Page 59 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
August 4th
Ellis bank balance: £217.78
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 30 Mark: 20
Little orange foam tubes were poking out of Mark’s ears. He waggled them with a finger, driving them in deeper. They muffled the sound, but he could still hear squealing. Why, when all the guests were adults? He knew they were, because after she’d cooked the guests’ breakfasts, Emily had left him to take care of them while she walked the dogs. All adults and all irritating, asking him for hot milk and herbal teas and wanting to chat about restaurants. There wasn’t a single child booked in, and he’d been relishing the prospect of a quiet morning in his office to work on cashflow forecasts. Yesterday, the Bank of England had nudged up rates; the London mortgage costs would balloon, but Emily was earning enough to cover it.
There was a frantic sound of splashing, then a high-pitched squeal. Think about the money and stop being so critical he told himself; no wonder Emily got so exasperated with him, he’d become an intolerant beast.
He focused on the spreadsheet. Once the funds cleared from the sale of the Bentley, even after shaving the London mortgage by £100,000 things would improve. The Fiat 500 hadn’t cost much. On the flip side, the income from the B&B wouldn’t bestrong once the school holidays finished. He hammered his fists on the desk. Why wouldn’t someone just buy one of the effing houses. He’d been a fool, risked everything, dragged Emily out here, and failed to deliver on his promise. He couldn’t think of any way to increase their income or economize Villa Anna. Guests expected to turn the air conditioning on, and the washing machine thumped its way through mountains of laundry most evenings. Emily was doing her best to minimize food costs, and he regularly patrolled like a security guard, listening for the tell-tale humming sound of air conditioning units left on when guests were out. There were no more expenses he could eliminate in Devon or London. He’d instructed Svetlana to turn off every electrical item – starting with the pool – and not to switch the heating on until the temperature dipped below freezing.
He had to sell a house. Should he drop the asking prices? He reached for his phone.
Emily had suggested they continue renting out the London house. They couldn’t; the mortgage company hadn’t asked where Mr and Mrs Ellis were living while they rented out Ovington Square. It was a prerequisite of every standard UK mortgage that the borrowers are resident in the UK – the London mortgage was illegal and repayable on demand just like their overdraft.
He was on recycling duty when Mark heard his name called. He threw the last box of glass into the car and turned to find David clutching the gate bars, shaking them as if trying to force them open.
‘Has he told you what he’s gone and done now?’ he shouted.
Mark closed the boot. ‘Who? And what?’
‘Who do you think?’ said David, his voice trembling.
Mark’s neck tensed. He sucked in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. ‘Tell me,’ he said, letting David in.
‘He’s got permission to build on that empty land at the side of his garden. It was his all along. There’s going to be one hell of a racket for eighteen months, and he’s not warned his neighbours. Selfish brute.’
Mark clapped his hand on his forehead. ‘But he can’t. It’s rustic land. Everyone knows you can’t build on rustic land.’
David coughed a laugh. ‘Rustic land’s only rustic until it’s not. Just ask the poor souls now living bang up against the Almancil Bypass; they used to live next to rustic land too. I’ve been suspicious since he cut down your tree and I’ve just come back from the council and seen it with my own eyes! It’s going there,’ David said, pointing to the side of Villa Anna’s tennis court, ‘right up against your fence.’
That’s why Tommy chopped down the tree – it was shading his building plot. Mark’s hand was itching to phone Pedro.
It was early evening on a Monday. Alex had been living in the spare room at the Pooley house in Barnstaple for five weeks. There were two plastic baskets in front of him, and Alex was separating his laundry; there wasn’t much. He rinsed out his own work clothes, his swimsuits, daily. Evenings were busy affairs for the Pooley family, conducted chiefly in the kitchen. There was an unofficial cooking rota, based on whoever got hungry first, but household chores were conducted in a frenzy of evening activity involving everyone, and the kitchen was a muddle of people milling through, preparing food, laying the table, fetching laundry off the washing line, or just chatting about their working day.
With a mug of tea in one hand, Mick, Jess’s father, was using the other to stir the contents of a large saucepan. The sweet smell of cooking onions hung in the air reminding Alex of sitting with Svetlana during half-term holidays. Mick’s wife Cathy, bustled in, ironed shirts on plastic hangers dangling from the waistband of her trousers making her look like a peculiarversion of the mobile that used to hang above Alex’s cot when he was a baby. Cathy was a carbon copy of her daughter and still wore her hair long, although often fastened to the top of her head sometimes with a large hair claw, this evening with a black bulldog clip. Cathy worked from home, running the family plumbing business, juggling call outs for Mick, his two colleagues and Jess’ brother, the apprentice.
‘Mick, its Mrs Wilson, problem with her hot water.’
‘Hey Alex, take over while I deal with that will you?’ said Mick, putting down his mug and taking a phone off his wife.
Cathy sniffed and tapped Alex on the arm as he walked past her, ‘Turn the heat down, those onions are starting to burn.’ She suggested, before striding off, the shirts swishing round her knees.
Mick hollered after her ‘what time’s my first appointment tomorrow, Cath?’
Alex lowered the heat. Jess walked into the room and started laying the table. He winked at her, ‘Fancy a drink later?’
Mick was talking to his customer, ‘If you didn’t have any water of course I’d come, but it sounds like the elements gone in the boiler. I can get to you for eight or you’ll have to wait until the end of the day. Sorry I’m fully booked.’
A large hand grasped the spoon from Alex, then released it. ‘You finish off here. Chicken next, then add the tomatoes and the herbs,’ said Mick.
‘Me?’ gasped Alex.
‘Yes, you,’ said Jess and Mick together.
‘I’ll supervise,’ added Jess, ‘while Dad books in that new job.’
After supper, Alex borrowed Mick’s van and drove Jess inland to a pub away from the touristy coastline; a piece of North Devon the landlord was preserving for Devonians, serving locally brewed craft cider, beer, and English wines.
