Page 53 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
The town of Loulé wasn’t a popular location for the expatriate community, who congregated in condominiums hugging the coastline for the elusive sea view. The Portuguese mostly lived further inland, away from tourist hotspots, or in hilltop towns like Loulé. Mark parked the car near the remains of the ivory-coloured castle, which dated back to the second century, and he and Emily walked up the hill past the eclectic mix of tourist knickknacks being sold, juxtaposed with shops aimed at the locals. The street wasn’t bustling because, when on foot, the Portuguese don’t hurry, but it was busy. Dark-haired women stood in doorways chattering in their guttural language or dragged their purchases along to the next destination in practical trolleys. In the Algarve, shopping on the High Street was a necessary, practical expedition, not entertainment, but pleasure was still derived from the social interaction that accompanied the outing. A bit of a contrast to his wife’s trips down Sloane Street, Mark thought.
Away from the little town’s centre, there was a warren of boutique shops to browse, offering bespoke clothes or beautiful shoes, all handmade in Portugal – an area Mark knew Emilyloved to explore. Enterprising families had converted ground-floor rooms of characterful old houses tucked down cobbled streets, into inviting little cafés or restaurants, some with only a handful of tables, offering a taste of locally sourced cured meats, olives, and cheeses. He knew his wife’s favourite: on a corner, the two sides of the café opening onto the street, a few small tables crammed next to a short zinc-topped bar.
When the Ellises arrived promptly at the town hall at 10 o’clock, Pedro was nowhere to be seen, but Mark’s tennis coach was sitting on the bottom step, a willowy woman by his side, sharing a bottle of beer. Mark sighed as he recognized Tim’s companion, the excellent player from the tennis courts a few weeks ago, the one who’d agreed to meet Tim for a drink in exchange for her ball.
His coach lifted the bottle in salute. ‘Hair of the dog. What an evening!’
Mark tutted. ‘I’ve got a lesson with you later.’
Tim took a swig. ‘It won’t affect my game, guv.’ Tim curved an arm around his companion. ‘We were bar-hopping at the beach, then went for a dawn dip. Life is about fun, and we had plenty last night!’ He leaned over and nuzzled the woman’s neck, whispering something into her ear. She giggled and pushed him away, grabbing the bottle and finishing it in one pull.
Listening to the laughter, Mark wondered for the second time what she saw in Tim. Why had she settled for a tennis bum?
His lawyer tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Mr Ellis, good morning!’
Mark introduced Emily. Pedro led them inside, charging up the stairs, and – without knocking – opened a door, calling out a greeting in Portuguese. Mark and Emily waited like kids outside the headteacher’s office. There was a rumble of laughter from inside. The door opened, and Pedro ushered his clients inside before moving between the desks, greeting each of the officialswarmly. The lawyer perched on the side of one of the desks, all eyes trained on him as if he was about to serenade his audience. He talked, occasionally pointing in their direction.
Peculiar though the experience was, it worked. By noon, in exchange for a €20 note, the Ellises were the proud owners of Portuguese residency certificates. Mark hugged the trophies to his chest. Success! Now he could join the NHR, sell the houses, pay off the overdraft, invest the capital, let Emily start spending, and stop that pest Miguel snooping around his wife, sniffing for an invitation.
Mark sat down to register the couple on the NHR, following instructions in English. He typed in the couple’s fiscal numbers when prompted. Nothing. Was there a problem with their numbers? Did they need to change after they became resident?
That afternoon, Mark spent another fruitless hour at the Almancil Town Council, seeing the same woman with the same deadpan denial of assistance. He called the expert, but Pedro was in a meeting.
‘He said he’d put me on his special list,’ said Mark.
Five minutes later his phone rang. ‘Yes, Mr Ellis, I can get you registered onto the NHR. Why didn’t you ask me? We could have done it all the same day,’ scolded the lawyer.
Mark couldn’t think of an excuse. There was no hint of resentment from Pedro that a client planned to live tax-free in his country, despite the exorbitant tax rates the Portuguese paid. Maybe Mark was being too sensitive about being a tax exile – after all, they weren’t doing anything illegal.
‘You must take your proof of residence to the tax office, who will issue you with tax numbers.’
‘I have our tax numbers. You gave them to me when we bought the house.’
‘No, Mr Ellis, those are yourfiscalnumbers not yourtaxnumbers.’
‘And how do I get tax numbers? Another trip to Loulé?’
‘No, Mr Ellis, this is a trip to Quarteira.’
The lawyer mentioned the tax office was tricky to find.
From the moment he entered the tax building, Mark knew that Pedro accompanying him was money well spent. He would never have found the office, which was tucked away in a back street with no clear signage. If, miraculously, he had managed to locate it, there was a further landmine inside to trap the novice foreigner: three static queues, and no indication of which one issued tax numbers. Quarteira would’ve been the main course after his canapé of wasted trips to the Almancil Council – he could have spent days in this office.
He watched his lawyer confidently print out a ticket from a machine before disappearing through the door, explaining he needed to return a few phone calls. Don’t let me interrupt that, thought Mark, recalling how impossible it was to get hold of Pedro. Two hours later, Mark and Emily were issued tax numbers and, that night, Mark revisited the Portuguese tax website.
Home from his morning run, Mark checked his emails. There was one from the Portuguese tax office. Mr and Mrs Ellis were part of the NHR scheme. He jumped up, ran upstairs, flung himself on the bed, and shouted, ‘Wake up, Emily. We’ve done it!’
She moaned and sat up, blinking. ‘What time is it?’
‘Darling look, look,’ he said, thrusting his phone screen under her eyes. He kissed her shoulder. ‘We are tax exiles and both houses are nearly sold ... Soon have your life back to normal!’ he promised.
A day later, the London house sale fell through.
Mark didn’t tell Emily. He hid in his office, begging the agent to find another buyer ... quickly. He told himself it was a setback. The cash released from Croyde would enable him topay down the London mortgage, and he could keep a cushion to protect the couple from future interest rate rises.
Before the week was over, the Devon agent called. Mark was out for a late morning jog, carefully keeping to the shade. He answered warily and learned that the prospective buyer had been unaware he couldn’t use a buy-to-let mortgage to finance a holiday home and needed time to find a specialist lender. Was this deal tottering? Would the buyer cut his price when he discovered what Mark already knew, that a holiday-let mortgage was more expensive than a buy-to-let?
Unable to summon the energy to run, Mark slouched along the concrete track surrounding the golf course. The blue-tailed jays swooped across the fairways, jabbing their beaks into the moist grass to extract their breakfast. Herons feasted on the waterholes, scattering the ducks and moorhens from their reedy homes. There was a lot to accomplish before the sun became too hot. He envied the bird life – if only his life could be as straightforward.
