She turned to face him. ‘Yes, you’re supposed to sand off the old paint, fill any holes, let that dry and then sand again ...’ She pulled a face, waving a hand at the wall. ‘Otherwise, the new paint just flakes off.’
Emily picked up Tosca, hugging the dog to her chest and dropping a kiss on each ear. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, brushing past him. ‘Come on, my precious. Let’s get you a nice meal.’
Mark couldn’t bring himself to look at the walls. He groaned and shut the door.
Eight
April 22nd
Ellis bank balance: £21,754.01
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 10 Mark: 0
In the sitting room, the air conditioning was on maximum, and the volume on the Bose speaker high enough to hear Seu Jorge in the kitchen. Emily, wearing only a swimsuit, drizzled olive oil over her salad, added a wedge of feta cheese, and took her food onto the terrace, leaving the door open to hear the music. She checked her messages while she ate. There was one from Mary, admitting it was her turn to host the monthly girls’ lunch and suggesting a date. Emily accepted. She’d already been to London. Ten blissful days when she hadn’t chipped a single nail or cleaned a single toilet. There’d only been one chore: lunch with someone she hadn’t seen since last year and didn’t want to meet again this year. Her father always told her to be polite, explain why you didn’t want to be friends with someone rather than avoid them. She delivered a carefully pre-prepared speech, kind, flattering, but firm. The meeting was uncomfortable, but Emily was glad she’d done it; that lunch enabled her to turn off one of the winking lights on her worry dashboard.
In London, she’d missed her dogs. She didn’t miss Mark and the constancy of his presence, the way he searched her out to announce developments on one of his projects then waitedfor compliments, like a small child holding out a drawing for maternal praise.
Nibbling on an olive, she glared at a split nail. How much longer was she expected to be gardener and housekeeper? It didn’t seem to affect Mark; his toolbox wasn’t getting much of an airing. Savouring the creamy salty taste of feta, she watched a pair of jays fluttering round the garden. With their bright blue bodies and striped tail feathers, they looked as exotic as an oversized hummingbird. She adored her new garden, the perfect stripes on the lawn, the border of tropical flowers: beautiful hibiscus bushes with deep red and vibrant orange flowers. It was all artificially watered – she’d hardly seen a drop of rain since they arrived – via an irrigation system buried beneath the grass. Early each morning and again late at night, nozzles sprung out from their hiding places, spraying water onto thirsty greenery before retreating, collapsing like weary athletes, disappearing underground.
None of these plants would grow in London; thiswasan adventure.
House-training Mark was tedious, but it was bound to take time to adjust after virtually living apart for twenty years. Stacking her dirty plate in the dishwasher, she decided to write down the house rules. She would compile a book – he liked rule books. She’d heard enough about theBlue Book of Takeover Rules,and the yellow one – she didn’t even recall what that one was about. She went upstairs to change. Maybe she’d buy a red file and call itThe Red Book of House Rules.
Stepping out of the shower, she heard the throaty roar of a sports car. Towelling herself dry, she peeked out of the window. Parked on the drive was a pink Porsche, sunroof down, the driver checking his hair in the rear-view mirror, puffing it up over his forehead and rearranging it to flop artfully around his sunglasses. As Emily watched, he reached over, took a smallbottle from the glove compartment, and squirted his neck and behind his ears, then studied the front of the house, an intense look of concentration on his face. She released the gate, darted away from the window, pulled on a sundress, ran a brush through her hair, and sprayed perfume wildly, hoping some would cling.
At precisely three-thirty, there was a rat-a-tat at the front door. Emily was fastening earrings, pushing on bangles, and trying to secure her Hermes watch. She skipped down the stairs and opened the door. Her visitor took off his sunshades. His eyes sparkled with warmth.
‘Mrs Ellis? Miguel.’ He bent forward for an air kiss, then bounced inside. ‘I cannot tell you how excited I was to get your call. Such anamazinglocation, and of course,’ – he rolled his eyes at her – ‘the Harrisons owned the villa for years and skimpedbadlyon the decoration. I don’t think they involved a designer at all! You must be simply desperate for help.’
‘You are remarkably punctual.’
‘My schedule runs on what we Portuguese call “English Time”. My English mother taught me the importance of punctuality – you British will queue patiently for hours,’ – he wagged his finger at her – ‘but you get fractious if forced to wait when you have an appointment.’
Emily saw Miguel’s eyes roving. Was he gauging how much she could afford to spend from the brands she wore? The value of her jewellery and the art in the hallway? She folded her split fingernail into her palm. ‘W-where should we start?’ she asked, stuttering slightly under his intense gaze.
Miguel raised his eyes heavenwards, and spun round, taking his client by the hand, and leading her back outside. ‘Darling, we simply must do something about the launchpad. The key to an amazing house is to build drama from arrival.’ He locked eyes with her. ‘I hope I can speak frankly to you, Mrs Ellis. If youtrust me, together we can create somethingamazinghere. But frankly,this will not do at all!’
This was more like it, thought Emily. It would take weeks to decide what to do, and by then, one of the houses would be sold. In the meantime, she was going to enjoy every minute of her meetings with Miguel. A slice of her old life!
Mark pulled up at a roundabout and leaned across the dashboard, craning his neck, checking for oncoming traffic. ‘This effing car is useless. It’s got to go. We need the steering wheel on the left-hand side.’
There was a honk behind him. He glared in the rear-view mirror. A man glared back, gesticulating with his hands.
Mark drove home, wondering how much the Bentley was worth.
He stopped at the gate and lowered his window, beaming his client-charming smile at his neighbour. ‘David, you don’t have an electronic sanding machine I could borrow, do you?’
David winked at him. ‘Let me just sort out this borehole and I’ll be right over.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the water system,’ said Mark, pointing the release fob at his gate.
David gave him a lopsided grin and lifted his spanner, waving it at Mark. ‘That’s because I keep on top of it for you.’
The gates juddered open, Mark swept in, and parked beside a pink Porsche. Emily was standing in the doorway, leaning over with her hand clamped round a dog collar. As Mark turned off the engine, the other car sped out.
‘Who was that, darling?’ asked Mark, locking the car.
‘I think I’ve just appointed our interior designer.’
