Page 63 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
‘There’s no water.’ The man was naked apart from a towel wrapped around his waist.
Emily avoided looking at the wiry hairs scattered across his chest. ‘You’ve no water in your shower room?’
‘There’s no water anywhere in the house. I checked.’
‘Give me a minute.’
She went into the bathroom. A sopping wet towel hung over the shower screen. A bathmat sat in a pool of water like a giant sponge. She gritted her teeth; had Mark used all the hot water? She turned on the hot water tap. Nothing. She tried the cold. Still nothing. Cursing David, she stormed out.
Emily placated the furious guests, plying them with cups of tea and coffee – for once having to use bottled water to cook with was an advantage – a hearty breakfast, and gave them half their money back in cash. That was when she saw David. He had a spanner in his hand and was bent double examining the contents of the borehole hut like a schoolboy puzzling over a new Lego set. ‘David!’ she hollered. ‘Turn our water on please!’
Why couldn’t she be as forceful with Mary? She’d kicked that can down the road claiming she wanted to tell Alex face to face. She was behaving like a child delaying doing their holidayhomework.
At 2 o’clock precisely, she answered the door to Miguel. The scent of his cologne drifted in. She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling, allowing her thoughts to drift on the heady smell; how appropriate – eau de Portugal, originally crafted for Percy Croft of the Port family of the same name. Miguel had an artist’s portfolio folder in one hand, and in the other, a little bag which he passed to Emily. She pulled apart the handles and peered inside.
‘From simply thebestbakery outside Lisbon. If you’re a very good girl, I will tell you where it is,’ he offered, his face crinkling into a smile.
Seeing the little custard tarts wrapped in paper napkins cushioned inside a plastic box, her mouth watered. They looked as cossetted as Emily had been when she lived in London. In the kitchen, she arranged the cakes on a wooden board, made a cafetière of coffee, and carried the tray onto the small terrace. Miguel rose, plumping up his hair with his hands.
‘Maybe over there, darling.’ He patted his case and indicated a side table. He unzipped the portfolio and pulled out a board the size of a tabloid newspaper. ‘Close your eyes,’ he ordered.
She did as she was told and listened to the gentle thud of boards being laid on the table. Each soft thud was the sound of opportunity. She counted twelve.
‘Ready!’ cried Miguel.
She opened her eyes. The pictures were laid out face-down. Slowly the designer turned over the first prop and she saw the front of Villa Anna as it would become, illustrated by the first of the computer-generated images she had commissioned atvastexpense, but without Mark’s agreement. Years of marriage had taught her that sometimes it was better to plead forgiveness than seek permission, and she had a right to spend money – she was earning more than Mark now.
‘Nowthatis what I call a launchpad!’ exclaimed Miguel, sitting back triumphantly, taking a nibble of his pastel de nata.
Emily clapped her hands. ‘Wow!’
They leaned over the picture together, Miguel holding his food away from it. The gravelled drive was replaced by a carpet of calçada, the polished black and cream stones laid out in a complicated flowing pattern of swirls and circles. The narrow steps up to the front door were wider and flanked by five-foot-high elephants, their trunks held aloft, in an S-shape, with the tips turned down. They wore saddles of shocking pink, mixed with tangerine and vibrant purple, and in each saddle was a tall hurricane lamp.
‘I do like these.’ Miguel pointed his half-eaten tart at one of the elephants. ‘What do you think of the candles?’ He sat back, finished the food, and wiped his hands together, dusting the crumbs off his fingers. Before his client could voice her opinion, he declared that he had changed his mind. ‘No, it would be so dull having to change the candles.’
‘What about electric ones? Would that be possible?’ asked Emily.
Blowing her a kiss, Miguel said, ‘You see, you are good at this!’
Standing by the open window of his study, Mark listened to the pair discussing pictures he knew would cost several thousand pounds to produce in London, without a golden triangle sized margin. Miguel was leaning over the CGI of the front entrance, poking a finger at one of the elephants.
‘I can’t promise, but I mightbe able to get their trunks to spray water, so they become a sort of fountain.’ The designer glanced up at Emily, chortling. ‘Wouldn’t that be such fun?’
Mark listened to the simpering Miguel compliment his wife on her exquisite taste. He was unsurprised to hear that a fully costed proposal would be with her shortly, and that Miguel had secured the best, most reliable firm of builders, and was holdingthem on standby, pending her sign-off.
Sheer willpower stopped him interrupting the meeting when he heard Miguel announce the tremendously good news that he’d managed to source the elephants. Tragically they might have to be Indian rather than African elephants – the larger ears would have had moreoomph, didn’t she agree? He would, of course, try to persuade someone to produce the right style of ear.
On and on, the man gushed about the bloody elephants. Risking another glance out of his window, Mark saw Miguel reach out for a second tart before revealing, ‘The seriously good news on the elephants,’ – he waved the cake at his client – ‘they are not going to be nearly as expensive as I thought!’
Mesmerized, Mark watched the designer take a bite, holding out his hand to catch the flaking pastry. ‘Guess!’ he said, widening his eyes at Emily, as if inviting her into his secret. Mark wanted to yell at them to stop. How could she possibly have any idea what a good price was for a pair of ruddy stone elephants, regardless of the size of their bloody ears? There was a pause. Emily didn’t enter the game, and Miguel finished his tart.
‘I am optimistic that with a little pressure from me, I can buy them at a shade under 20,000 euros.’ Miguel leaned closer and added, ‘Each.’
Mark coughed a laugh, before learning that it was going to cost a teensy-weensy little bit more if Miguel succeeded in persuading his supplier to alter the mould to produce the larger ears. Oh, and of course if their trunks worked ...
Enough! He marched into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. There was a shiny, bright-pink ribbon wrapped around the fridge, making it look like a gift. He stepped closer, bent down, and with a fingernail picked at the Sellotape securing the ribbon. It buckled but held firm. He snatched up the car keys and charged out of the villa, bursting with rage. He rode the clutch on the Fiat 500, wishing it was the Bentley, then flooredthe accelerator and, with a high-pitched yowl, sped down the driveway.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, wondering where Mark was, Emily heard the gate bell. She released the lock, but moments later it rang again. She poked her head out of the front door, screwing her eyes shut as the bright sun hit her full in the face. There was a small car at the gate, the driver’s door open, a woman standing behind it, flapping a pair of sunglasses at her. Emily released the lock a third time. Nothing happened.
