He ended the call, a mental picture of their bank balance flashing into his mind; if this lock wasn’t fixed when Emily returned, she would call a locksmith.
Conscious that he was expected back on zoom within the hour, Mark parked the Bentley in a space between two drop-side trucks, their cargo beds stuffed with rakes, upended wheelbarrows, and lawnmowers, reminding him of his earlier altercation with Toni. Mark had an appointment with his lawyer later; he might have to mention it.
David sat beside him in the passenger seat, mumbling half to himself, ‘Never met a man without his own tools before.’
‘Never had any use for them before,’ confessed Mark.
‘Welcome to Drogaria Vieira, the most useful store in the golden triangle,’ said David. ‘Come on, let’s get you the basics.’
The older man walked past lengths of pipe and sacks of chicken food, into the dark interior of the shop. It was quiet and smelt faintly of paint and turpentine, reminding Mark of his school art classes.
‘Have you really only got one screwdriver and a hammer?’ David sniggered, striding down an aisle lined with unfamiliar products with which Mark feared he was going to have to become better acquainted. ‘What you need is a proper set of screwdrivers and spanners with multiple heads, so you can choose the right size for the job.’
Mark felt his insides shrivel, like they used to on the rare occasion he learned his team had lost a business pitch. He stood to one side, bemused by the intense expression on David’s face as he picked up a grey plastic case, snapping it open andexamining the contents as closely and with the same greedy look in his eyes as Emily had when she flicked through one of her glossy magazines.
‘I know they don’t teach anything as useful as woodwork at school anymore, but didn’t your dad show you the basics of DIY?’
Mark chewed his lip. ‘My father never hung around long enough to teach me anything.’
David scooped up a couple of cases. ‘Come on, lad, this is a start. Let’s get back and fix that lock, eh?’
Mark took the cases off the older man, and David slipped an arm around his shoulders. ‘Never too late to learn. I’ll teach you, lad. You can buy me a beer later.’
The meeting with the lawyer was scheduled for four o’clock. Mark arrived ten minutes early. Pedro bounced into the air-conditioned meeting room shortly before five. He was a short slim man, with jet-black hair that hung in curls down his neck. He spoke impeccable English in a soft confident voice. Pedro offered to arrange a meeting with the authorities to secure residency certificates. The session only lasted fifteen minutes, but Mark left with a spring in his step.
Her mother-in-law’s house was not impressive, but Emily understood why Gwen chose it. It was detached, boasted a large garden, and enjoyed views over the estuary, but there was more to it than that. Each time she visited, Emily sensed an air of happiness; although Gwen lived alone, this was a home not just a house. Listening to the doorbell chime, she leaned closer and tracked the blurry figure approaching. The door swung open.
‘Hello, love. Good journey?’ asked Gwen.
‘Bit of a crush on the train.’ Emily embraced her mother-in-law.
‘Proper nobbling it is out there. Get yourself in here into the warm. Come on in, sit yourself down while I get the tray.’
Hearing a wheezing noise, Emily paused with her fingers on the door handle watching her mother-in-law shuffle off. Gwen was limping slightly – did Mark know her arthritis was getting worse? Emily let herself into the front room. Her mother-in-law was an excellent cook, but her artistic talents didn’t extend to interior decoration. The room was neither arranged for comfort nor practicality, but with the sole purpose of impressing visitors deemed worthy of the privilege of admiring her prized possessions: a collection of Staffordshire porcelain dogs arranged in a glass-fronted Edwardian bookcase, and a glum oil painting of a South Wales mining pit, which hung between a pair of stiff upright armchairs. The painting was in drab shades of brown with slashes of steel-blue, the slag heap, a foul grubby grey. Emily sat where she was expected to, with a direct view of the treasures. What did she do with the money Mark sent her? She still had the same furniture Emily had sat on in that tiny Colchester bungalow Mark grew up in with its poor insulation and damp, paint-flaking walls.
The door opened and a tray appeared, the same one Mark had identified as his “childhood” tray, followed by Gwen’s slippers. Her little dog Romeo jogged round Gwen’s stout legs and sank in front of the gas fire. Gwen kicked the door shut behind her. Hmm, the hip couldn’t be too bad.
‘So, how’s Mark’s work? And what’s Alexander doing, now he’s left university?’ Gwen set down the tray, poured tea, and pushed a plate of Welsh cakes Emily’s way. She patted her tummy and loosened the belt on her brown-checked housecoat. ‘Take two, love. I know you can’t get them, and I’m not supposed to eat them.’
Emily dodged the first question. ‘Alex is in Portugal working out what he wants to do.’
Grasping a biscuit, Gwen lowered herself awkwardly into one of the armchairs, using the knuckles of the biscuit-encumberedhand. She took a bite, then dropped a chunk onto the floor. As Romeo hoovered up the piece, Gwen reached down and scratched his ear, the dog’s tongue flicking out and curving around his snout.
‘We’re always here for you, aren’t we, Romeo?’ said Gwen, raising her voice. ‘And how’s this work-life balance sorting itself out for my Mark?’
Emily was saved from lying by the doorbell. Gwen glanced at her watch as she heaved herself back out of the chair. ‘That’ll be Deidre. She’s always keen to get round mine, that one.’
Romeo lifted his chin to release Gwen’s slippers then settled down again, resting his snout on his folded front paws. Emily listened to Gwen greet the visitor. The top half of Deidre, a tall lean lady with a long face, her grey hair secured in a loose ponytail, leaned round the door.
‘Well, look what the cat dragged in. All right, are you, love? Saw you walk past. Thought I’d drop by and say hello, listen to a first-hand account of life in Portugal.’ Her head disappeared again, leaving Emily staring at the door as Deidre spoke to Gwen. ‘Mind I waited for you two to have your private natter first, like I always do.’
Deidre, Gwen’s friend for over thirty years, soon reappeared, wrapped in a long, dark grey cardigan that hung close to her knees, hands thrust deep into the pockets. She removed one and blew her nose into a tissue, before tucking the scrap into her sleeve. ‘That cold sea wind don’t half make me sniffle.’
The two older women grinned at each other, reached for a Welsh cake and sat down in the upright armchairs. Romeo shifted to reaccommodate Gwen’s slippers.
Emily picked up her cup and saucer, letting the gentle chatter of the older women wash over her. There was something appealing about the cosy, ordered life being described: dog walks, bingo, coffee mornings, and church. Gwen had control ofher life. Was that what was missing from Emily’s? If she was going to wrest some order into her own, she needed an income; she would speak to Fran, ask how to increase bookings for the tennis court.
Waiting for Villa Anna’s gates to open, Mark’s thoughts were veering between a pleasant daydream that it had been him, not Emily, sleeping in Essex last night, and the grim announcement that had flashed up on his phone screen shortly after noon. The Bank of England had announced another 25 basis points increase in rates. The gates fully open, Mark accelerated out; the Bentley purred along for a few moments, then he stamped on the brakes. A white truck was parked sideways across the mouth of the drive, with the tailgate down, and the cab door open. There was no sign of a driver.
