That evening, Mark took a seat opposite Mary. “The wallet” – as he’d nicknamed Charles – sat next to him.
‘Champagne, ladies?’ suggested Mark. He wasn’t paying, but by his calculation, with the B&B shut for five days “the wallet” was depriving them of fifteen hundred quid. Anyway, Charles could afford it. Watching Emily’s eyes soften briefly at his suggestion, he wondered if that was how Alex saw eating out: Dad can afford it, so order what you like.
‘Charles dearest,’ said Mary, her eyes roaming around the restaurant. ‘Don’t you agree this is so sophisticated? We could still be in London!’
The restaurant wasn’t large, but the diners were well spaced, giving each party a sense of intimacy. In the middle of the room was a low, circular glass table covered with candles – some fat, some tall and skinny, some with multiple wicks, their flames flickering each time the maître d’ admitted another party and a gust of wind.
‘That tan of yours is amazing at night. Are you both enjoying your little adventure in the sun?’ Mary asked, choosing an olive.
Mark selected a slice of carrot marinated in herbs and garlic and speared it with a toothpick.
‘I am!’ said Emily. ‘I could get quite used to playing tennis outside, and I’ve found the most wonderful interior designer.’
‘But why Portugal?’ Charles asked sharply. ‘Why not Spain? Or France?’
Mark snapped the toothpick in two. Had he been lulled into a false sense of security because this topic wasn’t raised the night before?
Emily picked up the loaded weapon. ‘We’re jolly lucky to have chosen Portugal. The people are so friendly. I don’t understand a word, but they all speak English, even the check-out assistants in the supermarkets!’
‘Yes, it’s a bloody difficult language, almost Slavic,’ said Mark. He wasn’t sure how to tackle Charles. Mark didn’t know him that well; it was the girls who were friends. He gave a short laugh, then said, ‘You’ve never met red tape until you’ve lived in Portugal. It keeps me busy!’ His eyes fell on the outrageous price of imported Spanish ham, and he felt a frisson of pleasure. ‘What about some Iberico ham as one of the starters, probably need two portions for four of us?’
Why did Emily’s best friend have to be married to an accountant? He was bound to know about the NHR, and the wretched man had the same political views as Alex. He’d probably guessed why they were here.Thinking of Alex, he recalled that Jess was also an accountant – had Jess been the real source of Alex’s accusation about his parents dodging tax?
‘The lobster’s good here too,’ suggested Mark, earning himself a startled look from Emily.
She picked up a glass of champagne, handed it to Mary, then took one for herself. ‘Everyone happy for me to order?’ she asked cheerfully.
Charles was persistent though. ‘I understand whyyoumight prefer the Algarve, Emily, but I bet Mark never goes outside. I bet he just sits inside with the aircon blasting. He’s as pale as me.’ Charles pressed his arm up against Mark’s equally untanned one. ‘So, why ishehere with you?’
‘That’s enough, Charles!’ said Mary.
Mark ordered the men another beer and tried to be the charming host his wife wanted him to be. He asked Charles if he missed work when he was on holiday? Was the Wi-Fi at Villa Anna strong enough for his Teams calls? But like a bloodhound on the scent, Charles was interested in only one topic. Sotto voce, he asked, ‘Are you out here as tax exiles? NowthatI could understand.’
Mark concentrated on his beer. ‘That’s a rather personal question,’ he mumbled, kicking Emily gently under the table. He felt an answering nudge on his shin. ‘Definitely Iberico ham then a large lobster for me.’
Emily gave him a quizzical look. ‘But you never order lobster.’
‘Well, that,’ Mark said snapping the menu shut, with a bang, ‘is what I fancy tonight.’
Emily glared at him then placed their order.
Charles leaned towards Mark, murmuring, ‘I mean, if you were tax exiles, that would make sense.’ Mark didn’t flinch. Charles was no match. Mark was famous as a master negotiator, had trained himself not to give anything away. ‘So, am I right? Have you become tax exiles?’ whispered Charles, grinning.
Mark didn’t mind lying when this man was being so rude. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but no, we are not tax exiles.’
Technically, they weren’t even resident in Portugal, he thought. Thankfully, at last, Pedro had reported he had secured an appointment to alter that, but, although they intendedto become tax exiles, right now they were not.
Wondering what was behind Mark’s peculiar urge for lobster the night before, Emily sat on the upstairs terrace, the dogs either side of her, a cold snout on each of her bare legs. Her iPad was open on her lap; the B&B was fully booked for the next week. That should cheer Mark up. She heard a little cough behind her and craned her neck around. Charles was standing just insidethe sliding door, his hands jiggling in his pockets. He pulled an apologetic face.
‘Spot of bother with our sink. There’s probably a knack to it, but I can’t seem to get the plug out.’
A year ago, if someone had told Emily she’d become a dab hand at sorting plumbing problems, she’d have dismissed the idea as preposterous. ‘Let’s have a look,’ she said.
The sink was half-full of water, a white film of shaving foam floating on the top. Just above the scum, a black tidemark of bristles surrounded the edge of the basin. Mary was poking at the plug with the end of a plastic comb. She looked up and grimaced at Emily, saying, ‘I think I’ve made the whole thing worse.’
Emily’s eyes switched from the basin to a wooden photo frame propped up beside it. She felt her heart rate accelerate; silly Mark, she should never have left him to tidy up. There wasn’t a picture inside the frame, but instead, a notice headedPolite request, asking guests to refrain from putting anything other than toilet paper down the loo. She blushed. Mary’s eyes swung downwards.
‘I-I had to leave that for Alex,’ stammered Emily.
