Page 33 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
Mark switched off the engine. From Tommy’s garden he could hear the strident sound of a strimmer, and an answering flurry of barking dogs from his own. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and ran his hands over his face, exhaling slowly. Then he lowered his window.
‘Tommy!’ he yelled.
There was no reply. He stepped out and over to the hedge, peering through the foliage. ‘Tommy!’ he shouted again. The strimmer stopped. There was a soft chuckle behind him, and Mark turned to find David smiling his familiar lopsided grin. ‘Are you in a rush?’
Mark huffed. ‘Got to collect Emily from the airport.’ He stabbed a finger at the parked truck. ‘He’s done it deliberately, hasn’t he? His gardening team normally come first thing in the morning, and they never parked there until I told him to move the compost heap.’
‘Course it’s deliberate. How’s your Portuguese? They don’t speak any English.’
‘Que?’ laughed Mark.
‘Luckily for you, I speak enough. Wait here. I think this could take a while.’
Twenty minutes later the white van reversed just far enough for Mark to squeeze the Bentley past.
To make up for lost time, Mark took the motorway. He heard a pinging sound and asked the hands-free system to play the message. A flat mechanical voice said,‘Landed. Front of the queue, with you in ten. E.’
He called out a reply:‘Will wait in drop off zone. M. kiss,’and pressed his foot down on the accelerator, his mind switching to another irksome matter. Earlier, he’d been enjoying a late breakfast when he was summoned by the gate buzzer. He put his toast down, saw the dogs eyeing up the plate and picked it up, carrying it with him into the kitchen where he peered out of the window. Four women in tennis kit were standing by his front gate. He let them in. It wasn’t on, he thought. They needed to check before they sent over players. He couldn’t be letting people in and out like an unpaid concierge.
Mark was back on his terrace when the doorbell rang a second time. A dog whined as he chewed on the last inch of toast. Mark picked up the empty plate and walked past the front door with a self-satisfied expression on his face. He wasn’t going to allow his day to be interrupted by those ladies! He was rinsing off the plate when there was a rapping sound on the kitchen window in front of him. He looked up to find a lady smiling in.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she said through the glass, ‘but could we borrow some tennis balls? You wouldn’t believe it, but all four of us have forgotten ours.’
He was tempted to send her to buy some, but then he’d have to let her outandback in again. ‘All right,’ he muttered, switching off the tap.
He opened the front door, gave the lock a stroke as if it was a well-behaved dog, leaned over, and placed two tennis balls onthe front doorstep. ‘I’m not letting you out until you give those back,’ he announced.
Mark closed the door gently; it fitted snugly with a soft click.
At noon, his neck muscles were knotted as he stared at the phone, willing the effing bank not to have raised base rates. The doorbell chimed. It was the four tennis players, their faces and arms slick with sweat. One had a tennis ball in each hand. ‘Thanks awfully,’ she said, handing them over. ‘We’ve had a great game. Couldn’t help noticing the pool; would you mind if we had a quick dip?’ She screwed her face into a smile.
‘Yes, I bloody well do mind,’ said Mark. There was a juddering noise as the front gate squeaked open. ‘Now hop it, before you can’t get out.’
Driving to the airport, Mark was still smarting from the memory. Emily had made the deal with Martin at the tennis centre, no doubt some wishy-washy affair with no proper terms. She hadn’t thought this through. She had to get back down there and sort this nonsense out before the school holidays started and they had overflow players buzzing at the gate every hour like a swarm of bees round a honeypot. Approaching the pick-up zone, he slowed the car. He’d draw up a proper contract. Mark was clear what he wanted to receive from the agreement – one lesson a week and €20 for every hour they used his court. He was also clear what he was prepared to trade for the cash and session with Tim. Waiting for the barrier to rise, his brain racing with ideas of the restrictions to be imposed on the tennis centre, he spotted Emily with her overnight bag, brushing her hair behind her ears. She looked gorgeous, and even though she’d only been gone two days, he felt a longing in the pit of his stomach. He’d missed her. Mark coasted to a stop and leant over to open the passenger door.
‘Hi, miss me?’ Emily asked, opening the back door.
Mark twisted around and watched her stow the case. ‘Morethan you could ever imagine. Hop in, your dogs are pining for you too.’ A small, turquoise paper bag with royal warrants emblazoned on it, fell out of the side pocket of the case. He clicked his tongue. ‘Been shopping?’ he asked tightly.
Emily didn’t answer. She climbed into the passenger seat.
He waited for her to do up her seatbelt. ‘How’s Mum?’
‘Hmm, she’s fine, but that hip of hers is a worry. I think it’s more painful than she’s letting on. You might want to push her about it.’
He grunted, putting the car in gear, mentally scrolling through his calendar.
‘Lots of talk on the plane about interest rates going up. How much does that affect us?’ asked Emily.
Mark’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. Injecting a light tone into his voice, he said, ‘Affects Devon, but that’s not a huge mortgage, so just a few hundred a month. And not for long.’ He turned and grinned at her. ‘We have a full asking price offer on Devon. London shouldn’t be too far behind. There’s a second viewing being set up.’
She swallowed. ‘Don’t try to shield me. I know the size of the London loan. How much does that mortgage increase by?’
‘It doesn’t,’ he said, shooting her what he hoped was a reassuring look.
‘Phew. I was worried for a bit. The man next to me on the plane said he thought rates would be climbing each month for the rest of the year. Why doesn’t it affect London?’
‘Cos your clever husband organized a fixed-rate mortgage.’
