Page 5 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
She recoiled, hiding half her face behind the door. ‘I had to do that. I was worried the dogs might fall in.’
‘They’ve managed the last few years,’ he snapped. ‘And what about those flattened cardboard boxes I clocked on Wednesday evening? There was nothing wrong with our gym equipment. Jumped the gun a bit this year, haven’t you?’
She swallowed and stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’ she whispered, crossing to her husband.
‘Nothing,’ he mumbled, lying back down. ‘I just don’t feel well. I’ll stay here today.’
‘I just want to get on with things!’
‘Well, you can’t. No more spending. Please.’
Her voice croaked. ‘Why?’
‘Because I say so.’ He thumped onto his side, pulling the duvet over his head, adding in a muffled voice, ‘Now turn off the lights and let me rest.’
Emily withdrew. She’d been the verbal punchbag for rollercoaster deals before. Once Mark got the transaction back on track, he’d apologize.
Shaking out the Saturday edition of theFinancial Timesand propping it against the cafetière, Mark sniffed. Bacon. Svetlana was expensive – with payroll taxes, over £3,000 a month – but Emily didn’t cook anymore. He wasn’t sure what she did on weekdays when he was entertaining clients, but at weekends, the couple invariably ate out. He tried to concentrate on an article speculating about the direction of interest rates – inflation was picking up, but economists expected it to be temporary – but like a bee stuck in the tempting nectar-filled flowers of a snapdragon, his mind drifted back to the topic of domestic costs: on top of Svetlana, Emily had announced a new gardening team was starting soon.
He was still perusing the pink pages, worrying at the problem like a dog at a favourite toy, when Emily walked in, dressed in pale-blue Lycra. He rustled the paper shut.
‘Sleep well? You look great in that!’
Emily stroked her sides, wriggling her body suggestively. ‘It’s a new range. I only bought it yesterday.’
She spooned raspberries and strawberries onto her plate. Recalling his own childhood bowls of porridge and stewed apple, Mark remembered he hadn’t spoken to his mother all week.
A dollop of yoghurt was added to the fruit. ‘It’s supposed to be more flattering to us older gym bunnies!’ she said. ‘Shall I give you a quick run through the weekend agenda?’
Fuck, please not a charity ball where he was expected to bid thousands to secure some overpriced piece of shit!
‘Today it’s the Overseas Property Show! Let’s leave about ten-thirty. Give you plenty of time to work first.’
Mark dropped his cutlery and pushed his plate aside, unable to finish his food. There was a rat-a-tat sound, and Svetlana walked in, stacked a tray, then melted away, shutting the door behind her.
Emily lowered her voice. ‘Do you know which day it is yet?’
‘What?’ he snapped.
She leaned closer. ‘Come on, boyo,’ she teased.
He felt a ripple of pleasure at the use of her pet name for him; she’d even copied his mother’s Welsh accent.
‘You know what I mean! I love this time of year! I’ve such plans. I gave you the big list, but I’ve got so many other ideas to discuss with you.’
He chewed his lower lip. ‘No,’ he said, refilling his coffee cup.
She arched her eyebrows at him and leaned over, batting her eyelashes. ‘But it must be soon,’ she coaxed.
‘Think I might take that blue Lycra off you,’ he offered, standing up and holding out a hand.
She laughed, pushing herself away from the table. ‘Later, darling. I’m giving Mary a lift to Pilates!’
Having devoured every page of every section of the newspaper, Mark tossed it aside. Over the previous twenty years, gradually, everything except work had been eliminated from his life. Emily ran domestic affairs, and he had no outside interests. Hobbies and a career as a mergers and acquisitions banker were a contradiction. Tennis, friendships, they’d all been sacrificed at the altar of his career and shrivelled to nothing, like an untended houseplant that struggles, parched, then curls up and dies.
He rang his mother.
‘Gwen Ellis,’ purred the voice he’d loved all his life.
