bulged. She saw Mark stiffen, his jaw slack. Emily kicked him in the shins. ‘If it happens again, could you just give me a call?’ she suggested, trying not to snap the stem of the wineglass Toni was handing over. How had they landed between the kindest of neighbours on one side and this odious man on the other?
Seven
April 20th
Ellis bank balance: £28,467.12
With the furniture heaped into the centre of Alex’s bedroom, the ugly reality of the walls was exposed, reminding Mark of his childhood bedroom. A wardrobe had been hiding a foot-wide section of wall so pockmarked it looked as if someone had painted over bubble wrap. Mark scratched at the patch with a fingernail: a shower of paint fluttered to the floor. He surveyed his tools – mostly borrowed from David – the neighbour’s advice ringing in his ears. ‘Don’t scrimp on the prep, lad. Get rid of the old before you start with the new.’
Mark picked up a stiff bristled broom he’d found by the pool and swept it across the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, coughed, and spat out flecks of debris, then shook his head, sending a white dandruff-like cloud round the room. Mark gripped the brush, closed his eyes, held his breath, and ran it up and down the wall, snorting as dust filled his nostrils. He half-opened his eyes. The grey floor tiles were speckled with flakes of paint, and a sooty cloud hung like a mist from the ceiling. He put a finger on his tongue, scraped off a fleck of paint, then swept a hand over the wall; most of the paint was gone. Surely that was enough.
He levered open a can of paint, poured a generous slug into the orange plastic tray David had lent him, picked up the rollerbrush, sweeping it back and forth in the paint until the sleeve was full and, dripping splashes of magnolia, advanced on the wall.
The following morning, Mark was crouched over, his backside sticking up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He shifted his tennis racket to a backhand grip, and scuttled sideways, crab-like. The ball sailed past in a flash of yellow.
There was a shout from the other side of the net. ‘Turn your feet into position first, then move.’
Mark grunted, clenching the handle. This Tim man seemed to be playing to win. Why serve an ace at your pupil? Mark lined up a ball against the side of his shoe and swept it up with his racket, stuffing it into the pocket of his shorts.
‘Is this all you do?’ he asked.
Tim stopped at the service line. ‘I help out at the bar, but yeah, mostly I train.’
‘Can you earn enough teaching tennis?’
‘I live at home. I only need money for fun.’
‘Don’t you want to get married, have kids?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But what about when you do? Shouldn’t you be saving for a deposit on a house?’
The sound of laughter floated across the net. ‘You sound like my mother. If I come into some money, I’d like to buy a house, but there are plenty of rich girls to shack up with.’
They rallied for another sweaty thirty minutes, their conversation reduced to grunts and groans, then Tim led the way to the elevated platform of the clubhouse overlooking the tennis courts, and beyond those, to the track leading up to Villa Anna. A woman sat at a table under a sunshade. When they got closer, the woman pushed her sunglasses into her short bleach-blonde hair, then stood up, putting a hand on Tim’s arm, fluttering her eyelashes at Mark. She was average height with a smiley,rounded face and high cheekbones, dressed in faded cropped jeans and a tight blue T-shirt. Her tanned limbs contrasted with the pale clothes. She wore sun-washed pink trainers and a gold chain around her ankle. Mark guessed she was in her late twenties.
‘Coffee, guys?’
Tim arched an eyebrow at Mark.
‘Espresso,’ Mark said, tucking his racket inside its case, and hanging it on the back of a chair. He took a towel from his sports bag and wiped his face and arms. ‘I’m not used to this heat!’ He scrubbed the sweat from the back of his neck. ‘Is that your girlfriend? She’s very attractive.’
Tim sniggered. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t she? Let’s say, my sometimes girlfriend. Fran is huge fun, but she’s not known locally as the limpet without good reason. Enjoy your espresso. Gotta go. Next pupil.’
Fran brought his coffee, and Mark sat listening to the pop of tennis balls punctuated by occasional clinks as one hit the fencing. This expat life was glorious. No one knew why he and Emily were here; he wasn’t going to invite his son’s sarcastic barbs, nor suffer jibes from Emily’s uber-rich friends, some of whom paid more tax each year than he was trying to save! He missed seeing his mother, but he would persuade her to visit. This was going to work. After five years they could go home, and he’d pick up his career and Emily her social life, their marriage rejuvenated.
Mark closed his eyes and let the hot sun soak into his skin, relishing the prickles of sweat on his forehead. Fingers massaged his shoulders and he straightened, opening his eyes to find Fran smiling down at him.
‘Does that feel good?’ she asked in a husky voice.
