Page 85 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
‘The kettle’s on if you change your mind. Be out of your hair in a jiffy.’ She turned to leave, then seemed to change her mind, adding, ‘Oh, and thanks for last night.’ She winked at him. ‘It was fun.’
The room seemed to lurch out from under him and his eyes widened. What was fun? Who else knew what had been fun? And did “fun” need to be kept secret from Emily?
For the next half hour, he tried to recall the events at the beach bar, but his mind kept flickering back to his mother. Despite his head thumping like an out-of-control washing machine on the final spin cycle, he called Deidre. Had Gwen been in pain? Had she called out for Mark? Deidre kept dissolving into tears and passing the phone to her husband until, eventually, Mark stopped hounding his mother’s friend.
Mark stared into his coffee mug. What was he going to do about Emily? He still hadn’t spoken to her, allowing her calls to transfer to his voicemail. Plan B was not arduous. People dreamed of retiring to Portugal. She knew the rules – it wasn’t an innocent mistake. Dare he risk the taxman discovering what she’d done? Maybe she was right, and no one would question her claim to have spent only ninety days in the UK. Mark swallowed a mouthful of tepid coffee, wrinkling his nose as it slid down his throat.
Had he let his mum down? Did she understand that he loved her but just couldn’t be with her in Essex? How could she when she never knew the underlying reason why he didn’t visit? Markgroaned loudly. The dogs sat up, barking. He shouted at them, and they sank back down. He hung his head in shame, realizing that his mother must’ve assumed her son was too busy enjoying life in the sun to be bothered trekking back and forth to spend a few days with her. When she’d needed him most, the one time sheeverasked him to do something for her, to accompany her to the cardiologist, he’d let her down. His mother never asked him to buy the house in Chalkwell, never asked him to pay her utility and council tax bills or give her a monthly allowance. She’d probably donated all that money to charity because there was never any evidence of her spending it on herself. No new clothes or hats, no fancy gadgets, no car. She’d never even learned how to drive, always relied on the bus. Gwen had turned her life around after his father left; Mark couldn’t remember ever thinking he was disadvantaged. The two of them had led a modest but good life together, so where had Mark got his streak of ambition from? Had he inherited it from his useless father? If so, it was something else he didn’t want to emulate from his dad; his childhood had been considerably better than most of his adult life.
At least Gwen died believing her son had made a success of his life. He’d shielded her from the shame of his redundancy, his downfall from being an important man at a top-notch bank to his part-time, non-exec roles. How he missed that job! It had defined his life, it was his persona. It was what he wanted to do today: forget his problems by immersing himself in the complicated tactics of a hostile takeover.
No, he’d done well on the deception stakes. His mother died believing her wonderchild was a roaring success, not the total failure he felt this morning. Was it really something to congratulate himself on? Surely his mother would’ve preferred to see more of him as a failure, than hardly at all as the impostor he paraded each time he showed up last year.
And what about his latest problem? Why did he get so drunk he couldn’t remember what happened last night? He wasn’t going to ask Fran, but maybe Tim could fill in the missing hours when he ran into him. He wouldn’t need to ask. Mark had been to enough office Christmas parties to know how people reacted towards colleagues who’d let their hair down a little too loosely the night before.
He went back to the kitchen, poured the cold coffee down the sink, and made himself a fresh mug, carrying it into the bathroom, stopping to drink hot mouthfuls as he shaved. Stepping into the shower, he let cold water trickle over him, torturing himself with memories of his childhood, his myriad problems spinning through his mind. He marshalled them into priority – sort out his mother’s funeral, get to the bottom of last night’s missing hours, and ensure he wasn’t arrested by the Portuguese police. The UK taxman and Tommy’s planning permission didn’t even make it onto the list.
Thirty-one
March 23rd
Ellis bank balance: (£137,956.36) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 92 Mark: 86
By the afternoon, Mark had chosen a funeral date and booked flights. With a heavy heart he listened to his voicemails.
In Emily’s most recent – left mid-morning – she sounded distraught about Gwen. The second, a grovelling message left at a courteous 9 o’clock that morning, ‘–I didn’t want to disturb your sleep, darling–’ was practical. She promised to return that evening, and would he mind collecting her? He left her to make the arrangements. She was clearly experienced with the EasyJet app.
Emily’s first message had been left while she was in a taxi from Heathrow to Ovington Square on, she confessed, her ninety-second tax day in the UK. She’d even managed to wangle herself a seat on the early flight on her first late-night special in July; all planes were severely delayed that night because of a strike by French air traffic controllers.
He deleted all three.
At Faro airport, Emily was defensive.
‘Two days! I don’t see what all the drama’s about,’ she complained, handing over her case, which he lobbed into the back of the car with less care than he would normally take. Heglared at her over the car roof. ‘I don’t even know what to say. The taxman isn’t our friend, Emily. Rules are rules, and there’s nothing approximate about the 90-day rule. It’s a maximum allowance of ninety days in the UK. Period. End of. Not:Oops, ninety-two. Sorry, sir, I must have miscounted.’
He pulled out of the collection zone and accelerated up to the roundabout, the silence accentuating the strained atmosphere. Mark heard Emily click her tongue.
‘Don’t snap my head off OK, but I think you’re taking this a bit too seriously. It’s not one of your City documents going through the verification process. There isn’t a lawyer demanding documentary proof I only spent ninety days in the UK. Who will ever find out? Who even knows apart from us?’ Emily paused, then asked, ‘Anyway, how did you find out?’
Mark didn’t want to discuss it. His mind kept flashing up images of his mother. ‘Alex,’ he muttered.
He felt her breath on his arm as she leaned towards him. ‘Alex? How can he possibly know about it?’
He huffed, wishing she’d just shut up. ‘Jess worked it out. Apparently, you upended your handbag, just before your first March trip, and she put everything back in. She spotted the tax days record, worked out what you were doing, then put two and two together that you were cheating. She’d overheard you arranging to meet Mary for a drink on Friday night and knew you weren’t supposed to be in London until Saturday morning.’
Waiting for his turn to enter the roundabout, he saw her dismiss his sarcasm, sweeping her hand as if brushing away a fly. ‘Well, the last time I spoke to our son, he wasn’t employed by His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs, and neither was Jess.’ She paused, lowering her voice, ‘But she is an accountant.’
He didn’t reply. He glanced across at Emily, sitting with her arms crossed over her chest. There was no point asking why she’d cheated. She glanced at him, and he averted his gaze,seeking a gap to pull out into.
‘She’s a really nice girl, but it’s a shame for us Alex chose an accountant to fall in love with,’ said Emily softly.
‘Because your secret would still be safe if she wasn’t tax savvy?’ he spat. ‘Thanks, but I think I’d rather know what you’ve done.’
He released the clutch and shot around the roundabout, changing up a gear, focusing on pushing the Fiat to its limits. She was a lovely little car really, spirited, easy to park, cheap to run.
Emily interrupted his thoughts. ‘Alex is very upset about Gwen. Said he didn’t see much of her in the last six months because of his business. He’s feeling guilty.’
