They were on the outskirts of Valladolid, which reared up, a depressing series of tall tower blocks reminiscent of Soviet-era housing. The road stretched out in front, a glorious dual carriageway, but with no sign of a layby or service station. She had never considered the sheer size of Spain.
‘I can’t stop here. Man up and deal with it. It’s your fault we’re in this bloody country to start with.’
Mark’s response was to fold his arms and stare out the window.
She heard a whimpering noise behind her.
‘For crying out loud, shut that blasted animal up!’ Mark yelled.
‘They’re dogs. Unlike you, they’ve no idea how far we’re going. Just give it a break.’
‘They need to fit in with my life, not me with theirs.’
‘Why? It’s not their fault you’re suddenly spending so much time around them. I don’t expect they enjoy it any more than you do, but unlike you, they’re not complaining.’
‘Stop defending the dogs all the time!’
‘Stop being horrid and start behaving like the man I married!’
With her head cushioned against the car window by a jumper she hadn’t worn since the ferry, Emily was dozing. She heard the indicator, then the car turned left, and her body jerked. She sat up rubbing her eyes. They were driving along a steep dirt track.
‘Nearly there, the house is at the top,’ said Mark, smiling at her.
She stretched her arms above her head, gazing around at the umbrella pine trees lining the road. On her side of the track was a burned-out tree with an electricity line suspended through its charred limbs – that was odd. Through Mark’s window she saw four tennis courts, and beyond them, a large terrace dotted with ladies in tennis skirts and short-sleeved tops sitting in dazzling sunshine. Her eyes flickered to the temperature gauge: 26 degrees!
At the brow of the hill, the car turned sharply left, and swept down a narrow driveway sandwiched between two startlingly green, fenced-off lawns, then drew up in front of a set of tall, barred gates. Emily could see through the rails and drank in the view. Facing her, was a gravelled parking area and the whitewashed house with an ochre-coloured roof. Recalling the brochure, she recognized the hedge hiding the pool, the huge lawn, the palm trees, and hibiscus bushes; the roses were flowering – in early April! To the left was her own fenced tennis court then an area of untended land backed by a dense pineforest. She felt that childlike ripple of joy you get when you’re shown your holiday villa, only this was her new home, she wasn’t just here for a fortnight. Wow!
‘Excited?’ Mark asked, widening his eyes at her.
‘Can’t wait!’
The gates juddered open, and the Bentley shot in. There was a yap of excitement at her feet.
‘Shush, off you get now,’ she scolded, pushing away a cold moist snout.
Emily opened her door, and the sun hit her with a blast of warmth. She shuddered. ‘Oh, that is lovely, isn’t it? Let’s settle the dogs and explore!’
Mark unlocked the front door, and she rested her chin on his shoulder, peering into the entrance hall which was darker than she’d expected. She walked inside her new house, and a musty smell hit her. She sniffed loudly.
‘She just needs airing, darling. You have a poke about; I’ll open her up.’
Emily unlatched a door on her right into a windowless room, with a sink so small it would make a bird bath look like a pool; cheap linoleum covered the floor. She closed that door, and walked a few paces further, to an architrave – no door – and her face crumpled. It was the kitchen, but it didn’t resemble either the bright room pictured in the brochure or the spacious Blakes kitchen with its concealed appliances in Ovington Square. At the far end of the room there was a glimmer of natural light from a tiny window above a single sink. Her eyes travelled around the dingy brown cupboards, over the plastic worktop, and past an exposed small fridge, settling on an equally unconcealed washing machine. She swallowed and left.
In the master bedroom, Emily did a double-take. Shiny white and grey floor tiles led through to the en-suite bathroom, a long narrow room cluttered with sanitary ware and a door whichinconveniently opened inwards. On the way out she banged her elbow, a jolt of pain shooting up her arm. She glared at the guilty door handle.
The other bedrooms – one on the same floor as the master, the other two below – were all dingy with iron bars over the frosted windows and bathrooms that looked like they were fitted in the eighties. Emily couldn’t even bring herself to check out the basement. Standing in the suite below the master bathroom, laughter gurgled in her throat. Bubbles of flaking paint covered the wall above the headboard, and the room smelt dank like a Victorian coal cellar.
Mark walked in. ‘It’s not quite what we were sold from the brochure, is it?’ she moaned.
He took her hands in his and kissed her. ‘Come outside, cos that’s where you’ll really spend your time.’
The couple stepped through a sliding door and onto the first-floor terrace. Emily walked to the edge, leant against a railing, and gazed down at the huge patio surrounding the pool. She could hear birds trilling, the melodic hum of a lawnmower – no cars honking, no sirens wailing, no builders shouting at each other. The sun was scorching the back of her neck. This is amazing, she thought. Below the terrace was a basement, but as the house was built on a slope, it was at ground floor level, and she guessed it was probably where the pool and garden equipment was stored. Mark led the way down a narrow, winding stone staircase with chipped floor tiles, reminding Emily that the inside of her new home wasn’t as amazing as the outside; not yet. They stood together by the glistening water. He pointed up at a tiny room jutting out from the side of the house. ‘That will be my study, so no noisy pool parties, please!’
Emily cast her eyes over her new garden, imagining playing a lady’s foursome on her own court. It was carefully positioned, a mature pine tree providing shade for half the court during thepeak afternoon sun.
‘What’s that bit of scrappy land the other side of the fence?’ she asked, pointing to the patch between their boundary and the pine forest.
Mark shrugged. ‘It’s the bottom of our neighbour’s garden. Maybe they’re elderly and the plot’s a bit big for them. Lots of retirees in the Algarve.’
