He pulled out a page and passed it over. ‘Spreadsheet for London and Devon bookings.’
Her eyes flicked over the numbers. Apart from the August bank holiday weekend, Croyde was booked solidly from the first May bank holiday weekend to the end of September. London was a different picture. Reservations were sporadic, and, unlike Devon, where each stay was for seven days, in London, the bookings were for a few days only and mostly at weekends. She totted up the income and smiled inwardly. Temporary was over. ‘You must be thrilled. Can I get someone to help with the chores now?’
Mark inhaled deeply, tutted, then took the spreadsheet back.
‘That’s income, not profit. We’re not even breaking even.’
‘Why bother showing me, then? I want good news not bad.’
‘Don’t be so impatient. I’m pleased with what we’ve got. London will get decent reviews; bookings will pick up. This is temporary.’
That word again. Emily stopped herself from snapping back – how temporary?
The machine coughed, shuddered, then spluttered into life. Emily leaned against the handlebar, but the lawnmower didn’t budge. She gave it a gentle shove, feeling the weight push back against her, then tensed her body, and heaved. It moved forwards a fraction. She stood up, swiping the back of her hand across her sticky brow, and surveyed the half acre of lawn. Mark wouldn’t get the stripes in a straight line, but if she was going to do the work, he could buy a ride-on mower to replace this relic from the last century.
Later, feeling like she’d just completed two back-to-back spin classes, she guzzled a bottle of water, admiring her work, then swept the upper terrace and the huge lower one round the pool, a dog at her heels, its jaws inches from the brush, jabbing at it as she worked. Sweat poured off her face and trickled down her arms, making the broom handle greasy. She put the brush away and went to the back of the house to the two orange gas tanks, bending over to check the gauge. There was a rustling sound behind her, then she heard a voice. It sounded petulant like a spoilt child.
‘Hope you’re going to be better than the last lot.’
She turned, fixing a smile on her face. ‘Hi, I’m Emily.’
The stranger, a short scrawny man, clad in shorts and a ragged T-shirt, scrambled through a gap in the oleander hedge and up to the sagging fence. He introduced himself as Tommy, then spent ten minutes complaining about the previous owners ofVilla Anna.
Emily angled her head towards his loppers, currently busy pruning plants on the Ellis side of the boundary. Why didn’t he tidy up that bit of land next to her tennis court if he had spare gardening time? ‘I know parts of our garden are a bit straggly. We will sort it out once we’ve settled in.’
Snip, snip went the shears. The man was virtually standing in her garden!
She chewed at the inside of her cheek. ‘Well, must get on ... lots to do. Nice to meet you, Tommy.’
The shears were being waved at her. ‘Come round for sundowners tonight. Six o’clock?’
‘Sounds great. Let’s exchange contact details. I’ll check with my husband and let you know?’
In the afternoon, Emily was returning from the recycling bins, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the Bentley’s temperature gauge registered 32 degrees. She was planning to take a dip when she got home. She rounded a corner and slammed on the brakes. On the road immediately in front of her was an old-fashioned horse-drawn wooden cart. There were two passengers, a slim, deeply suntanned man holding the reins, and an elderly lady dressed in black, her grey hair held in a straggly ponytail, shoulders wobbling with the sway of the cart. Neither turned Emily’s way. She crawled along behind them, listening to the clip-clop of hooves on tarmac.
The road was windy and, behind the cart, in a right-hand drive car, Emily couldn’t see if there was any oncoming traffic. She glanced in the mirror. A queue of traffic was building up. With just her left hand on the steering wheel, she leaned across the passenger seat, straining to see in front of the horse. With a whoosh, a car darted past. The horse clattered on.
Forced to loiter behind the cart, when she finally turned off by the tennis centre, Emily sped up the dirt track leading toVilla Anna, turned left and, for the second time, slammed on the brakes. A knee-high rope of black chain was blocking access to her driveway. She tutted; it was the second time this week. Who was doing this and why? She left the engine idling and got out. From Tommy’s garden she could hear the tinny noise of a strimmer, and from her own, the dogs barking. In the garden on the other side, a man was kneeling, dabbing a paintbrush at his garden wall. He got up, unfurling his six-foot frame, and walked to the fence, brush in one hand, running his other across his cropped grey hair as if checking it was short enough. This was David; he’d come over and introduced himself a few days after they arrived. Such a useful man. David was in his late sixties, divorced, and had lived alone, in the same house next to Villa Anna, for fifteen years. And unlike Mark, David was practical. There was always a tool in his hands. It was David who released the frozen windows and burglar bar gates, squirting a magic liquid he referred to as WD40 on them.
‘The dogs seem happy out here,’ he chirped with a lopsided smile.
She pushed her sunglasses up her nose. ‘The dogs love the freedom. The gardens are so much bigger out here. Is that why Tommy doesn’t look after the patch by our tennis court? Is his plot too big for him?’
‘Not sure who that land belongs to, but that’s rustic land,’ said David.
‘Does it mean it can’t be used as a garden?’
‘No, just that it can’t be built on.’
She stepped over the chain and walked to the fence. ‘I don’t suppose you know who put this chain here?’
He gave a short laugh, flicking the paintbrush at the barrier. ‘That’ll be Tommy.’
‘Tommy?’
‘First time?’
She shook her head, lips pulled back into grimace. ‘No.’
