Page 88 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
Emily asked casually, ‘Any news on the banned topic?’
‘Nada,’ said Mark, clicking open the automatic gates.
At the restaurant, they were shown to a table at the water’s edge. Emily gazed out at the tourists trying their hand at paddleboarding, some wobbling, attempting to steady themselves with the paddle, then yelping and spluttering with laughter as the oar plunged deeper into the lake before tipping them over into the chilly grey-blue water.
Mark ordered a burger, Emily a salad. Waiting for their food, Emily listened to Mark complain about his noddy roles.
‘It’s so formulaic. There was never a roadmap with M&A, each deal was different. Now, it’s always the same problems, principally how to justify awarding the executive team’s stonking pay rises. It’s not a very rewarding way to earn a living.’
‘You never complained when someone awarded you a stonking bonus.’
He gave her a lopsided grin. When did he start doing that? ‘I earned them,’ he said.
‘And these guys probably reckon they’ve earned their pay too.’
He tapped the side of his glass with a finger. ‘Ah, but, you see, there’s the difference ...’
She feigned interest, pulling a sympathetic face, but her eyes were drawn to a man in the water who was swimming front crawl, buttressed against the cold by a wetsuit, his arms arcing up over the surface dragging his body forwards with each stroke, bare feet kicking up a ripple of white in his wake. By the time the waitress brought her salad, the swimmer was at the halfway point. He stopped and trod water for a few moments looking both ways, forwards and then back to where he’d swum from.Emily speared a chunk of avocado, willing the man on – don’t give up now!
She leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. ‘If you aren’t finding the noddy positions exciting, why not take responsibility for the B&B? I’ve decided to open for Easter, it’s not fair to cancel so late. Once it kicks off, I can’t run all three bedrooms and work mornings for Miguel.’
His eyes were wide, a frightened look behind them.
‘What about when we have the hot food licence? Someone is bound to ask for a cooked breakfast, like Dolly did last year.’
‘They’ve booked again, coming in June. And you managed then.’
‘Sort of,’ he said, smiling. ‘Dolly cooked, really. I was lucky she was so nice.’
‘Well, if you’re not going to run it, we’ll have to find someone to help, or we shut. Think about it. We could just offer a continental breakfast, or I can teach you how to cook, it’s not tricky. The secret is in the planning.’
Emily spotted the swimmer restarting, slowly at first, then gathering momentum, propelling himself doggedly across to the other side of the lake. They just needed to dig deep and find a way through this mess, thought Emily, not give up. Mark would sort the tax problem. He was used to dealing with regulators; it’s what his entire career was all about.
The waitress cleared their plates, and Mark ordered an espresso and a second glass of wine for Emily. His phone rang, vibrating on the table. Incoming call: number withheld. He answered as the waitress placed the bill on the table.
‘Mark Ellis speaking.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Ellis. This is James Jones from HMRC. Is now a convenient time? I have one or two questions.’
Mark’s stomach clenched. He forced himself to relax, replying lightly, ‘Mr Jones. How can I help?’
Across the table, Emily’s eyes widened, and she leaned closer. Mark pushed his chair back and angled himself away from her, handing his credit card to the waitress who inserted it clumsily and dropped it onto the floor. She dived, scrabbling to retrieve it, but it slipped between two slats of decking and into the murky water below.
‘Oh shit!’ said Mark.
The tax inspector coughed. ‘Mr Ellis?’
Mark dragged his attention back to the call. ‘Sorry. My credit card just fell in a lake. Any chance you could call back?’
The waitress summoned the manager who peered through the floorboards at the dark waters below. ‘Sir, we are very sorry, sir. We will get your card back.’
The pair pulled faces, speakingsotto voceto each other in Portuguese. They scuttled indoors. The waitress reappeared, bearing a second espresso for Mark and an enormous glass of wine for Emily. The manager returned, bare-chested, dressed only in shorts, a slight paunch protruding over the top, a snorkel and mask covering his face. He sat on the decking edge and lowered himself into the muddy water then disappeared beneath the deck, his feet giving a final lopsided kick.
‘That was the tax inspector,’ Mark told Emily, ‘in case you hadn’t guessed. Hardly the professional image I wanted to project.’
Emily gave him a sympathetic look, then tipped her head back, letting the sun fall on her face. ‘It might not have been the most professional of calls, but you sounded unphased and were prepared to delay your discussion to deal with what, to the inspector, must have sounded like quite a minor issue with your credit card. Hardly the sign of a tax dodger.’
A hand appeared, clutching the side of the deck, followed by the tip of a snorkel. The manager pushed back the mask, a triumphant look on his face as he produced Mark’s credit card,a tangle of weed still attached to it, dripping water back into the lake.
