Page 24 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
‘We won’t see ours until half-term. The grandkids are all at school.’
Emily huffed. ‘I want to enjoy this visit, but Mark expects me to don a pinny and morph into an Aga housewife.’
Fran slumped into a chair next to Emily. Her T-shirt was rucked up exposing a tiny gold stud in her belly button and a flat, toned stomach. Emily hadn’t really spoken to Fran much, other than to order a round of drinks or buy a tin of tennis balls.
‘I feel dreadful,’ said Fran, tipping up a bottle of water and glugging down half the contents. ‘Shouldn’t have had those double ports.’ She gave a little belch, put her hand over her mouth, and snorted an apology. ‘I could help with your visitors. My mum runs a B&B. I do a mean cooked breakfast.’
Emily took in Fran’s blotchy face, the dark wraparound sunglasses shielding the younger woman’s no doubt bloodshot eyes. Emily was reconsidering the restaurant bookings after a roasting from Mark about the new outside furniture she’d purchased. Emily asked Fran how much she charged, quickly calculating that if she cancelled the dinner reservations for the first and last evening it would cover the cost. Emily clapped her hands at her rescuer. ‘Yes, please!’
Mary called as Emily was parking the car at the supermarket. Emily ran her eyes over a shopping list, hastily scribbled by Fran on the back of a tennis timetable and stepped outside feeling the sun scorching her bare arms.
‘I can hear you’re outside,’ said Mary. ‘Don’t talk to me about the weather; it’s raining in London! Are you walking the dogs or, don’t tell me, off to tennis in glorious sunshine?’
Emily fished around in her Hermes purse for a euro. ‘Too hot to walk the dogs. I’m out shopping.’
‘Ooh, lovely. I’msojealous. You’ll have to take me when we come. I could do with a new summer wardrobe.’
So could I, thought Emily. There was a rattling noise asshe freed a trolley. She fastened her list to the front, peering at Fran’s squiggly writing. Was that beans written underneath mushrooms?
‘Not that sort of shopping,’ she admitted.
‘Don’t they deliver in Portugal?’
‘Probably.’ She had a fleeting image of an Ocado van in Villa Anna’s driveway, Mark with hands on hips shoutingeconomizeat her as the driver unloaded. What explanation could she offer for why she was at the supermarket? Suddenly it came to her. ‘But the website would be in Portuguese.’ She opened the chilled cabinet for a closer look at some lurid, pink sausages. Was anyone going to eat those? She picked up three packs of bacon and steered towards the eggs.
‘Ah, yes. Slight obstacle,’ said Mary. ‘So where are you?’
‘Aldi.’
‘Aldi? Do they allow Bentleys in the Aldi car park?’
Her friend’s laughter stung. The joke was a little too close for comfort, reminding her of Mark’s newest economizing theme: replacing her car with something more practical.
‘Isn’t there a Waitrose?’
‘No,’ said Emily, scanning the shelves for baked beans. ‘There’s a sort of Harrods food hall equivalent, but it’s not terrifically practical.’
She wasn’t going to tell Mary, but Mark had banned her from shopping at the smart supermarket. He’d confronted her, holding up the evidence like a bad school report, running his hand down the receipt, reeling off the offending items.
‘A jar of Marmite for 7 euros. You don’t even like the stuff. And what’s this? A kilo of cherries for 20euros? They bloody grow them in Portugal.’
‘Not ripe until June,’ she’d said, casually.
‘Good news. You get to save carbon miles and anticipate them coming into season.’
She’d watched him carefully fold up the bill, chewing her lip, biting back her temper. Now, wondering why she was always the one backing down when they argued, Emily reversed the trolley to the chilled cabinet and added a couple of packs of smoked salmon.
‘Have you booked your flights?’ she asked, opening the flap on a box of eggs; worryingly, checking eggs for cracks was becoming second nature.
‘Yes! I’ll text you. Wildly exciting. It’s been cloudy, cold, and I’m fed up with the drizzle. Can’t wait to see you and the sun! Must dash. Pilates beckons. Lots of love.’
Later, turning into her driveway, Emily heard the dogs barking and her eyes automatically dropped to check for the black chain. Delighted to see the driveway unencumbered, she purred down to her gate, smiling at David hunkered over by the borehole. Emily unloaded the shopping, slammed the door shut, and ran upstairs, where she flicked on the shower, and dashed out to the wardrobe. Her designer dresses in their zippered bags hung untouched at one end. She pulled out a few floaty dresses, holding them up in front of the mirror and pressing each one against her body. She thought about Fran, hungover at work – the skimpy clothes, unkempt spiky hair. Fran, with her pierced belly button, was just a rebel at heart, drifting, without a sense of purpose. Maybe Emily could help Fran find a direction to channel her life.
She tossed a pale pink sundress onto the bed and opened the door to the bathroom; no steam escaped. Her eyes narrowed. She was sure she’d turned on the shower. Emily spun the tap. Nothing. She stormed out of the bathroom, slathered sun cream onto her bare arms, flinching as it stung her mosquito bites, pulled on the pink dress, and squirted herself with perfume, which made her think of Miguel. What was the scent he wore? It was spicy and citrusy and incredibly sexy and reminded her ofsomeone. Who else wore Penhaligon’s Douro?
She heard a car pull into the driveway and rushed downstairs, yelling out as she clattered downstairs, ‘Can you get David to turn our water back on please, Mark?’
After showing Jess around the house, Emily joined her son by the pool, where he was slouched on one of the smart new rattan sofas. Mark wasn’t as impressed with the new furniture as she was – despite the shop magically delivering before the youngsters arrived or him settling the bill. She arranged a cushion behind her back, then patted the side of the seat inviting Tosca up, scratching the little dog under her chin.
