Page 29 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
‘These are piping hot, so be careful,’ she warned, passing round the skewers. ‘It’s been such fun having you here, Jess, do come back.’ She sat down and picked up her gin and tonic.
‘I’d love to,’ said Jess. ‘Maybe later in the year. I have to get back to work now.’
Emily squeezed her slice of lemon, dropping the rind back into the glass and licking the tartness from her fingers. ‘Alex needs a job,’ she whispered.
Mark sat down on the sofa. ‘Aha, my sentiments entirely. Alex, what are your plans for financing the rest of the year?’ He fixed his eyes on their son.
Emily closed her own, recalling the three hundred euros she’d given Alex earlier.
Alex stomped off.
Sensing the holiday atmosphere collapsing like a souffle removed from the oven too early, Emily announced breezily that she was hungry, and the food was ready. ‘Please find the white wine, darling.’
Later, listening to her son slurring his words holding forth on the possibility of the Labour Party gaining power, Emily kept her eyes on her food. There was a clanging noise. She looked up; Mark had thrown his knife and fork onto his plate.
‘What utter nonsense. You have the political savvy of the average boy of your generation, despite your education.’
Emily glanced at Jess. The younger woman’s mouth hung open as she slouched back in her seat watching the warring men.
Alex laughed. ‘Dad, accept it. You hardly have your finger on the pulse of the UK electorate anymore, parked out here in the sun.’
Emily said light-heartedly, ‘I thought you youngsters never voted? Jess, would you like a top-up?’
‘Not for me, thanks,’ mumbled Jess.
Alex tossed back more wine. ‘Social media is changing that, Mum.’
‘We capitalist dinosaurs know how to use Twitter too,’ said Mark.
Alex pushed his chair away from the table, angling himself towards his father. ‘So, how’s the sabbatical going? You aren’t actually out here on a sabbatical, are you? You’re on that NHR tax scheme, skulking out here dodging tax.’
Emily heard Jess gasp. Keep an impassive expression, girl, she told herself.
‘No, we’re not on the NHR.’ Mark sneered at his son. ‘And spare me a lecture about the oppressed masses living in the gutter. You’ve been living rent-free in our holiday home with a housekeeper. Talk about Champagne Socialism.’
Emily bit her lip. There was a big difference between not telling Alex and lying to him.
Alex stood up, hurling his napkin at his chair. ‘Not anymore, Dad!’ he shouted. ‘You’ve rented it out, and Mum says I can’t live in Ovington Square either. Where do you expect me to live, once my ninety days run out?’
‘That, son, at the age of twenty-two, is your problem. Get a job and sort yourself out!’
The men glowered at each other. Emily avoided eye contactwith either of them. Did Alex really believe they were out here to avoid paying tax?
Ten
May 2nd
Ellis bank balance: £654.01
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 10 Mark: 0
The following morning, Emily waved the youngsters off. Jess was returning to Devon soon, and Alex planned to stay on in Sagres until his girlfriend could re-join him. The gates clattered shut, and with an empty feeling, she closed the front door, tugging it into place. She collected the mop, her bag of cleaning fluids and cloths, and, with slumped shoulders, nudged open the door to Alex’s bedroom. She’d slipped her son another hundred euros before he left; she would have to eke out her remaining fifty until the end of the month. It wasn’t fair for Alex to leave without a decent float.
The mattress was bare, but she couldn’t see the linen. In the bathroom, she was hit by the stench of ammonia. The toilet seat was up, and a yellow streak of bleach clung to the inside of the bowl. The sink was spotless, the shower screen smear-free, and the soiled bedclothes were on the bidet under the neatly folded used towels. There was a note propped against the basin taps.
Sorry, didn’t have time to polish the mirror. Thanks for everything, I’ve had a marvellous time, Jess xx
Smiling, Emily scooped up the linen.
