Page 21 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
‘Enough!’ said Emily. ‘Why not take a swim, cool off?’
He wasn’t tempted, too much to do.
She waved her phone at him. ‘Alex has met someone in Sagres and wants to bring her to stay. He needs to hire a car, or you could arrange for them to be collected?’
An image of their cashflow swam before his eyes. ‘Why can’t they hitch?’
She swatted a hand at him. ‘Don’t be so cheap. We can’t be that poor yet, surely?’
He perched on the end of her lounger, his back to the sun. ‘Alex isn’t a child. He can pay for himself.’
Emily pouted. ‘He can’t. He has no money, and I don’t like him hitching.’ Her voice softened. ‘Come on, it’s not fair to expect him to change overnight, this isn’t his fault!’
‘Until we sell the houses—’
She cut across him, sitting up and jabbing a finger in his face. ‘Oh, do shut up. I’ve come out here, haven’t I? I’m doing my bit. Who cleaned the pool this morning?’ She swung an arm at the washing line strung between two carob trees. ‘Who did the laundry? Alex has no idea you’ve got money problems, so unless you’re ready to confess that you’ve been sacked, you should thank me for keeping your sordid secret and running this house.’
His shoulders sagged, his stomach clenched, and he closed his eyes to ward off the memory of that humiliating morning three months ago.
‘All right.’
He was rewarded with a smile. ‘Thank you.’
Mark handed Emily the template he’d brought out, designed to record all trips home. He ran his fingers through his hair. How direct should he be? He needed her buy-in before she ate too far into her allowable ninety days, but his wife had been livid when the restriction was first explained, claiming he had hoodwinked her.
‘I think I’ve managed to squash everything into fifty days.’
Emily dropped the timesheet, sat up, and glared at him over the rim of her sunglasses. ‘You told me it was ninety!’
Mark raised his hands in surrender and spoke softly. ‘Stop! It’s atotalof ninety days. You get ninety, I get ninety, but they don’t have to be the same days. I need forty – the maximum I’m allowed to work there as a non-UK taxpayer – for business. I’m sure you’ll use a different forty to see your girlfriends, and hairstylist, and whatever else you do in London.’
Forty days each for solo trips, that was the best part of three months apart, a gradual reacquaintance rather than a shotgun remarriage. ‘So, that leaves fifty for ourjointsocial life in the UK,’ he explained.
She lay down, sliding her sunglasses back up her nose with a finger.
‘So, our joint social life ... we’ll ...’ He glanced up. Emily was scratching an arm as he tailed off. ‘... want to go back for Christmas ...’
‘These wretched mosquito bites really itch.’ He watched her rake her fingernails across her skin, leaving red weals along her arm. ‘Gosh they’re sore as well as itchy now,’ she moaned.
‘Well, stop scratching!’ he snapped.
She let her arms fall. Mark bit his lip to stop himself laughing at the sight of his wife pinning her arms to her side. He fixed his eyes on her. ‘The numbers balance if we head back on a ferry mid-November.’
‘Have you finished painting Alex’s bedroom? He didn’t say anything last time, but we can’t have his new girlfriend sleeping in there with peeling paint.’
He stood up, offering her a hand. ‘Step this way, madame. I did it yesterday.’
She pulled a face. ‘In one day?’
Mark trotted up the stairs, Emily at his heels, a dog in herwake. He opened the door to Alex’s bedroom, letting out a strong smell of paint. Emily pushed Mark away playfully. He propped himself against the doorway watching her back.
‘Mark,’ she said, a note of concern in her voice.
‘Yes.’
‘You did sand down before you painted?’
‘Sand?’
