Emily lugged a sack of coarse salt round to the back of Villa Anna. She had endured a month oftemporaryand felt conned. Neither of the houses was sold, bookings for Ovington Square were sparse until July and, having emptied her purse into Alex’s hands before he left, she was running short of funds. For the past few nights, her dreams had been haunted by memories of her mother’s ritualistic approach to asking her father for money – always on a Sunday after she’d cooked a roast for the three of them with a jug of gravy large enough to cater for an entire brigade. She wasn’t going down that route! She cut across the top of the bag then hefted it up, her knees buckling under the weight. Mark seemed to assume she would continue to slave over domestic chores while he still hadn’t fixed the front door lock, and there was no sign of their residency permits. Emily leaned against the side of the house and poured; thank goodness David had warned her to add salt to the water system before it packed up. She scrunched up the empty sack and picked her way round the side of the house. The sheets were flapping in the gentle warm breeze. The dogs were sunbathing. Somewhere nearby a lawnmower was thrumming. That’s how it was supposed to be. That’s what Mark implied she’d be swapping her London life for. She should be on a sun lounger listening to someone else mowing the lawn, not wondering if the sheets were dry enough to iron. At least Fran was popping round soon. She wasn’t a replacement for Mary, but she enjoyed their chats.
The dull buzz of the gate bell sounded. Emily released the gate and poked her head out of the front door; four ladies in tennis skirts trotted past her, leaving Fran alone on the driveway.
‘Time for a coffee?’
‘Quick one. Tim can hold the fort for twenty minutes,’ said Fran, running her hands through her hair and making the spikes even spikier.
‘You should grow it longer,’ suggested Emily. ‘It would suit you!’
‘Nah, too hot for long hair.’
‘Not if you pin it up.’
‘Might as well keep it short as pin it up!’ Fran stepped inside and handed over two €20 notes. ‘It’s a two-hour booking.’
Emily felt a little stab of pride taking the cash. She’d earned this. She made the deal; Mark hadn’t done a thing to put this money into her palms. She tucked the notes into her bra and wrenched the door shut. When was Mark going to get this door sorted?
Slamming shut the London taxi door, Emily rushed up the steps with her handbag over her head, spitting out the rain that was blowing in sideways and dripping down her face. She couldn’t recall when she’d last seen a cloud in the Algarve. She let herself into Ovington square and shook off the rain, stamping her feet and hanging her bag on a hook before she went downstairs. Confronted by the sleek kitchen units, the light from her bifold doors bouncing off the polished marble countertops, Emily let out a soft groan, recalling the mugs of tea she and Svetlana used to share in this space.
The housekeeper had separated the post into piles: junk mail, nasty looking white envelopes and lastly more interesting items. Top of that pile was a small turquoise bag with two royal warrants emblazoned on it. Emily picked it up but didn’t open it. There was a note attached to it, and she recognized Svetlana’s tidy writing:hand delivery. She clicked her tongue. She’d look later.
Emily crossed to the utility room. Under the sink she found a pair of rubber gloves, pulled them on, wriggling her fingers into place, picked up Svetlana’s cleaning bucket – with its collection of bottles, sprays, and cloths – huffed and went up to her old bathroom.
The first message from Svetlana had arrived at 6pm last night, as Emily was finishing ironing bed linen.
‘Agony; emergency dentist appointment in the morning.’
Emily felt a rush of sympathy.‘Poor you!’she messaged then put the last pillowcase in the plastic laundry basket.
The second message from the housekeeper was a list of work that still needed completing to prepare the house for guests. Emily swore. It was too late to arrange for contract cleaners; they’d have to cancel.
Mark’s response to the crisis was tart. ‘We can’t cancel. We need the money!’
‘You go, if you feel that way!’
But Mark had blocked out the day for a zoom board meeting. So, it was Emily who’d caught the early morning flight, and it was Emily who was now scrubbing the bath she thought of as her own, removing evidence of a stranger’s use, ensuring it was spotless for another stranger. She switched on the shower head and hosed away the suds, then knelt to polish the tub dry, cursing her husband for not being better at office politics, their tax adviser for suggesting they use their Principal Private Residence exemption to dodge a bill they could have afforded, and finally the inability of Svetlana’s tooth to hold out for just another twenty-four hours.
Emily used a fingernail to scrub at a stubborn streak on the mirror above the sink, recalling the little stickered notes she used to find there from Mark. That didn’t happen in Portugal! She kicked off her shoes and climbed into the bath in her stockings, spraying a fine mist of glass cleaner on the back mirror.
Climbing back out of the bath, she gave an involuntary shiver; whatever would they do if Svetlana resigned? Moaning Mark could bloody well use some of his own 90-day allowance to do this. She made up the beds, her eyes brightening when she sawSvetlana had already stripped away the soiled linen, chuckling at a mental image of Mark preparing Ovington Square for a booking. Gwen should’ve taught him about housework. Mark had never made his own bed until he went to university, and she doubted he did it then!
She picked up the bucket and went downstairs to the cloakroom. Flicking up the toilet seat, she wrinkled her nose. Brown and orange stains. Yuck! Keeping her distance, she held up the bottle of bathroom cleaner, pinched her nose between her fingers, and fired long bursts all around the toilet bowl, smothering it with a thick coat of foamy white goo, then turned her back on the mess and polished the taps.
The doorbell rang, ‘Vissi d’arte’ – the iconic aria from the opera Tosca – echoing around the entrance hall behind her. Emily froze, inhaled deeply, and put down her cloth. Puccini played a second time. She slunk out of the cloakroom, tiptoed down the hallway and into the drawing room, peeled the curtain aside an inch, and peered around the fabric with one eye as if using a telescope.
Her friend Mary was standing with her back to the door, dressed from head to toe in the sort of designer clothes Emily used to wear every day. What was she doing here? She briefly imagined opening that door and pouring her heart out to Mary, then her eyes fell on her gloved hands, a spray bottle of bathroom cleaner in one, a bright pink microfibre polishing cloth in the other. Would Mary laugh at her, or role up those silk sleeves and help? And anyway, what could Emily say? She couldn’t admit that Mark had lost his job. Paul was mates with Charles. She felt a surge of anger just thinking about that man. She wouldn’t provide ammunition for him to snigger with his chum over Mark’s fate the next time he was invited to Mary’s for supper. Emily had eaten there when Paul was a guest – unlike Mark he made time for his dinner arrangements. And how couldEmily explain this feeling of abandonment without confessing to her left-wing friend that they were avoiding tax?
Outside, Mary turned around to face the door, and Emily flattened herself against the curtain. She heard the post-flap squeak open.
‘Hello, Emily, it’s just me, Mary! Thought you might fancy a coffee.’
Emily closed her eyes and became aware of her own short shallow breaths.
‘I know you’re in there!’ Mary called out.
Go away, please just go away!
‘Emily?’
