‘Don’t be so pious. All my clients minimize their tax bill. I don’t mind if it’s legal and above board.’
‘I do. They’re loaded, they should pay up.’ He took a bite from his roll.
She tapped his arm playfully. ‘You surprise me. What do you do, apart from surf, or are you still studying?’
‘I graduated last year. Just working out what to do. I didn’t take a gap year.’
‘So, you’re living here with your tax-dodging folks?’
He laughed. ‘Not sure where I’m living really. And they’d better not be dodging tax. I guess I’ll stay here in Sagres for a bit. I can’t go back to Croyde, they’ve rented the house for the season.’
Jess shook her head. ‘That’s not right.’
‘Correct. It was my home.’ He finished his beer and crushed the can in his hand enjoying the crackling sound.
‘No, I mean they shouldn’t just rent for the season, it should be all year. There are too many locals who can’t find anywhere to live because, come Easter, they get turned out.’
‘So, you really care that I’m homeless,’ he teased.
The brown eyes shone his way. ‘Sorry, you got a full blast of Jess the councillor there.’
His eyes widened at her. ‘You’re a local councillor?’
‘I am.’ She sat upright and crossed her legs. ‘For the Labour party. You’ll be a tory toff, I guess.’
He sat upright himself; he wanted to get to know this woman. ‘You guess wrong.’
Six
April 13th
Ellis bank balance: £35,467.12
It was staggeringly hot, but crunching down the dirt track, her shoes chucking up puffs of dust, Emily noticed every tennis court was busy. She squatted and retrieved a couple of balls that had strayed beyond the fence, lobbing them back over.
In the clubhouse, behind the counter, was a young suntanned man. He was built like a long-distance runner – slim, athletic, with a mop of sandy hair anchored in place by a golfing cap. She asked for a copy of the timetable.
‘On holiday?’ he asked, handing her a single sheet of paper.
‘Sort of a sabbatical. We’ve just moved into Villa Anna.’
‘On the NHR?’
Emily coughed, and the young man snorted. ‘Welcome to Martin’s,’ he said. ‘You might like to join, it’s cheaper if you’re a member. Although you’ve got your own court, haven’t you?’
‘But no one to play with. I don’t know anyone yet. Are you Martin?’
‘No, I’m Tim. That’s Martin.’ He pointed to a man walking towards them. ‘Martin, this is the new owner of Villa Anna; thought you might like to offer her the same deal you had with the Harrisons.’
An hour later, Emily let herself back into Villa Anna. Itstill smelt musty. Each morning she opened all the doors and windows that she could; several wouldn’t budge even with the aid of Mark’s shiny new hammer. She’d asked him to help, but he snapped back that she should add it to his ever-growing DIY list. Emily helped herself to a bottle of cold water and went out onto the terrace. She sat in a soporific daze with the sun full on her face, eyes closed, listening to the dogs lapping at the water bowl by her feet. She could do this. This was temporary. The London house would get bookings, Mark would hire help, friends would come and visit. And once the houses sold, this villa would be transformed.
She heard a squeak as someone sat down on the sofa. ‘How did you get on? Meet anyone nice?’ asked Mark.
Emily kept her eyes shut. ‘Yes. I met the owner, Martin, and I’ve done a deal. In exchange for the use of our court as an overflow, you get a free lesson with his junior coach Tim once a week. He’s a nice lad, bit older than Alex, and we get half the court fee, so,’ she faced him, a smug smile on her face, ‘that’s twenty euros each hour our court’s used.’
Mark fanned himself with a slim file.
‘Pleased?’ she said. ‘I think it’s the only way we’ll meet people, and your game is a little rusty.’ She pointed at the file. ‘For me?’
