Page 58 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
‘That front door lock’s holding up well,’ called out David.
‘Not really. Emily still likes to slam it. I’ve superglued those damn screws in place.’
David walked to his fence line, resting his hands on the hedge. ‘What made you decide to cut down the tree?’
‘I haven’t cut down any trees,’ said Mark.
David laughed. ‘Well, someone has.’
Mark froze, his hand clutching the door handle. ‘Which one?’
David was scratching his chin. ‘You didn’t cut it down, did you? I saw you jog past then I heard the chainsaw. It’s the one that overhung the rustic land and Tommy’s pool in the evening.’
Mark slammed a fist into the door frame. ‘Effing Tommy!’
The screeching noise of a chainsaw started. Mark sprinted off, banging the front door shut behind him.
Toni let Mark in, her mop of grey curls hidden under a straw hat. Mark pushed past her. He could see Tommy and, beyond him, stretched across the rustic land, the fallen tree, with some of its limbs shorn off. The sagging fence was crushed beneath the trunk. Why hadn’t Emily intervened?
‘You cut down our tree!’ Mark shouted.
Beside him, Toni looked startled.
‘You’ve no proof it was me,’ said Tommy silkily.
Mark’s hands balled into fists. ‘I’ll just go and ask those tree surgeons who’s paying their bill then.’
‘Tommy!’ said Toni, her eyes bulging.
Tommy laughed, ‘How’s your Portuguese?’
‘Outside, Tommy.Now!’ shouted Mark.
In the garden, they stood chest to chest, eyes drilling into each other like two prize fighters at a weigh-in. Mark puffed out his chest. He was taller than Tommy, a decade younger, and much fitter. He grabbed the older man’s forearms and tried to wrestle him to the ground.
‘Stop!’ wailed Toni.
The other man grunted, and Mark felt rough hands gripping his arms, then a foot snaked round his ankle. Mark tensed, dug his feet into the grass, and clung on. The pair danced around the garden like a pair of sumo wrestlers.
Toni was swatting at Mark with her straw hat. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body, imagining that it was Paul he was wrestling.
‘Let go, you brute!’ shouted Toni.
Mark released his grip and shoved Tommy in the chest. Tommy staggered backwards and grabbed the branch of a lemon tree. ‘I’ll be off,’ Mark said. He pointed a finger at Tommy. ‘Toni, get my fence dog-proofed by the end of today, and keep your husband his side of it.’
On Saturday mornings, Emily shopped at a traditional Portuguese market in Loule, where farmers sold seasonal vegetables, eggs, home-produced cheeses, and home-pressed olive oil beneath makeshift sunshades. There was an enclosed section, a cool high-ceilinged building, where meat and fish were sold alongside little tapas bars. Row after row of fishmongers offering silvery stacks of shiny fish, piles of dark blue lobsters and speckled brown crabs. There was no unpleasant smell, just a faintly sweet aroma of meat. Emily had no idea why Mark invariably joined her – there were a few tourist stalls, but he never purchased anything from them, so that couldn’t be the pull.
Nowadays, instead of standing in front of her Pilates instructor, Emily was often to be found standing in front of the “egg lady”. Today, the Portuguese woman was only eight inches off the ground, sitting on a plastic stool beneath a faded yellow parasol. Her grey hair was tucked behind her ears, her face fell in folds of wrinkles, but her dark eyes shone as brightly as a child’s. Her gnarled hands bobbed about, pushing each of her warestowards Emily. The women shared no common language, but through nudges and hand signals, Emily secured a tray of eggs, avoided the sweetcorn and the parsley, and succumbed to the temptation of a bunch of spinach tied together with red nylon string. Emily placed her purchases in her bags, her eyes circling the little cafés, sifting through the tourists eating breakfast and the groups of Portuguese men with bottles of beer so small that a Brit would think they were samples.
Where was Mark? At last, she saw him, sitting alone at a table, a tiny cup of coffee in front of him, his phone in his hands. Anger bubbled up inside her. The phone reminded her of Mary’s last message. Emily couldn’t even look forward to her London trips anymore – Mary was threatening to tell all her girlfriends she was avoiding tax. And if Mark had the time to sit and play with his phone, he could help more with the B&B. She watched him swallow the last of his coffee and signal to the waitress for a top-up, sending another wave of anger through her. She still hadn’t forgiven him for the replacement car.
She’d smiled when he first turned up in the Fiat 500. It looked cute, had a certain style about it. The next morning, she’d opened the boot, a fat black refuse bag and two recycling boxes at her feet. She inserted the bin bag – in London she’d never been grateful to have her rubbish collected – but despite turning her back and sitting on the tailgate, it wouldn’t shut. Reallocating the task to Mark for the rest of the year, she scrambled into the car, cursing the lack of rear doors, and heaved and shoved until she had the back seats flat.
Then she’d climbed into the driver’s seat. It was way too far back, and she could hardly reach the steering wheel. She fumbled around by her side for the electronic control switch, then felt in front of her until her fingers touched a lever. She shuffled the seat backwards and forwards, her face glowing with rage; this was going to be a real bore. Emily started the car,reached over to select reverse and the car stalled. For a few moments, she sat staring down at something she hadn’t seen for decades, recalling her first car from twenty-five years ago – a bright red Mini – which was the last time she’d clapped eyes on a gearstick. She looked down at the pedals – yup, there was a third. She swiftly added shopping to Mark’s list of chores.
Why should she forgive him? He hadn’t even warned her the car was manual! Her life had imploded. He may miss his job in the City, but he spent his days tucked away in his study emerging only to offer opinions on how she spent hers. Her diminished life was his fault, and the solution was his idea. She felt tricked. What concessions had Mark made?
Twenty
