Page 56 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
‘Well, they aren’t short of a bob or two, are they?’ he remarked.
‘Tina married football money,’ said Emily. She was smiling and waving out of her window at their hostess, who stood in front of a door that stretched yards above her, making her appear childlike. ‘I can’t recall what John did, if he played, managed or owned, but they have buckets of money.’
‘Lucky Tina,’ Mark said. Why did Emily always have to rub it in?
He parked next to an open-topped, pink Rolls Royce Dawn. There were two other cars parked beside the Dawn, a McLaren F1 and a Lamborghini Aventador. How would it feel parking here when they weren’t driving a Bentley, he wondered.
Averting his eyes from the cars, he asked, ‘Which one istheirs?’
Emily indicated the Dawn. ‘I don’t know about John, but that’s Tina’s car.’
Mark switched off the engine. ‘It’s shouty money out here, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s in your face, screaming look at me. Real wealth whispers.’
Emily swatted him playfully and opened her door letting in a slice of warm air.
Tina called out, ‘Hi, guys, come on in! We’re having sundowners – caipirinhas. If you want to Uber home and leave the car, feel free!’
The couple exchanged a look. Mark hung his head and shook it. He wouldn’t get drunk in front of strangers.
‘Nope. I’m happy to drive,’ he murmured, releasing his seatbelt, listening to the soft drum of the water falling into the fountain and the background chirp of crickets.
Their fellow guests were sitting on a terrace the size of a tennis court. Mark heard a simpering voice, and his insides shrivelled. Miguel was sashaying over with their drinks, a cocktail for Emily, which she accepted with a genuine laugh Mark hadn’t heard in months, and a small beer for Mark.
Tina pulled a sad face. ‘Poor John. He’s all alone. Why don’t some of you boys go and help him?’ She sat down next to Miguel, placed a hand on his leg and pouted. ‘Are you going to fix us all another one of these wicked cocktails, darling?’
A stampede of men, including Mark, rushed to the far side of the terrace, to a gas barbeque set in the middle of an outside kitchen. It was vast, with four grills, all of which were being used, flames licking up towards the racks, which groaned with the weight of the food stacked on them.
John was using long-handled tongs to move sausages to a cooler grill. He introduced himself to Mark. ‘Why you out herethen? NHR?’
‘I don’t think my tax problem is as large as yours!’ said Mark, sweeping his beer bottle around the terrace. He imagined John’s reaction if he’d added,I don’t have a tax problem, but could you lend me a couple of million to repay a mortgage?and smiled to himself.
John took a gulp from his glass. ‘Damn! That Miguel might have a good rustle around in your wallet, but he makes a decent cocktail.’
Mark dribbled cold beer into his mouth. ‘We fancied a break from the rain. I sit on a few public company boards, but I can do that just as well from here.’
‘And spend the rest of the day in the sun honing your golf handicap, eh?’ joked John.
‘Got my handicap down from 24 to 18 in six months,’ boasted one of the other men, who introduced himself as Terry.
‘And there you will stay, my friend, until you spend a bit less time perfecting your tan and a bit more on the driving range.’ This from a man called Brian. ‘Do you play?’ he asked Mark, dipping his head towards his glass, and slurping up the last dregs of cocktail. Brian narrowed his eyes. ‘Wicked, these,’ he murmured.
Mark considered his tiny bottle. He gave it a gentle shake. Should he relax and have another? ‘I’m more of a tennis man,’ he confessed.
‘I think our wives met playing tennis,’ said John, spooning marinade over the meat. There was a sizzling noise and smoke spat up from the grill. ‘Right, this lot’s done.’ He handed a platter of cooked food to Terry. ‘Pass me those kebabs, would you, Tel?’ He stabbed a finger in the direction of the counter behind them, loaded with trays of raw meat. There was so much food, they might’ve been catering for a street party.
Mark joined a discussion about cars, backing out when hetotted up the value of Terry’s fleet, including the parked McLaren, which, on its own, surpassed the value of the Ellis property portfolio. Terry was a novelty to Mark. He wasn’t a banker, he didn’t work at a hedge fund, nor for one of the army of professionals Mark had encountered in the City. Terry owned a haulage business in the Midlands, which he’d built up from scratch after dropping out of school at the age of sixteen. Mark sipped his beer silently as talk turned to the cost of hiring PJs, which he decoded as private jets, and the complications of securing landing slots at Faro airport during the peak summer months. Not that any of these men involved themselves in those negotiations – they had assistants for such tedious matters, just as he used to. All three men agreed it was ostentatious to own your own plane, selfish adding to the climate crisis when they could hire one instead. These men sat in their tax haven drinking caipirinhas and moaning about the state of the local roads like eighteenth-century aristocrats, hours away from any real work – even by PJ. Mark had spent decades chasing this sort of wealth, but he didn’t want to live like this. Was this what Emily really wanted?
‘Are we ready yet?’ Tina was already tipsy, slaloming her way towards the men between imaginary obstacles. She clung to her husband for support. ‘Shall I have the veggies and salads brought out, my lovely?’
‘Reckon so,’ said John, indicating the towering mountain of meat. ‘Let’s get the wine opened and we can start this party properly, eh?’ He passed the tongs to Mark. ‘Can you finish off here while I sort the vino?’
The guests sat down. Emily was laughing. Mark watched his wife pick up a large glass of red wine, settle back into her chair, and take a mouthful, then turn to flirt with the man on her right. He felt a playful hand caress his arm. For a few brief moments he felt tingles of desire shoot through him and willed his body notto respond. He shrugged off Tina’s arm, reaching for his glass of water. He knew she was only being friendly, but he wasn’t up for the sport. She held up the bottle of red wine. Mark put a hand over his glass. ‘Nah, I’m driving.’
He asked his hostess if she was concerned about the euro–sterling exchange rate. She looked blankly at him, as if he’d asked her about quantum physics.
