Page 14 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
Mark ran a finger up and down his beer bottle. He must drive the money message home. ‘Get used to them. They’re not changing until one of the houses sells. Essential stuff only.’
Emily took a swig of wine then slammed her glass onto the table. ‘Are you saying no to everything except sorting out the damp?’ She threw her list at him; it fluttered above the breadbasket and landed in a dish of olive oil.
‘Let’s not spoil the evening,’ he said, fishing out the slick green list and holding it up to let the oil drip back into the dish. ‘Until one of the houses sells, we can’t throw around money we don’t have. Why not find a local interior designer and enjoy yourself planning changes? That’s free.’
Emily picked up her wine glass. He reached across and wrapped his hands around her other hand, stroking it. ‘I’m not trying to be difficult. Once we’ve got the money you can spend what you like.’
A dish of calamari was placed in front of him, and he picked a piece up with his fingers, dipping it in the aioli, and biting into the crunchy batter, his mouth exploding with the garlickyflavour. ‘Gosh, this is seriously good. Try one.’ He nudged the bowl towards Emily.
‘I like that idea.’ Emily wiped her hands on her napkin. ‘The local interior designer. What about some help? Housekeeper, gardener, pool man?’
He felt his throat tighten. He’d been waiting for the right entry point. ‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘I’ll tackle the DIY, but with that, my noddy roles, and sorting out the red tape here, you’ll have to sort the domestic stuff.’
‘Nah-ah,’ she mumbled through gritted teeth. ‘Oh no, you don’t.’
‘Well, someone has to earn some money, and you’ve made it quite clear you don’t want to get a job.’
‘I willnotlead my mother’s life,’ she said, quietly, calmly.
He patted the air with his hands. ‘Look, once the London rentals kick in, we can hire some help. How many times do I have to stress: this is temporary?’ He picked up a spring roll, dabbed it in sweet chilli sauce, then smiled at her. ‘Why don’t I book you a flight to London next week? You can pop back and see your girlfriends?’
‘I’m allowed to fly, am I? You don’t expect me to swim home?’
‘Ha ha. I’ve got mountains of Avios points,’ he said, biting into his spring roll.
He totted up what he’d agreed to spend. A few grand on damp proofing, and less than a hundred on tools. The Ellis buffer wouldn’t be dented too much.
Five
April 12th
Ellis bank balance: £39,237.98
The sun was burning Alex’s back. He was lying face down, his chin resting a little uncomfortably on the metal edge of the lounger. Below him, there was a book on the grass, a can of Pepsi Max beside it. A shadow fell across the pages. He reached for his drink, took a few glugs, and read on.
‘Busy day?’ his father asked in a clipped tone.
‘Dad, I only got here yesterday,’ he muttered into the sunbed.
‘Which is why I didn’t say anything until today. Your mother could do with some help.’
Alex craned his neck, squinting up at his father who was dressed in pressed chinos and long-sleeved shirt, a scowl distorting his face. He pushed himself upright and sat with his legs straddling the uncomfortable lounger. ‘With what? It’s over thirty degrees – too hot to walk the dogs, and she never wants help with anything else in London.’
‘But we aren’t in London. Why don’t you go and ask, instead of lounging around by the pool as if you’re on an all-inclusive five-star holiday?’
Alex huffed, finished his drink, crushing the can in his fist, and stomped up the steps. Something weird was going on. If Dad was taking a sabbatical, why was he holed up in that shed of a studydressed like he was attending a meeting? This place made Alex’s Uni house look tempting: the furniture belonged on a bonfire, the taps leaked, his room smelled. What were they doing out here without a housekeeper, and why had they rented out the Croyde house when Alex had been living there?
His mother was standing at the top of the stairs. ‘I’m just popping to the local supermarket,’ she said. ‘Fancy joining me?’
He shook his head. ‘Dad told me to help. Should I walk the dogs?’
She tilted her head to one side, reached out, and stroked his hair away from his face. ‘I think it’s a bit hot. Why not chill out and enjoy the sunshine?’
He spread his hands. ‘That’s what I was doing! Until Mr Angry saw me. He makes me feel like a chaperoned Victorian debutante, snipping at me to do something useful. Why doesn’thechill? He could start by putting on a pair of shorts.’
