In front of him, the bespectacled council official reached up and rested her arms on the counter, a comfortable place for them given her height.
Mark cleared his throat. ‘Bom dia, Fala English?’
The official shot her eyes towards the clock then corrected him. ‘Boa tarde. Si, eu falo inglês.’
He unfolded a slip of paper. In large capital letters he had written Villa Anna’s address, together with the couple’s fiscal numbers, issued when they bought the house. ‘Please could you give me residence certificates for my wife and I?’ He pinned the piece of paper to the counter with a finger and slid it under the glass screen. ‘For this address.’
The official picked up the scrap and considered it briefly, before putting it down and pushing it back. ‘No.’
He offered his most engaging client-charming smile – it was a slightly unusual request, as only foreigners would ask forresidency certificates – and nudged the scrap of paper back towards the official. ‘Por favor. We just need a certificate, which I understand is issued by the town council, to say we live here in Portugal, your lovely country.’
The official pointed her index finger at the page without touching it. ‘Nao.’
He gritted his teeth and raised his voice a fraction, propelling the slip towards her. ‘I need to prove we live here. Please?’
‘I don’t do that.’
He picked up the battered piece of paper, crushing it in his hands. ‘Who does? Where do I go?’
‘Que?’ The woman shrugged.
Cursing the stubbornness of people determined to exercise power, Mark tore up his ticket and stalked out. He needed advice to navigate a regulatory system he couldn’t fathom. He didn’t have a local accountant. Mark unlocked the Bentley, threw his briefcase at the passenger seat, and dialled his lawyer.
It was her son’s last full day at Villa Anna, and Emily was lying in bed, the sheet rucked up around her, the ceiling fan spinning cool air. She had that feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach that comes when check-out day arrives after a blissful holiday. The gate bell buzzed as it had all week, apart from the night Fran slept at Villa Anna, like a temporary alarm clock. She threw back the sheet, slipping on her silk dressing gown as she walked barefoot across the cold stone tiles, and pressed the release button. The fan whirred on behind her.
Emily opened the front door. Fran, dressed in shorts, a skimpy T-shirt, and flip-flops, peered through the bars of the gate as they slowly cranked and creaked their way open.
‘It’s another gorgeous morning.’ Fran smiled. ‘Want the weather forecast?’
Emily’s empty feeling evaporated, buoyed by Fran’s cheerful tone and the prospect of a girly chat. ‘Go on then.’
‘Hot, then hotter, then really hot with big sun!’ Fran chortled.
A cold snout nudged Emily’s calf and she bent to stroke Floria’s ears. ‘That won’t stop my men from wanting a cooked breakfast. You start, and I’ll just let the dogs out, then make us a cup of tea.’ Emily shut the front door. It didn’t close all the way. She tugged, then yanked, but it wouldn’t budge. Using both hands, Emily dragged the door wide open, then slammed it shut.
‘Mark!’ she yelled.
Fran’s voice floated out of the kitchen. ‘He’s probably still out jogging.’
‘Well, if you see him before I do, tell him to get his toolbox out,’ snapped Emily.
Lunch was a simple picnic on the terrace around the dining table that matched the new sun loungers, a brief interlude for Emily and the youngsters from draping themselves in the sun, reading, or cooling off in the pool. Alex was sipping a beer, the ladies a chilled glass of white wine.
‘I’m going to miss you two tomorrow,’ said Emily, topping up Jess’s glass. ‘Another beer, Alex?’
‘Umm please, Mum.’
Jess was already standing. ‘I’ll go.’
Emily put her arm out, tapping Jess lightly. ‘No, sit still, you’re on holiday.’
Jess jabbed Alex in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Let him get his own beer, he can get more water for us while he’s inside.’
Alex grunted but got up. Emily hid her smile.
That night, the barbeque was glowing, and tiger prawns were sizzling. Emily had marinaded them in olive oil, garlic, and dill. Turning the prawns over, she sniffed; the sweet aniseed smell of the herb was masked by the more pungent one of garlic, reminding her of the Paris metro. She and Mark should get away together – it didn’t need to be expensive, didn’t even need to be another country; maybe they could drive up to Lisbon. She wassure that Fran would dog-sit. Initially, Emily was surprised how much she enjoyed Fran’s company, but the girl was so positive, it was infectious. It was Fran who, over one of their many coffees, had told her about the Sintra palaces where the Portuguese aristocracy used to retreat from Lisbon for a cooler summer.
Emily shifted her grip on the tongs, listening to the soft chirping of crickets, and the throatier croak of a toad. The last prawn turned from grey to pale pink. Emily picked up a skewer with her fingertips, flinching from the burst of fierce heat –should’ve used the tongs – and dropped it onto the serving platter.
