Page 2 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
‘Everything OK between your men? I thought Alex looked a little out of sorts yesterday.’
‘I’m fed-up refereeing. Why can’t they play nicely? How do I convince Mark not to keep shouting at Alex about wasting his life?’
‘That’swhy he’s hiding in Devon. To avoid Mark’s temper. What Alex needs is a job he wants, regardless of what his father thinks.’
Emily let out a deep breath. She was conscious of badmouthing her husband, remembering the little note she’d found taped to the bathroom mirror earlier that morning.Thanks for a wonderful weekend. I love you. M xxx.He may not be the best father, but he was a good husband. Mark never commented on her frivolity: her spa days, shopping trips, and lavish lunches. He didn’t complain about her donations tocharity, or the time she devoted to her causes. She switched to a more flattering tack. ‘He thinks eventually Alex will respond to insults, which is strange for a man so brilliant at strategy that clients pay millions for his advice!’ Emily glanced at her friend. ‘He wants Alex to get a job that involves wearing a suit and sees any other result as a failure.’
‘Whose failure? Alex’s or his own? What’s he living off down there anyway?’
Emily didn’t answer.
‘You’re not still sending him money!’ exclaimed Mary.
Emily gave a short laugh. ‘Should I tell Mark?’
‘Short of drama, are you?’
Emily huffed. ‘You’re right. I’m not up for another rant about Alexander’s politics. I can’t face another lecture about the perils of socialism.’
Mary had a warning. ‘And when Alex asks for more cash?’
Emily threw back her head and laughed. ‘This year’s bonus will be so huge, a few thousand quid to Alex will get lost in the rounding!’
Mary took a small ball from her pocket and tossed it across the grass. Three dogs scampered off, their legs moving so swiftly they might’ve been hoverboarding towards the toy.
Emily glanced up at the watery sun. ‘It’s 20 degrees all week in Malaga,’ she moaned.
‘How’s the villa search going?’ asked Mary.
‘Brr. Let’s walk!’ suggested Emily, rubbing her gloved hands together. ‘I’ve got tickets for the overseas property show. Perfect timing. It’s Bonus Day soon, and he’s had a thumping year. I do love the man, but haven’t I suffered.’ She gave a mock shudder. ‘I’ve barely seen him all year, and he’s a monster when he’s busy!’
Mary arched perfectly manicured eyebrows at Emily. ‘It wasn’t just his job that stopped you seeing much of Mark last year, youwere pretty busy yourself!’
Emily threaded her friend’s arm through her own then slowed to walk in lockstep. ‘I won’t be short-changed two years in a row. Last year, Tosca was ill, and I didn’t make a proper list, so he owes me big time.’ She tutted. ‘All I really asked for was my Bentley.’
‘He knows what he married.’
Thinking how perceptive Mary was, Emily scrunched up the dog leads, easing each one into a coat pocket as gently as if they were eggs. Money was part of the Ellis understanding. As a teenager, Emily had been alerted to the constant struggle to match her father’s army pension to the cost of his perceived social obligations. She loved her parents, especially her domineering father who, despite all her efforts, she never seemed able to please, and she didn’t resent her make-do-and-mend childhood, but it had taught her the value of financial security. When Mark, with his brash Essex accent, brim-full of ambition, elbowed his way into her life, her parents warned against the match; her father wanted her to marry an officer from a smart regiment – preferably his own – but Emily didn’t want her mother’s life, and Mark had offered a safe future. He made an extra marriage vow: to deliver his wife’s dreams. At least he’d kept that one.
On the other side of London, as he did virtually every Monday, Mark was standing by his office window, electronic diary in his hands. He wore a dark-blue suit, tailored to make the most of his almost six foot svelte, fit frame, and a bright yellow Hermes tie. He always wore dark colours – Emily was adamant darks matched his skin tone and thick black hair. Longmuir cufflinks adorned his crisply ironed white shirt. As with previous Mondays, Mark was contemplating the tempting titbits of his day. He watched people scurrying along the pavement below him, dipping arms into bags and coat pockets, fishing forsecurity passes while balancing oversized, recyclable cardboard cups of coffee as they disappeared into buildings. The streets of London were not paved with gold, but the computer screens in Canary Wharf offices were the pathway to small fortunes.
Unusually for a Monday, Mark was scowling. He had a team call in ten minutes. Any moment now the project director would knock on his door, hopefully having stopped at the coffee shop as she usually did. But Mark’s mind wasn’t focused on the call or his need for caffeine. It kept settling, as it had all weekend, on a different appointment: the departmental work-in-progress meeting scheduled for 10 o’clock. Mark rolled his neck, then his shoulders – both uncomfortably tight; it felt like he’d crammed himself into a shirt several sizes too small. The tension eased a little, but his muscles were still knotted. His archenemy Paul was chairing that meeting. The two had been colleagues for a decade, but Mark had never rated the other man’s abilities and was responsible for a push-back against Paul being promoted to the top spot four years ago. That successful intervention earned Mark four years working with supportive Henry as his boss, and barely suppressed hatred from his colleague. Sadly, Henry was relocating back to Sydney. As of Friday, Paul was in charge, and Mark couldn’t dispel the sense of the crosshairs of revenge lining up on his forehead. At 10 o’clock, it would be Paul sitting at the head of the boardroom table, lording his new power over the assembled managing directors, no doubt wearing his bloody regimental tie and pinging his stripy braces like a circus ringmaster cracking his whip at a group of performing animals.
Mark turned his attention back to the worker army below, reassuring himself he was getting into an unnecessary flap; he’d made peace with his enemy. Tipped off in advance about Paul’s promotion, Mark had promptly laid the groundwork for a sensible relationship with the new head of department by eating a large slice of humble pie, standing for twenty minutes outsidePaul’s office, hanging around wasting time like a medieval noble waiting to be granted an audience with the king. Paul must’ve loved that!
Mark rid himself of the memory of waiting on the department naughty step and switched his thoughts to the subtle warning he’d delivered to his haughty new boss. Fees are the only currency that matter in an investment bank, and Mark had reminded Paul to be careful with the revenge baton: Mark generated fees the way Lionel Messi scores goals.
Hearing the door to his office open, Mark turned to find a slim, toned man smiling at him wearing bright red braces and a shirt ironed so sharply it looked like it was made of cardboard. The smile was a good sign, thought Mark.
‘Morning Mark, just seeing who’s in today. Good weekend?’
Was this how it was going to be, Paul doing the rounds like a regimental sergeant major inspecting the troops? He leaned on his desk, eyes darting from Paul’s perfect posture down to the man’s brogues, which gleamed up at him like pools of water. Mark stuffed his hands in his pockets and told himself to relax; he must learn to be nonchalant around the new boss.
Mark tried, but failed to inject a note of camaraderie into his voice. ‘I’ve had better. You?’
‘Shooting with friends on Exmoor. Glorious day.’ Paul kissed his fingers and lifted them towards the ceiling, a faint smile on his face. ‘You don’t shoot, do you?’
That’s not a smile, it’s a smirk, thought Mark. ‘No. It wasn’t an afternoon activity my school offered.’
