Page 75 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
It was a dank day in mid-January, and Emily, who considered herself used to rain, had to admit she’d never seen rain like this before. She stood in front of the new, glass kitchen doors, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, watching the water lashing down. It was monsoon-like, droplets the size of pennies hurtling to the ground. Noisy too – not just the claps of thunder, but the constant roar of rain bouncing off the hard ground.
No tennis again today. There were no indoor courts. Emily didn’t want to be in Portugal, she wanted to be in London, and when she thought of Ovington Square, her gloom deepened. The sale couldn’t be dovetailed with buying a new home – there was nothing on the market.
Emily shivered and sipped her tea. The house was cold, a damp chill that was tough to shift. There was a wood-burningstove in the sitting room but no central heating; the Portuguese in the south often relied on wood fires for warmth. Fran recommended reversing the air-conditioning units, so warm air was expelled instead of cold. This had helped, but not much. The machines were attached high up on the walls and blasted hot air downwards, but it seeped upwards, so the ceilings got most of the benefit.
Fran’s second idea was to use dehumidifiers, which now hummed gently in each room, sucking out moisture. The joint solution generated a different problem: Mark was moaning about the electricity meter spinning round at terrific speed. He shouldn’t be so grumpy. Both houses were sold, so they must be awash with cash.
She couldn’t walk the dogs. She couldn’t play tennis. She couldn’t start working for Miguel until March. Emily would’ve welcomed paying guests for company, but the tourist season didn’t kick off until Easter, and anyway, the house was still crawling with builders.
Despite Miguel’s pre-Christmas assurances, the renovation work was behind schedule. The new staircase was up, and the kitchen had been relocated. It wasn’t as glamorous as her London kitchen, but was a world away from its cramped dingy predecessor. There was also a new utility room, but work on the cloakroom and bathrooms only began the week the Ellises returned, introducing them to the sound of the circular saw which set their teeth on edge. When she’d first heard the hideous high-pitched scream, startled, Emily dropped a mug of tea which smashed onto the kitchen floor. Mark was yelling expletives from his study. She heard a man screech, a door slam, then snapping and snarling from the direction of the new cloakroom.
Mark stalked into the kitchen with his hands clamped round his ears like a pair of mufflers.
‘Mind out!’ shouted Emily, pointing at the pieces of shatteredmug.
‘What the fuck! You are going to have to schedule that noise around my diary.’
‘I’ll call Miguel,’ she soothed, bending to sweep bits of broken pottery into a dustpan.
Miguel was no help. He was on holiday in the Maldives, and not back until mid-February, so she asked Fran to speak to the building team’s supervisor, who did a passable imitation of Manuel fromFawlty Towers, shrugging and muttering ‘Que?’ whenever Emily asked what was going on. It was remarkable how easily some Portuguese could transform from being fluent in English to not understanding a word when a hitch arose.
Looking out at the tumbling rain, Emily put her mug down, picked up the chopping board, and began to slice an onion, her eyes watering. She squeezed them shut and wiped the tears with her sleeve.
‘What are you making?’ asked Mark.
She opened her eyes; he was holding out a tissue. ‘French onion soup. I thought it would be nice and warming.’ She took the tissue and dabbed her eyes.
‘Ooh,’ said Mark, screwing up his face in pleasure, ‘sounds wonderful. Can I make you a cup of tea?’
‘Tea would be lovely, thanks.’ She picked up the board and slid the onion slices into a pan. If only she could get away.
That evening, preparing vegetables, Emily dangled temptation in front of her ever-frugal spouse: ‘Why don’t I go back to London and start packing? Save on moving costs.’
‘You can’t. You’re down to your last few days, and I’ve already booked all our flights in the sale.’
Emily put down the knife. ‘Mark don’t be so pedantic. Who’s counting the days I spend in London other than you?’
He reached out and stole a few chunks of carrot from her board. ‘I know the weather’s horrid, but it’ll soon change.’
It was all very well for him. He was jetting off on one of his business trips soon. It would be weeks before she could get away.
Mark was holed up in his study, a stack of unpaid bills hidden in a desk drawer. The buyer’s deposit for the London house was with lawyers; the Ellises wouldn’t receive a penny until the sale completed, and Mark had spent the proceeds from the Croyde sale settling Miguel’s staggering interim bill – he couldn’t risk the man complaining to Emily. Why had he splashed out on those effing elephants? Every morning he checked their shrinking bank balance online. The direct debits for the London gas and utility bills would be taken in two days, and a few days later, the London mortgage, now, with the SVR at 5.5%, costing a whopping £11,000 a month. He kept his phone close, guarded it like a sack full of cash – if a supplier chased payment, he must be the one to take the call. Their only income currently was his noddy fees, which barely paid Svetlana.
Mark was smarting from yesterday’s dressing down over the hot food licence. When Pedro phoned to say the inspection had gone well, Mark ran out of his study, feeling as excited as he used to whenever a client called to appoint him on a new deal, forgetting that he’d never told Emily they needed the licence. His mistake was pointing out that, last year, with the state of the kitchen, it may not have passed inspection.
‘It was you.’ She stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘You changed my website and you let me carry on cooking!’
‘I’m just saying . . .’
‘Don’tsayanything, just make sure it’s fixed before we reopen!’
‘I hear you. I’ve got an appointment with Pedro on Monday. I’ll get this sorted.’
The clock in Pedro’s meeting room showed 11.25. Mark accepted the receptionist’s offer of a cup of coffee and sat down for his 11 o’clock appointment. Pedro arrived beforeMark’s coffee did. The lawyer fidgeted with his papers, stared at the table, and dismissed the receptionist carrying his client’s refreshments with a jerky hand movement. The door clicked shut. Pedro closed his eyes and chewed his lip.
‘Pedro are you unwell?’ asked Mark.
The lawyer put his head in his hands, sighed heavily, then spoke to the tabletop. ‘Mr Ellis, I have had a terrible weekend.’
