Page 89 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
Mark hoped his wife was right, but he didn’t think he’d heard the last of Mr Jones. The man wouldn’t back off that quickly, not when the prize was so big. Should Mark have risked submitting that form claiming they were tax resident in Portugal when Ovington Square sold? Had he just swapped his fear of a spell in a Portuguese jail for worrying about a British jail sentence? Were the couple about to start a new adventure as tax frauds in separate prisons?
Thirty-three
At the end of Mark’s next tennis lesson, his coach – who’d been much gentler – suggested a beer. Tim tried to coax his pupil into playing an actual game of tennis, placing his elbows on the table, and saying, ‘This group are a little better than you.’
Mark winced. ‘That’s a bit nerve-wracking.’
‘No, that’s good. You could learn a lot.’
‘I learn a lot from you.’
‘Trust me, you’re ready for this. And they’re great fun.’ Tim stood up and raised his empty bottle, waving it at the clubhouse. ‘Can I tell them you’re in?’
Mark thought for a few moments. Maybe a match would give him a few hours’ peace, dispel those images, always lurking at the corner of his mind, of Emily in shackles in a jail with her hair shaved off. He knew it was extreme, but he couldn’t rid himself of the fear. He finished his beer. ‘Yeah, all right then,’ he said, settling back in his chair.
He watched Fran carrying two fresh bottles towards their table. She stumbled across the terrace, dumped the beers, clamped a hand over her mouth, and rushed off, gagging, towards the changing rooms. Mark narrowed his eyes at her departing back.
‘Is that woman permanently hungover?’
Tim grunted, swinging the fresh beer to his lips. ‘It was alwaysgoing to happen.’
‘What was?’
The coach leaned forward, glanced over his shoulder at the empty terrace, then muttered, ‘She’s preggers.’
Mark spluttered into his beer.
With the B&B empty, and Mark away for two nights helping Deidre sort through his mother’s things, Emily was entertaining Fran. They were sitting barefoot in the outside dining pavilion, dressed in calf-length cotton sundresses, their hair pinned up to allow the light evening breeze to cool their necks. A girly supper of tapas was spread out on the table, with two small glasses of white wine. They speared olives, cut slivers of cheese, and ate prawns cooked in olive oil and garlic, peeling off the pink shells, and dipping hunks of crusty bread into the pungent cooking juices.
‘This would never be enough for Mark,’ Emily said. ‘Why is it some men don’t feel they’ve eaten unless they’ve had a chunk of meat?’
Fran snorted, pushing down a heel of bread to mop up the rich sauce.
‘More wine?’ offered Emily.
Fran placed a hand over her glass. ‘Nah. You have another if you like.’
‘No, I’m exhausted. Sorry if I’ve been a bit crabby tonight. Less wine and I’ll sleep properly. Why don’t I make us a pot of green tea?’ suggested Emily stacking their dirty plates.
‘Yes please,’ said Fran, gathering up the rest of the dishes and following her into the kitchen.
Emily was at the sink, swishing around a basinful of water and frothing up the washing-up liquid. Maybe she should have a cup of warm milk. She heard Fran laughing.
‘Who hung those two pictures?’
‘The ones of the dogs?’ Emily asked, turning off the tap. ‘Mark.’
‘He’s hopeless, isn’t he? One’s a good half-inch lower than the other! I thought you’d got rid of his DIY disasters, but he hasn’t improved, has he?’
Emily felt irritation building inside her. She spun around and snapped, ‘He’s doing his best. No one ever taught him how to do that sort of thing!’
On her way to work the next morning, Emily was taunted by images of Fran’s shocked expression. Had their quarrel been her fault? Should she have let Fran slag Mark off without leaping to his defence? She remembered snipping frostily, ‘It’s not his fault his father was a useless git! I think it’s time you left.’ She certainly could’ve been more diplomatic.
Emily wished she could stop visualising Fran’s hurt expression. Parking the car, her phone rang. She felt a jolt of happiness, then a stab of disappointment. It wasn’t Mark, or Alex, or even Fran. She let it ring through to voicemail, still dwelling on last night’s incident.
Her morning sped by. It started in Miguel’s shop, moved to the stunning villa of a potential new client, then back to the shop, where her boss had Emily in stiches re-enacting the pitch, which she’d helped win, even though the new client had spent most of it batting his eyelashes at Miguel. Emily forgot all about Fran.
Back home, over a sandwich shared with Floria, she listened to her voicemails. Afternoon tennis was cancelled – that was a stroke of luck because she couldn’t face Fran, but she did need something to occupy her mind. She washed up, thinking if she was to relaunch herself into Algarve society, she would need a new wardrobe. She drove back to Quinta Shopping, glancing longingly at Miguel’s shop. She couldn’t stop herself replaying those moments by the sink.
