‘No, that was deliberate – it wasn’t full.’
She raised her voice. ‘It still needs to go on each of the days specified in the rule book. You can’t duck your days for emptying the dishwasher by delaying putting it on. That’s unfair.’
‘That’s a waste of electricity, and you know—’
She cut in, parroting his Essex accent: ‘Electricity is expensive.’ She stood up and waved her notebook at him. ‘Well, if we’re that short of money, help me get this new idea off the ground.’
‘Is it really that unpleasant emptying a dishwasher?’
‘I do more than my share of housework. You know the house rules,’ she shouted.
He sucked in a breath, then exploded, ‘House rules! There were no house rules in London! Stop trying to chop off my balls. And why can’t we economize more? Why can’t you cook instead of buying pre-prepared meals?’
‘Why should I? You cook if you want to save money.’
She pushed her chair back, scraping it against the tiles, and stalked off, grabbing her keys, and slamming the door behind her. Outside, she stabbed at the gate fob, clenching her teeth as the ancient mechanism groaned into action like a weary soldierforced to head into battle. There was a merry whistling sound coming from the borehole – bang goes my evening shower, she thought, as she stalked down the drive.
To avoid playing hide and seek with the golf course evening sprinkler systems, she turned right down the track into the pine forest. Each step further away from Villa Anna raised her spirits. She tipped her head back, inhaling the resin smell of the trees, as soothing as the scent of the body oils she used to have massaged into her skin. She could do this. She would design the website, show Mark that she didn’t need his help. It would be her money, and she would deduct a little for herself.
Her eyes were adjusting to the dim light; ahead, she saw the track narrowed, one side lined by a head-high drystone wall. She stumbled on a rut, and a stone scuttled into the bushes making a rustling noise. A dog growled, and her body tensed, eyes darting around to find the animal. Emily froze, and flattened herself against the wall, feeling the rough stone grazing her flesh. In front of her, on the roof of a house, was a dog the size of a small pony. Its body was rigid, its snout pointed towards her, teeth bared. The house was built hard up to the track and ran alongside it for fifty feet. The animal was looking down at her, its jaws a mere hop away. She recalled Fran’s claim, hoping this Portuguese dog was trained not to overstep its boundary too. Inch by inch, her shoulders scraping the wall, she sidled back the way she’d come with her eyes lowered and her heart pumping. In her peripheral vision, she saw the dog’s paws tracking in lockstep. The animal reached the edge of the roof – would it jump? Emily turned and sprinted, vowing that if she managed to get away, she was finally going to take control of her life.
In the morning, the little pink notebook beside her, Emily sat with an iPad angled away from the sun, a half-drunk mug of tea on a side table. She was wearing a full piece swimsuit, revealing her deeply bronzed limbs.
She peered up as the chair beside her was dragged away and Mark sat down still wearing his running shorts.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Writing a business plan.’
A few minutes passed, with just the gentle rustle of a breeze through the pine trees. The peace was broken by a high-pitched whining noise that subsided into a soft roar before rising again.
‘Christ, what’s that racket?’ huffed Mark.
‘It’s Sunday lunchtime, so it’ll be Tommy with his leaf blower. Why is everything so expensive? I can’t find a smart scatter cushion for less than a hundred euros.’
‘You’re doing this, are you?’
Emily ripped a few pages from the little pink notebook. ‘Weare doing this. That’s your DIY list.’ She handed over the pages. ‘Properly please. We’re charging a lot of money, so if you can’t do it right, get someone who can. Give me Pedro’s number – he can help me – and I need contact details for the website designer you used for Ovington Square.’
He scanned the DIY list. ‘I’ll make time to deal with Pedro and the website. You’re right, we need the money.’
First thing Monday morning, Mark called his lawyer. On Tuesday afternoon Pedro returned the call, and Mark learned that he needed a licence to set up the new business. He sighed. ‘Can you help speed this along?’ He’d had a sneaky peek at the business plan, and once the villa was open for business, the income would repay the overdraft in a few weeks.
‘What are you selling? Have you designed a website?’
Mark thought for a few moments. To save time and money he’d told the website designer to base the B&B on the Ovington Square website. ‘I’ll send you a link to a London website – it’s a maximum of three bedrooms instead of the whole house, and we don’t have a gym here in Portugal. Do you need the room rates?’
‘No,’ said the lawyer decisively.
‘Pedro, any news on residency?’
‘Which do you want me to do first, Mr Ellis?’
Both, thought Mark, preferably yesterday. ‘Business first, please Pedro, and fast as you can. Oh, and Pedro.’
‘Yes, Mr Ellis.’
‘Keep in touch, eh?’
