An hour later, Emily rose, showered, and dressed before breakfast, then rode the lift to the basement. The door slid open. She breathed in the smell of chlorine and grinned. Svetlana was bustling about, jabbing fingers, and issuing instructions to an army of men gathered around her pool. They were dressed in light-blue overalls with a picture of a wave on their breast pockets, the words “Blue Dreams” picked out in white.
The housekeeper’s eyes switched from the men to her employer. ‘You want me to walk dogs, or sort men?’
‘Men please, Svetlana,’ Emily said, her eyes dancing with excitement.
An automatic pool cover, how thrilling, she thought, her mind racing through the rest of the “shopping list of treats”. Now she’d given the list to Mark, she was in for a wonderful week of fun.
The night before, Mark had come home earlier than usual, for a Monday. At 8 o’clock, she’d unfurled herself from a sofa asthe door clicked shut. ‘Darling, what a lovely surprise,’ she said, bouncing into the hallway, a glass of wine cupped between her hands like a communion goblet.
He hung up his overcoat and plodded towards her. He looked exhausted, like it was already the end of the week. She put down her glass and hugged him. ‘Tough day?’
He sagged against her, eyes closed. ‘You’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘Bloody effing Paul.’
Her hands tightened round his arms. ‘Paul?’
‘Forget it,’ he mumbled. ‘I’d like to.’
‘Poor you.’ She took his hand and led him downstairs to the kitchen. Her Blakes kitchen, with its bank of moss-green cupboards and shiny, marble central island where she liked to sit and gossip with Svetlana. Emily opened the door to the concealed American fridge. ‘Let’s get you a beer.’
Flipping the top off the bottle, she passed him the drink then lowered her eyes. As demure as a young child handing their letter to Santa, she’d handed him her shopping list.
‘What’s this?’ He held the paper limply in his hands and raised his beer to his lips.
She batted her eyes at him. ‘I’ve given you the quotes for everything except the holiday villa, but I guess you won’t set the budget for that until we’ve done a bit more research.’ Emily stood behind him as he read, massaging his shoulders; it was like trying to knead stone. ‘Wow, you’re tense. Is that helping?’
He screwed up the list, tucked it into his trouser pocket, finished his beer in one long pull, then turned around, and folded her into his arms. ‘Come here, you,’ he mumbled softly into her hair. He kissed her, and she tasted the earthy sour flavour of lager.
‘Let me have a shower. Fancy an early night?’ he asked, nibbling her earlobe.
Her eyes answered for her as she led him out of the kitchen.
It was a busy week at Ovington Square. On Wednesday, under the watchful eyes of Svetlana, the new gym equipment was installed in the precise spots dictated by the diagram Emily left with the housekeeper. The old machines were taken away to a local homeless shelter – there was nothing wrong with them, and the manager was optimistic they would entice some of the homeless former soldiers into the centre. Emily found time to transfer more money to Alex, and in between a Pilates class and visiting a facial clinic, she called round to see her girlfriends, sounding them out on a trip to the Californian health spa. By the evening, she was tired and cancelled her dinner arrangements.
On Thursday, before a shopping expedition on Sloane Street, Emily rearranged her wardrobe with Svetlana, who walked away with three designer handbags for herself and two black bags full of virtually unworn clothes for a specified charity shop. Emily rang her girlfriends, coaxing them into buying tickets for an upcoming charity ball. Emily had paid for the whole table already and would donate any spare tickets to the Dogs Trust – a treat for a fellow dog lover who couldn’t afford £500 to attend an event.
At nine-thirty on Friday morning, Emily opened the door to her husband’s dressing room. It was pitch dark. She flicked on the lights and spotted a lump under the bedclothes. There must have been a late-night drama on that deal; Mark always slept in his dressing room if he came home after she’d gone to bed.
‘Darling, you’re still here. Svetlana thought so.’
The lump pushed itself into a sitting position. Mark’s head was drooping – poor lamb, he was having a ‘mare of a week. He’d returned in a foul mood on Tuesday night and Wednesday. Her heart went out to him, but her mind was focused on the overseas property show the following day. How would she get him there if he could justify spending the weekend in Canary Wharf instead?
Mark raised his head and blinked a few times. ‘I’ve hardlyslept.’ He ran his tongue slowly over his lips. ‘That client lunch poisoned me.’
‘Ugh, should I call a doctor?’
He scrunched his eyes closed. ‘No, I just need sleep. I can work from home today.’
Her eyes widened; the only time Emily could recall Mark working from home was during lockdown or on holiday. ‘Gosh it must be bad.’ She gave a short burst of laughter. ‘It’s nottheday today, is it? You don’t want to miss that, boyo.’
‘Do you ever think about anything but money?’ he asked in a flat voice.
‘Don’t be like that. My life is always on hold at this time of year.’
‘How tragic, being asked to wait a few weeks before you can spend chunks of money that would keep a normal family ecstatic for a lifetime.’
She toyed with the door handle, pouted, and said in a slightly petulant voice, ‘You’ve no idea what it’s like waiting.’
He glared at her. ‘You haven’t waited. I’ve seen the pool cover.’
