Page 95 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
On Monday evening, Mark had poured her a glass of wine with the sort of smile that used to be reserved for war stories about City deals. ‘This is a licence to serve hot food,’ he said, puffing out his chest and slapping a certificate on the table. His eyes were sparkling. ‘In fact, we’re not limited to breakfast, so I might offer dinners too.’
‘You’re going to cook?’ Emily stifled a laugh. Mark offer evening meals? ‘They’ll expect more than a sausage casserole, you know.’
Hearing a bell tinkle, Emily dropped her phone, still wondering if Mark was serious about cooking dinners for guests. She forced her thoughts back to the interior design business. A heavily made-up woman wearing more jewellery than Emily possessed sat down in front of her.
‘I’ve just bought a new five-bedroomed villa,’ the woman said, ‘and it needs a complete makeover. You’ve been recommended by a friend, Cilla Thompson.’
Emily smiled broadly at the stranger. ‘How kind of Mrs Thompson. I remember we planned her work over sundowners at her villa. We’d be delighted to help. Miguel is out with a client, but we can slot something in his diary.’
‘No, it’s not Miguel I want to speak to. As I said,youhave been recommended by Cilla.’
Her new client left and, seconds later, the jangling bell admitted Fran, desperate for the loo.
‘It’s through that door,’ said Emily, pointing with a pen. ‘You can make me a coffee in exchange.’
‘Got any biscuits?’ asked Fran.
‘In the cupboard above the sink,’ Emily replied, thumbing through a recent copy ofHouse Beautiful. She anchored the magazine open with a stapler, considering the bathroom pictured – would it work in the Algarve?
‘How’s Mark?’ asked Fran, setting down a cup of coffee and a plate of digestives.
Emily screwed up her face. ‘I can’t put my finger on it, but something is odd.’ She took a bite of biscuit, chewing as she tried to pin down why she’d even said that. It wasn’t just his sudden interest in the B&B. Last night, when she returned from playing tennis, he’d led her into a steamy master bathroom smelling of rosemary and lavender. The bath was already full. He picked up her clothes when she undressed, promising to put them into the sports washing basket. Emily lowered herself into the scented water. The door was nudged open, and her two dogs bounded in followed by Mark with a large glass of white wine, which instantly frosted with condensation. ‘You hate the dogs being in our suite,’ she said, fondling Tosca’s snout.
‘One night won’t harm,’ he said, leaning over her and settingdown the glass on the ledge beside the bath. ‘I’ll put this over here out of danger.’
And tonight, he was taking her out to Monica’s. Midweek.
Fran watched her closely, a half-eaten biscuit in one hand. ‘Acting odd, how? Yikes, sorry about the biscuits, I seem to have developed an addiction to sugar.’
Emily’s eyes fell to the empty plate, then back up to her friend. ‘I’ve known more unpleasant cravings. My friend Mary couldn’t eat enough pickled onions when she was having her first baby.’
She cast her mind around for what was troubling her about Mark. She’d seen it once before. A long time ago. When was it ... ?
That was it! Emily dropped her mug. Mark had been super-attentive just before she discovered his affair with that American lawyer.
A week had passed since Mark dropped his DNA sample at the surgery, and he was standing outside an estate agency in Quinta Shopping, thinking about Emily. Since he’d taken her out for dinner to Monica’s, he felt she’d been giving him the cold shoulder. With Emily busy working for Miguel, and Mark cooking for guests every night, the couple had hardly seen each other, but when they were in the same room, she said little and always in a tight snippy voice. Was he imagining things? Was Emily just preoccupied with work or had Fran said something?
He told himself he was worrying unnecessarily – Fran would wait for proof before she said anything to Emily. But someone else might be responsible: Tim. His coach knew his girlfriend’s suspicions, and he had both the motive and the ammunition to gossip. Was Tim the source of a rumour that Emily had somehow picked up on?
Mark spun around. Where was Tim, why was he late? He wanted this over and done with. He spotted his coach striding towards him, an envelope in his right hand. Tim’s face wasimpassive. Mark rubbed his chin. The pair stood in silence for a few moments. Mark’s heart was racing, and it took all his willpower not to rip the envelope out of Tim’s hand. His coach took off his sunglasses and tweaked the peak of his cap a little lower, as if trying to hide his face from any curious passers-by. He held out the envelope saying, ‘I’ve translated it.’
Mark snatched it, pulled out a sheet of paper, read the information, and stuffed it in his pocket. Shit!
‘She was right, it’s yours,’ said Tim, giving his eyes a brisk rub.
A few moments passed while the men peered through the window at villas Mark wasn’t seeing. Emily would demand a divorce. He would beg to be allowed to tell Alex himself, but Mark didn’t hold out much hope of saving that relationship either: he knew Alex’s views on infidelity.
Eventually, he asked, ‘So, what does she want?’
‘Money,’ said Tim, turning back and looking through the shop window.
Mark grabbed the youngster by the shoulder and spun him round. ‘I’d got that far myself, thanks. How much?’
‘A million.’
Mark wasn’t really surprised. He’d been expecting an outrageous opening sum; the woman wasn’t an experienced negotiator. He was more interested in why Tim wouldn’t make eye contact with him. ‘Look at me and let’s try this again. How much does she really want?’
Tim glanced up at him from beneath the protective flap of his hat, but his eyes didn’t travel as far as Mark’s face before he lowered them to the pavement again. ‘Maybe I can get her to accept less.’ Tim scratched his cheek.
