Page 55 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
Dear Mr and Mrs Ellis,
We notice that you are renting the above property in breach of the terms and conditions of your mortgage.
The letter demanded that the problem be rectified and specified the route: Mr and Mrs Ellis should repay the existing loan and apply for a buy-to-let mortgage.
Mark stared at the letter, dumbfounded. Shit. Shit.Shit! Shylock wouldn’t open his wallet to the couple in their current circumstances. Mark would have to beg forgiveness from the lender, plead misunderstanding, promise to take the website down immediately, and cancel all future bookings. He pulled up his cashflow forecast and, wincing, deleted the“London rental income”line.Mark chewed a thumbnail. There must besome fat somewhere. Svetlana! He pounced, selecting the line for deletion, then paused. He couldn’t sack the housekeeper; it wasn’t only unfair, he couldn’t afford to do it. It was cheaper to employ her until January than make her redundant – she’d been employed by them for over fifteen years.
How much should he tell Emily? The London agent reported the house market was dead for the summer while the UK went through another tortuous contest selecting a prime minister. The houses would sell in the autumn. They had to.
Outside, on the terrace, Emily was folding laundry.
‘I need to talk to you,’ Mark said.
Emily fished around in the basket for a matching sock. ‘What about?’
Mark was holding a letter, tapping it against his trousers. She heard the screech of a jet engine climbing above her, but Mark didn’t say anything. He hitched up his trousers and sank onto the edge of a lounger.
‘Are you going to tell me?’ Her stomach started to churn. She reached out for the letter, her throat tightening, but Mark stuffed it into his pocket, closed his eyes, and let out a deep sigh. ‘We’re going to have to stop the London rentals.’
She tutted and rolled the matched socks together in a ball. ‘Well, you won’t get any complaints from me or Svetlana. It’s been a slog running that business.’
Mark spoke softly. ‘You don’t understand. This isn’t a choice. The mortgage company are forcing us to stop. But we can’t afford to pay the mortgage without the income from the rentals.’
Her hands clawed at the side of the basket, eyes darting back and forth between the laundry and her husband. If they couldn’t pay the mortgage, would the bank foreclose? Was she going to be evicted from her London home? Had their life deteriorated that much? ‘Yikes,’ she said.
‘Yes. Yikes.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘We start living like church mice. And I meanwe. Not lip service anymore. We are stony broke. No more visitors, no more eating out, no more Fran. No more shopping at Fortnum’s.’
Emily blushed, then felt the anger burst through. She’d done nothing to deserve this, and she wasn’t throwing in the towel. ‘We need to maximize bookings here,’ she said, defiantly. ‘No one can shut this down.’
Mark massaged his neck. ‘No. We have a B&B licence.’
‘You could help by being a bit friendlier to the guests.’
‘And you could help by not siphoning off money to Alex.’
‘I haven’t given him a penny since he was last here.’ She forced a smile. ‘It’s a hiccup. In a couple of months, when the houses are both sold, you’ll be laughing about this.’
‘I don’t want to worry you, but it’s going to take longer than that. Our London buyer has pulled out, and there’s a delay on Devon.’
She chewed her lip, busying her hands folding towels. ‘That’s not good news.’
Mark’s eyes were bulging. ‘Emily, this is serious. We need cash, fast.’
He stood up. His lips quivered as he heaved a long sigh.
Emily’s heart was beating like an egg-timer. ‘I hear you,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t like it, but I do get it.’
‘We have to sell the car.’
‘What, and use the bus? Or do you expect me to walk to the supermarket now?’
Mulling over the London drama, Mark eased his foot off the accelerator. He’d spent all afternoon on the phone to the mortgage company, begging for mercy. He told them the house was already on the market, pointed out he’d never missed a payment, praying that claim wasn’t about to come back and haunt him. To placate them, he’d even promised to pay downthe loan by at least £100,000, to be financed by the sale of the Bentley. He steered the car over a speed hump and turned into Quinta do Lago, driving downhill towards the tennis academy, past the spectacular villas lining the road. A few were so large, with their sharp-angled, glass-topped architecture, they were more like office buildings. Interspersed amongst the glass boxes were classical villas painted cream or ochre. The car sailed past a white Moorish-style house with round turrets and tiny slits for windows, once the height of fashion, now a relic from a bygone era. Just like his career, he thought. This plan had to work. He resolved to call the Devon agent and authorize him to cut the price to tempt the buyer over the finish line.
Mark indicated left. Casa Vinho loomed out at him from behind the neck-high solid fence. It slid open to reveal a large water feature. At the centre of the fountain, spouting a stream of crystal-clear water onto the circling koi carp, was what looked like a perfect replica of the statue of Erosfrom Piccadilly Circus. Guess who’s been having fun here, thought Mark. Had the recommendation for that pest Miguel come from tonight’s hostess?
