Page 77 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
‘Alex and Jess will only be staying until the Thursday,’ Emily told him. ‘I’m off to London that Friday so they’ve rented an Airbnb in Lisbon.’
Mark put his empty plate on the sofa and reached for his beer. ‘Did we pay for that?’
‘No.’
He smiled that smug smile she knew he reserved for when he suspected she was fibbing.
‘I didn’t,’ she said defensively. ‘I haven’t given Alex money for months.’
Emily collected their plates and added them to the pile of dirty saucepans and the greasy baking tray with charred blobs of unidentifiable vegetables. She heard Mark calling her from behind, but blanked out his voice. Emily went back into the sitting room and pointed at the kitchen. ‘You can clear up the mess.’ She picked up her wine glass. ‘I’m off for a bath to warm myself up before bed.’
His eyes twinkled at her. ‘I could do that for you?’
‘I’m too tired tonight,’ she said, walking off.
Emily checked the underfloor heating was on before walking barefoot into the refurbished master bathroom. While the water was running, she poured in a capful of bath oil and swished it around with her hands. She lit the scented candles, switched off the lights, and slipped off her robe, letting it fall at her feet, then stepped into the warmth, sinking down and smoothing handfuls of perfumed water over her shoulders.
Miguel had transformed this suite, the whole house, really. Emily needed to show it off, see if she could hook a fewcustomers for his business. Clenching her tummy muscles, she sat up and reached for her wine glass, thinking she might invite Tina back for dinner, and maybe that nice couple that had been at Tina’s dinner party last October, the man with the trucking business. Taking another sip and allowing the stem of the glass to dip below the water, she decided she should throw a party. Emily ran through a possible guest list. There would have to be caterers, Fran couldn’t do the food alone, but Mark shouldn’t mind the expense; why was he still moaning when both houses were sold. He’d promised her she could spend all the money she liked once they had it, he was turning into a right Scrouge. Her mind wandered replaying her afternoon with Fran. Before their coffee arrived, Fran blurted out, ‘I’ve lost my flat. I was hoping to stay a bit longer at yours.’
‘However did you manage to lose your flat?’
Their drinks arrived. Fran looked down into her cup of coffee as if searching for an explanation, then glanced up and said a little sheepishly, ‘I was sleeping with the owner and his wife caught us.’
Emily shifted in her seat, feeling a little priggish. ‘I can see why she would want to throw you out, but can she do that? I mean you’ve got a legal contract and presumably it doesn’t stipulate you can’t have an affair with the owner.’
‘Huh. This is Portugal.’
There were a few minutes of silence. Emily finished her coffee, expecting more explanation. ‘Meaning?’ she probed.
‘Meaning there is no contract.’
Emily whistled. ‘That is bad luck. Whatever will you do?’
‘No idea. I’m staying at a hotel, but I can’t afford that much longer.’
Emily wagged a finger. ‘You need structure in your life.’
Emily had spent most of the day with Fran, surfing the net, searching for somewhere to rent. She drew out a thousand eurosto lend her friend. Fran begged to be let back into the villa, but Emily knew she’d run out of road with Mark.
Now, rising from the scented water, Emily reached for a fluffy white towel. Her own life seemed to be getting back on track just as Fran’s had veered off course. Maybe she should ask Mark to be more lenient, have a bit of compassion; the B&B was shut, would it hurt him if Fran slept in a spare room for a week or two?
The spring flowers were at their peak, delicate, purple wild orchids, snapdragons, and brilliant white pincushions of a flower Emily had never seen before. The holiday season was reopening. Only the day before, Emily saw four pasty-looking tourists on the fairway when she drove to Miguel’s boutique in Quinta.
Miguel’s business was located between an estate agent and a smart café with a large terrace offering comfy sofas, the angled sunshades providing protection to bored partners while their spouses browsed the boutique shops. Today, Emily was sitting at one of those tables, Miguel beside her, opposite a tall lady in a short, white tennis dress. The shade was angled to protect the designers, exposing their client – at her insistence – to the Algarve sun.
Miguel picked up a swatch of cloth from the jumble on the table. ‘This would be simply sublime for the cushions in the master bedroom.’
The client wrinkled her nose, her face tipped toward the sun.
‘Or if you want to be risqué, Mrs Thompson, what about the pink?’ suggested Miguel, his eyes locking with Emily’s.
From across the table came a deep sigh, then Mrs Thompson shrugged, pushing the straps of her dress off her shoulders. ‘Can’t risk getting marks!’ she said, shooting a smile at Miguel.
Emily’s mouth twitched an answering smile. Working with Miguel was never dull. She didn’t begrudge sitting here even though Alex and Jess were visiting. She too could be sittingbeing fawned over by salesmen, her life could once more resemble Mrs Thompson’s, only Emily would be more careful with the sun.
Remembering that Alex was taking Jess out for dinner, a plan which had earned him a clap on the back from his father, Emily said, ‘Why don’t I pop round this evening and run through more of our ideas? I mean if you’d rather spend today in the sun?’
Mrs Thompson pointed a manicured finger at Emily. ‘Now you are the sort of woman I can do business with.’ She stooped and gathered a tennis bag from under the table. ‘Come at seven for sundowners, and we’ll plan the whole house together!’
