Page 37 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
Thirteen
May 25th
Ellis bank balance: (£10,158.38) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 18 Mark: 3
Between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, Emily’s guests complained their toilet wouldn’t flush. She refunded half their money and watched them finish their food and scarper out the front door so fast it gave her a sinking feeling she’d just been conned. Determined to resolve the drama, Emily donned a pair of gloves, sank to her knees, and reached deep into the bowels of the toilet. Her bare arm was resting on the cold ceramic lip of the toilet bowl. She grimaced; she should have sprayed it before she started. Wiggling her hand, her fingertips brushed something solid, and Emily wrinkled her nose, gagging, as she pulled out a sodden paper bag. What was wrong with the bin? Why couldn’t they do what the polite notice asked them to do, and why was it never Mark dealing with the toilets? But Mark was away on his first London trip. He’d been to visit Gwen who he reported was on a waiting list for a hip replacement operation. In his absence she’d gotten the villa ship-shape for her new businessandupdated the red rule book.
It was when she was making tea for a family of four a few days later that Emily recognized the irony of her new life. Lifting the six-litre bottle and sloshing water into the kettle – they couldn’tdrink the borehole water – a memory flashed through her mind of sitting with her back cushioned by silk pillows, sipping tea, and chatting to Svetlana while the housekeeper collected dirty laundry. She rustled up a smile and took the mugs onto the terrace, rummaging through her mind to dredge up the guests’ names.
‘Good morning, Cindy. What can I get you for breakfast?’
Cindy moved cutlery around to create space for the tea. ‘Full English, with plenty of toast on the side.’
‘Any plans for today?’ asked Emily, mentally crossing her fingers. ‘There are some wonderful beaches nearby.’
‘I think we’ll just laze around by the pool again,’ said the father, dropping a lump of sugar into his mug.
Emily’s smile slipped. ‘Right,’ she mumbled.
‘Could we have fresh pool towels, please?’ asked Cindy. ‘Yesterday’s towels are still damp and smell of chlorine.’
Emily’s hands tightened around her tray. ‘Right. Breakfast won’t be long.’
While the guests enjoyed their food, she swept the bedroom floors, made the beds, and tidied the bathrooms, listening to the family’s chatter and the scraping of knives and forks across plates. She was on her knees stuffing dirty pool towels – left in a heap in the corridor – into the washing machine, when she heard the glug-glug of the kettle being filled, and barked, ‘Not yet, Mark. You need to wait until I’ve washed up.’
‘I’m just making a coffee, I won’t get in the way.’
Emily set the delay timer for later in the evening when the lower electricity tariff kicked in. She stood up, hands on hips. ‘You know the rules. No one in the kitchen until breakfast is finished.’
Mark tilted his head to one side, like a bird, one eyebrow raised. ‘When did that rule get agreed?’
‘Three weeks ago, when I told you I was starting the B&B.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t recall the discussion.’
‘Check the red book. There’s a whole new section under B&B.’
There was a clang as he threw a teaspoon at the kettle. ‘For fuck’s sake, it’s like living in bloody North Korea. What gives you the right to issue edicts and expect me to obey? I’m not a serf.’
She glowered at him. ‘The fact that I’ve started taking in paying guests. Now unless you’d like to help clear up, buzz off to your study. I’ve got some ironing to do.’ She watched him leave the kitchen. ‘Oh, and the front door’s sticking again, and the door handle on the upstairs bedroom is loose, when you have a moment. That room’s booked next week.’
In his study, Mark opened the Red File of Rules. He fingered the tab marked “B&B”, his jaw clenching with rage. He’d thought this was a brilliant way of boosting their income. He’d enjoyed working with Pedro, felt the familiar buzz of excitement when the lawyer used his contacts to fast-track the licence, had even felt a glow of pride seeing Emily spruce up the bedrooms with cushions and side chairs from a second-hand shop.
He and David had made short shrift of her DIY list, adding a power drill to Mark’s collection of tools. They’d sat at a table in the café adjoining Drogaria Vieira, three different drills laid out in front of them.
‘Which one would you buy?’ asked Mark.
‘Let’s have another beer and I’ll run through the merits of them all again. What’s the budget?’
Mark had laughed out loud. He never thought he’d be discussing the cost of tools with a neighbour. Why didn’t Emily recognize how much he was doing around the house? Her parents had taught her how to clean and iron, so they weren’t challenging tasks for her, but this was virgin territory for him. He’d already saved them a fortune on locksmiths, which she hadn’t even noticed, and if she slammed that front door once more, she could fix the damn thing herself.
Now, Mark flipped through the pages of the red file to the new section and coughed. Three new pages. He huffed and started reading.
The kitchen:
All existing rules under “kitchen” still apply.
