Page 65 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
She felt a tic starting to flicker at the corner of her eye. Why did Mark get to do what he wanted while she didn’t? The B&B was earning more money than his noddy roles combined. ‘Here’s a money-making idea,’ she said. ‘Why don’t I take the part timejob, and you can run the B&B by yourself?’
‘I’m busy with my non-exec roles.’
‘But the B&B makes more money.’
‘It’ll shut at the end of October when the tourist season dries up. My noddy income won’t.’
‘You got us into this mess. What’s the plan to get us out of it, Mr Strategy?’
He sat up again. ‘No, you don’t.Wedecided on the strategy. I didn’t stiff-arm you into moving here. The houses will sell. Don’t sweat the little stuff. We’ve just been unlucky.’
‘Unlucky or jinxed?’ she yelled.
Twenty-two
August 13th
Ellis bank balance: £176.08
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 30 Mark: 21
Sunday dawned hot and sunny – like every day for the past two months – and the Ellises took a taxi to a popular restaurant overlooking the beach below Vale do Lobo. It was a treat to celebrate the first August day that Villa Anna was free of paying guests. Mark reached out for Emily’s hand. She wound her fingers through his.
‘Everything OK between you and Mary?’ he asked.
Emily let go of his hand. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I called her when I was in London. She was a bit off-hand.’
Emily chewed at a fingernail. ‘Maybe just hormones?’ she said.
Closer to the wooden building, Mark smelt the barbeque smoke. ‘The grilled fish is supposed to be amazing, and we won’t be serenaded by a leaf blower.’
The restaurant was nestled into the dunes at the back of the beach, less than a hundred metres from the lapping waves. The two-storey structure, open on all sides, allowed a warm, gentle breeze to blow through. The couple were shown to a table at the front of the second floor with a direct view of the sweeping sand and the ocean beyond. They watched the sea rolling in, the waves breaking gently, white foam bubbling up and leaving itsfootprint in arcs across the wet sand, before receding back down the slope. The beach was speckled with lazing bodies: mostly white, a few bronzed, and some streaked a painful red.
Mark asked for a beer and a bottle of champagne and ordered crayfish and grilled tiger prawns. The bank account had money in it; Emily had earned this treat. A woman with a jarring nasal voice was bossing her companions around at the adjacent table, dictating where she wanted them to sit, telling her husband to order a bottle of white wine, but to remember it was his turn to drive. ‘So, don’t go ordering beer by the litre. Oh, and don’t forget the fizzy water. No, not there, you ninny. That’s where I’m going to sit. Overthere.’
Curious, Mark glanced up from the menu and into the face of his tennis coach.
‘Hey, Mark,’ said Tim. ‘Howzit? Let me introduce you to my folks. Dad, this is one of the guys I train. Mark, this is my mater, Shirley, and pater, Dave.’
Tim’s parents pushed their chairs aside.
‘So, now you’ve discovered the best beach restaurant in the Algarve, you gotta order the grilled fish,’ suggested Tim.
Tim’s parents stood either side of him. The father had the same tall slim build, his mother slightly stockier and deeply tanned, her face a bronzed spider’s web of sun damage. Mark dropped his eyes and waggled the menu and, when Tim didn’t take the hint, raised it protectively, hiding behind the plastic sheet.
‘Must finish our order,’ he mumbled into the card while the others chattered on.
Emily introduced herself, then thanked Tim for his coaching. ‘I gather Mark’s backhand is getting there,’ she said.
‘It’s not so shabby. He really should play regularly if he wants to improve, preferably with good players.’
Mark heard Emily laugh. ‘You’ve met my husband, have you?Mr Last-Word-in-Modesty-Happy-to-be-the-Butt-of-Another’s-Jokes?’
There was a burst of laughter. Mark squirmed behind his protective shield. He felt the menu judder as it was dragged away from his face by a suntanned finger.
‘Is it lonely up there on the perfect step?’ asked Shirley.
