Page 60 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
Pushing open the pub door for Jess, Alex spotted some of herfriends gathered around a makeshift table made from an old ale cask; like Alex, the men wore faded shorts and sweatshirts. Alex dropped a kiss onto Jess’s neck. ‘White wine?’ he suggested.
‘Um, Bacchus please.’
At the bar, Alex stood beside a man wearing a blazer. Three glasses were lined up in front of him, an inch of white wine in each. Alex waited while the man made a show of knocking back each one in turn, grimacing with each swallow as if he was drinking medicine. ‘Don’t you have a decent Sauvignon Blanc?’ the man asked petulantly.
Alex locked eyes with the landlord, whose son he was teaching to surf, and raised his eyebrows. ‘Usual for Jess and me when you’re free please, Bob.’
Alex left blazer-man sampling red wine and carried the drinks back to his girlfriend.
‘You’ll be on your own tomorrow night, I’ve a council meeting straight after work,’ said Jess.
‘I know. Your mum’s going to teach me how to make an omelette.’
‘Glad I won’t be around to sample that,’ she jibed.
‘Jess, I miss seeing my Mum. I thought I might check on Svetlana then go and visit Gran; do you mind?’
‘Course not, family is important.’
Later that week, in London, Alex rolled over onto his side, aimed the remote, and flicked on the TV, surfing between channels, skipping past chat shows. There was a knock on the door.
‘Yeah?’ he called out.
The door nudged open, and Svetlana’s round face beamed at him. She was carrying a loaded tray, steam rising from a mug. ‘Brought you breakfast in bed,’ she said. ‘Coffee, toast, and fruit. You want eggs tomorrow?’
He sat up, stretching his legs out in front of him to form amakeshift table. ‘Cheers, Svetlana. Mum must miss you.’
‘You want lunch?’ asked the housekeeper, bending to pick up a dirty shirt.
‘There’s a pair of socks down there somewhere, I think they may be under the bed.’ He buttered a slice of toast, still warm enough to melt the butter, and added, ‘I’ll fish them out and bring them down.’
Svetlana peered at him. ‘Thank you. What about lunch?’
‘Why don’t I cook something?’
‘You?’ scoffed the housekeeper.
Pacing around Pedro’s tiny conference room, Mark’s eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall. He’d arrived punctually at 10 o’clock for his meeting. It was now half past. Hearing laughter, he glanced through the glass door; Pedro was lounging against the reception counter, the tails of his short-sleeved shirt hanging outside his trousers. Mark took a seat – would he ever adapt to this casual approach to business? The lawyer straightened, slicked back his hair with both hands, tucked his shirt into his trousers, and picked up his notepad from the reception counter.
The door to the little room opened.
‘Good morning, Mr Ellis,’ Pedro said with a breezy smile. ‘Good news – I have an appointment with the inspection team for the hot food licence.’
Mentally, Mark sent up a little cheer. ‘Well done. When?’
Pedro consulted his notebook. ‘The seventeenth of January.’
Mark was baffled by the triumphant expression on Pedro’s face. ‘Next year?’
Pedro looked up from his notebook. ‘Mr Ellis, these are very busy people. There might be a cancellation ...’
‘Forget it. I’ve a much more important topic to discuss. How can I contest a planning application?’
In the Ovington Square basement, Alex swam another length, letting out little contented gasps with each stroke. It was likea bath. Yesterday, the heating was switched off, and the pool a bone-chilling seventeen degrees. He’d soon sorted that! He stopped at the shallow end, held onto the side, and kicked his legs out behind him, churning up the water. Hearing the lift doors cranking open, he peered over his shoulder. Svetlana was standing at the deep end.
‘You need to get out,’ said the housekeeper, ‘if you want to catch that coach.’ She waved a towel at him like a matador’s cloak.
He climbed out and dashed for the towel.
