Page 73 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
His mother’s eyes rested on him. ‘Ah, Alex, good, we need your help.’
He yawned. ‘Could I grab a coffee first?’
‘No. Now, please. The tree is due any moment, and the men can’t wait, they’ll get a parking ticket.’
Puccini started playing and Alex swung into action. He knew his role, he’d been playing it long enough. The tree always sat in the corner of the drawing room. The snake moved in unison to the sofa.
‘Bend the knees and straight backs,’ ordered his mother.
He lifted one end, his mother and Svetlana the other. With his cheek pressed hard against the armrest, his arms straining under the weight, he took a step back, one eye on the stockings hanging from the mantelpiece. His mother had purchased them in Camden Passage when he was about eight years old. They were shaped like old fashioned boots – he liked to think of them as Georgian Dandy boots. They had triangular-shaped heels, velvet trimmings round the tops, and fancy ribboned bows and buckles on the instep. Alex suspected his father’s assistant had always been responsible for filling his mother’s stocking in previous years and wondered what would happen this year with his father on sabbatical.
‘One, two, three ... down,’ shouted his mother, then dashedpast to let the tree in.
The door closed behind the delivery men, and his mother opened a bottle of champagne, as she had every year since Alex turned sixteen. The threesome made their traditional celebratory toast. Decoration started at the top of the tree; Alex balanced on a ladder, the two women chattering at the bottom, passing up the smallest trinkets, and suggesting where to place the larger ornaments. He heard the front door click shut. With one hand on the ladder, his mother passed up his glass of champagne. He took a gulp and set it down on the top step.
His father called out, ‘Hi. I’m back. Mum sends her love.’
From his vantage point at the top of the tree, Alex surveyed the scene below. Svetlana was shuffling her feet and his mother was chugging champagne like it was a can of Pepsi Max.
‘Darling, come and join us!’ said his mother.
‘Anything I can do to help?’ asked his father hesitantly.
Alex turned around. Svetlana was gazing uncomfortably into her glass as if someone had told her it was poisonous, while his mother offered out the dregs of her own. ‘Darling, you’ve missed the toast, but have mine. I’ll fetch another glass.’
‘What toast?’ asked Mark, looking bemused.
‘The toast to the tree, silly!’ said his mother.
Alex watched his father hover in the doorway, gripping his champagne glass as if he was holding it for someone else. He climbed down the ladder and scooted under the tree, plugged the lights into the socket, and crawled back out to check the effect, pulling, and pushing the twinkling bulbs into position. He moved a couple of ornaments around to a bare side of the tree. He couldn’t recall his father ever having joined in the tree decorating. It was always just the three of them. Alex would never make that mistake – Christmas was for families.
Holding an ornament in each hand, his father approached the tree. He looked just like one of the novice surfers Alex had taughtover the summer, clutching a surfboard but unsure what to do with it. Didn’t his father ever help Granny Gwen decorate a tree? Didn’t he remember what to do?
In the evenings, Emily avoided Mary. During the day, she avoided the dining room where Mark’s phone was an extension to his right arm. A few days before Christmas she was wrapping his present in the kitchen – a new, slightly heavier tennis racket Tim had recommended – and planning her outfit for an evening drinks party. Svetlana walked in, dragging the Miele vacuum cleaner. ‘You’re wanted in the dining room,’ she said.
‘What for?’ mumbled Emily, tearing at the Sellotape with her teeth.
Svetlana stood the machine upright, tucking in the plug. ‘No idea, but he’s in a funny mood – he just told me to take tomorrow off.’
Emily peeled tabs of tape out of her mouth and secured her parcel. She pushed herself off the stool. ‘Good. You’ve earned it. Is he squatting in the dining room?’
‘He is,’ said the housekeeper, rolling the vacuum towards the utility room.
She found Mark, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. He wore the sort of satisfied expression she used to see regularly when he worked at the bank. ‘Done it,’ he said.
‘What?’
He got up, walked over, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. ‘Devon has completed, the bank account is flush, and we just exchanged contracts on this house. She’s effectively sold, with no tax to pay. We’re safe!’
She swallowed. Her home was sold.
‘We gambled and won and prevented effing Paul from wrecking our way of life.’ He kissed her again. ‘You and I are going to have the best Christmas ever. Call Miguel and tell himhe can even order the bloody elephants!’
Emily’s eyes circled the room, trying to imagine another family eating meals in her dining room. She’d spent hours in this room with her London designer, plotting the right scheme, laughing at some of the plans they’d dismissed, poring over swatches of cloth and colour cards. She didn’t think of Portugal as home. This house had been her anchor for the last eight months. The little oasis she could dream of returning to like a thirsty traveller in a desert as she plodded through her peculiar existence in Portugal, a refuge from her precarious marriage.
Her eyes settled on her husband, standing proudly at the head of the table. For a few moments she fought to find the right words before she gave up and stumbled from the room in tears.
When she stopped crying, Emily stalked round to Mary’s house. Ringing the doorbell, Emily told herself she should’ve done this weeks ago. The door opened, framing Mary’s housekeeper.
