‘Your father in a pair of shorts while he’s working – we are talking about the same man, are we, Alex? Right, I’m off. Try not to come to blows while I’m out.’
Alex walked past her through the sliding door, lobbing the flattened can towards the kitchen bin. It clattered against the lid, skittled across the floor, and landed by the fridge. Alex scuttled past his father’s study to his bedroom. It was hot and stuffy. He flicked on the air conditioner and flopped face down on the bed, scrolling through his messages. He’d give it another day and if things didn’t settle, he’d head off up the coast and find some decent surf. That shouldn’t be too challenging in Portugal.
The door was flung open, hitting the wall with a crash. Alex dropped his phone.
‘Turn the bloody aircon off!’ shouted his father. ‘I’ve told you it eats electricity.’
Alex took in his father’s flushed face, nostrils snorting breath like a hissing kettle, his eyes tight angry dots. Whenever hesummoned a picture of dad, this was how he looked. He recalled an episode when he was seventeen and home for the weekend with two mates from school. His mother was out, his father in the office with a “tottering big deal” and he and his friends were listening to music, drinking a few beers. There was no warning knock. His bedroom door flew open, and his father stormed in spitting with rage. All three teenagers had scrambled upright and stood to attention, Alex’s insides shrivelling as his father lectured them about manners and privilege and doing something worthwhile with their time. Was he about to get a repeat performance?
Alex reached for the air conditioning remote control and jabbed at the off button. He pushed himself off the bed and picked up his rucksack. ‘Think I’ll get out of your hair for a bit.’
Outside he sat down beside his mother, long legs splayed, his hands resting on the rucksack.
‘You must find a way to rub along with your father,’ said his mother, ‘or you’ll have to find somewhere else to live.’
He tried to dispel the sulkiness in his voice. ‘Why can’t I live in Devon?’
She moved closer, saying gently but firmly, ‘Our lives have all been affected by your father’s decision to take this sabbatical.’
Alex waggled his eyebrows at her. ‘Sabbatical? I don’t buy it.’ He stood up. ‘Can you lend me some dosh?’
She screwed up her face. ‘It’s not a loan though, is it? It never is. I will give you what I’ve got, but it’s not much.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ he said, reaching over and giving her a hug.
Gently she pushed herself free. ‘Alex, you need to think about getting yourself a job.’
Alex hitchhiked his way along the coast to Sagres, found a room, and settled into a comfortable routine. He struck a deal with a surf instructor: wetsuit and surfboard for the day in exchange for two hours teaching tourists.
He would always have fond memories of Sagres, and especially the day he waded out of the chilly water, the sun hot on his face, and noticed the young woman sitting halfway up the beach. She was hugging her knees to her chest, the sea breeze whipping her long fair hair round her face.
‘You’re quite good at that, aren’t you?’ she called out, gathering her hair between her hands and pinning it to one side.
Alex dug his surfboard into the sand and flopped onto the beach beside her. ‘I’ve had a bit of practice. Do you surf?’
She flashed him a smile. She had brown eyes, and a little snub nose covered in freckles that made him want to bend over and kiss it.
‘Too cold for me.’
‘You on holiday?’ he asked.
‘Sort of. I didn’t take much time off last year, so I’m using it before I lose it. I’m cleaning some rental flats to pay for my keep.’
‘Fancy a drink tonight?’
She released her hair, and laughed as it caught in her mouth, spitting out strands. ‘Sure.’ She introduced herself as Jess.
That night, Alex and Jess walked to the lighthouse on Cape St. Vincent. Jess had brought a simple picnic – filled rolls, a punnet of strawberries – Alex a few beers. Jess spread a beach wrap on the grass, and they sat with the whitewashed building to one side, listening to the waves lap and crash against the cliff. He talked about his mother, the new house in Portugal and, in exchange, learned she lived in Barnstaple in Devon where she was an accountant. He told her Devon was his favourite place and that, until recently, he’d been living there himself, in Croyde.
Jess pushed a lettuce leaf back into her sandwich, took a small bite, staring ahead as she chewed. He examined the side of her face, the soft downy hairs below her ears blown flat in the onshore wind.
‘I suppose your parents are out here on the NHR tax scheme,’ she said.
‘The what?’ He laughed, propping himself upright on an elbow.
She faced him, wrinkling her nose. ‘It’s a scheme that allows people to avoid paying tax.’
‘They’d better not be,’ he muttered, popping a strawberry into his mouth.
