Page 27 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
He’d been trying to ignore the ear-splitting screams. He lifted the window-blind with a finger. Just below him, in the deep end of the pool, his son was treading water, hands cupped and, like a child, was squirting jets of water at his girlfriend. The dogs were standing on a sun lounger, barking along playfully, reminding Mark of the invoice he’d sat on the day before Alex arrived.Please pay, delivery this afternoon!was scrawled in biro across the top; his wife had spent €20,000 on new outside furniture.
Mark ran a hand down his face. There was a guffaw of laughter. He dropped the blind, sat down, and shuffled his papers into a neat stack. A squeal pierced the air, and his son’s voice floated up, ‘I’ll duck you! Come here, don’t think you can get away from me!’ There were splashes, the sound of Emily’s laughter, and her raised voice, ‘Alex, don’t be so mean. How did I give birth to such a monster?’
Another scream. More splashing. He shoved the papers away and stormed outside. ‘Hey, keep the noise down, guys! Some of us have to work!’
‘Sorry, Mr Ellis,’ said Jess.
He heard a second female voice say, ‘Sorry, Mr Ellis.’ Who was that? He walked down another few steps. What was Fran doing lounging by the pool?
Emily beamed up at him. ‘Darling, why not come and join us? The water’s a lovely temperature. Can’t you take a few hours off?’
He gritted his teeth. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘Funny sort of sabbatical,’ Alex quipped.
Now, remembering his son’s taunting voice, he wriggled his toes into a comfortable position in the running shoes and reminded himself there were just two more days of this pantomime Emily was orchestrating: pretending to Alex and his new girlfriend that the parents weren’t short of money. Two more days of chomping through the last of their precious cash – why did Emily choose such expensive restaurants?
He tucked in his running shirt, perking up when he remembered that Emily was cooking for Alex’s last evening, so there was only one more night of holding his breath while his feckless son coaxed his girlfriend into ordering lobster.
Mark eased himself off the bed, his eyes resting on Emily, curled up on her side. She was coping, and the cavalry was in sight: buyers were sniffing around both properties, and London bookings were picking up. May had a few, June had six nights, and July was brilliant – every weekend and a few mid-week bookings too. On its own, July would deliver over £50,000.
Mark crept out of the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.
‘Morning, Mr Ellis.’
He jumped and spun around. Fran was coming out of a bedroom.
As if reading his mind, she said, ‘I was out late with Alex and Jess. We thought it best if I stayed over so breakfast is on time. I’ll get going with that fry-up, shall I, while you go and earn it.’
Mark ran down the stairs, bristling at the tell-tale slip-slopnoise of Fran’s sandals following him. He marched into the kitchen, collected his water bottle, banged the fridge door shut, and sprinted out, jogging past David, who had a spanner in his hand.
With temperatures barely dropping below twenty degrees, Mark was leaving his office window permanently open behind the burglar bars. His new lair was a pleasant temperature in the mornings and daytime breezes acted as free air conditioning. But today there was an additional reason for the fresh air – the room needed drying out. Mark logged off the banking portal and glanced down. The pool of water, which he’d walked into balancing a plate of Fran’s bacon and eggs at eight-thirty, had shrunk to a puddle, irritatingly just beneath his feet. He pulled up the weather app: no rain forecast for tonight.
Mark ran a finger down his Portuguese red tape list: dog licences, opening a post-box,and registering with the local doctor’s surgery. Top of the list: residency, a prerequisite to enrol on the NHR and ensure they could stay beyond 4 July without falling foul of the Brexit restriction of ninety days in every one hundred and eighty.
Twenty minutes later, with a folder of papers tucked under his arm, Mark was strolling down the tree-lined road to the Almancil town council. Sweat bonded his long-sleeved shirt to his body, and there were damp patches on his back and under his armpits, but he had to be properly dressed for a meeting with authority.
The council’s office was small. A row of five orange plastic seats faced a glass-shuttered counter staffed by two ladies who were so short only their heads and shoulders were visible above the counter. The window gave a view of a car park. The remaining wall was covered by a noticeboard plastered with information leaflets, all in Portuguese. A clock hung above the noticeboard.
The room was quiet. Business at the counters was being conducted in hushed tones. Mark pushed a button by the door and retrieved a pre-numbered ticket: E63. His eyes flicked up at the wall behind the counter where the number E59 was displayed. He took a seat beside a young mother with a toddler on her lap, who stretched out a wavering explorative hand towards Mark’s folder. He wrapped his arms round it, hugging it to his chest. An hour and a half ticked slowly by with Mark fending off the toddler’s repeated lunges toward his possessions. The staff were not inefficient, they simply approached every client in a manner that reminded him of Dickensian bank staff, listening attentively before disappearing into a backroom to re-emerge with forms that were completed together ... slowly.
At midday, the shutter was pulled down on one of the counters. The official disappeared. Mark was alone on the plastic chairs. The toddler was now sitting on the countertop, secured there by his mother’s chest. Business concluded, the officer chuckled and waved goodbye to the child and the mother, glanced at the clock, and pulled down the shutter on her station.
Two hours later, Mark was back at the town council trying to forget his recent encounter with Emily. He’d returned to the villa for a sandwich and tutted when he opened the front door to a blast of cold air. The sliding door was wide open, there was no sign of the youngsters, but he could see Emily swimming, the dogs trotting alongside keeping pace.
‘Fuck! Bloody Emily, she’s not even trying to bloody economize.
‘Emily!’ he yelled above the sound of yapping dogs. ‘Emily!’ He jogged down the stairs and stood at the shallow end, hands on hips.
Emily stopped at the deep end and turned around, clutching the side, and smiling at him. The smile rapidly evaporated.
‘You’ve got the aircon on full and you’re not even using it! Andyou’ve left the bloody doors wide open too, so we’re paying to chill the whole Algarve.’
‘You have it on in your office.’
‘When I’m working. I turn it off when I go out. And another thing ...’ He stopped mid-sentence. His wife had ducked under the water and was performing star jumps like a child, sinking, exploding out of the water with her eyes screwed shut, then spluttering as she took another deep breath before submerging again.
Now, looking into the eyes of the town council official, Mark told himself not to think about Emily. Concentrate on getting residency certificates, use them to join the NHR, then badger the selling agents. He had a fleeting picture of their bank balance. Should he have blown all their capital buying Villa Anna? Was he risking everything like a manic gambler heaping all the chips onto the colour red at a casino? He had to get a move on, get this plan to work.
