Mark collected his bag, dumping his racket inside and jerking the zip shut, then stalked off. Tim jogged around the court gathering up the tennis balls.
At the bar, Mark ordered a beer and took a seat close to the court where the women were warming up. A men’s foursome finished and pulled up chairs next to the ladies’ match. Everyone watched the women practicing their smashes, stretching high over their heads.
‘They know how to play.’ Tim rested his frame against Mark’s table and pulled the ring on a can of soft drink.
Mark grunted, then watched the tall woman serve gracefully, striking the ball high above her head.
‘Lovely action,’ murmured Tim.
The receiver mistimed the return, sending the ball careering over the restraining fence. It bounced close to where the men sat. No one got up to help.
‘Hey, can you toss the ball back please, guys?’ called out the tall woman, smiling at her audience.
‘It’ll cost ya,’ yelled Tim.
‘How much?’ asked the server, walking towards the fence.
‘A drink.’ Tim’s eyes twinkled above his can.
She reached the fence, and leaned against it, her fingers looped through the chain-link. ‘I have to have a drink with you just to get my ball back?’
‘Yup.’
‘That’s an expensive tab for one tennis ball.’
‘Depends on what I choose to drink,’ said Tim, crunching up his can and tossing it onto the table.
‘OK.’ The woman shrugged.
You had to hand it to Tim, thought Mark, as the youngster retrieved the tennis ball. The man had no money, no prospects ... What did that woman see in him? At Tim’s age, Mark had been pulling down a six-figure sum. When he met Emily, Mark already oozed the heady cocktail of confidence, swagger, and happiness he could see in Tim. Mark hadn’t felt confident or happy for months; his swagger had been replaced by a nervous twitch every time he opened the banking app.
His coach tossed the tennis ball onto the court, took off his hat, and ran a hand through his sandy-coloured hair. Was that why Emily was so withdrawn? Had Mark allowed Paul to destroy not just his career but his pride too?
Mark arrived at Heathrow and took a taxi to Ovington Square. This was his second trip, and he would enjoy every minute. There was plenty to occupy his time in Portugal: the country produced red tape at a prodigious rate, and trying to keep up was like being lady’s maid to an Edwardian mistress who changed clothes every hour, sloughing off another outfit before the previous dress was even stored away. But sitting alone in that study couldn’t be his future – he wasn’t ready to retire.
Sadly, these sojourns back into the cut and thrust of commerce were limited by the 40-working-day tax limit. On this trip, he had two board meetings and was looking forward to both; hours of serious business when his views on weighty matters would be asked for, his advice valued. This mini break was carefully mapped out, necessitating crisscrossing London multiple times, and dashing to Essex for dinner with his mother, but he was still using five of his precious forty days and he was lucky: on this occasion, his meetings dovetailed.
As the taxi weaved its way through traffic on the Brompton Road, Mark gazed out at the bustle. He recalled the same weird sensation as last time. It was so busy – cars, lorries, buses;everyone and everything in a hurry, seeming to have a purpose. Paying the driver and fishing out his English keys, Mark reflected on how much he missed London. He tossed his bag towards the lift doors, picked up the post from the floor, then raised his voice.
‘Svetlana, cold beer!’
He showered and changed. Irritated to find a Fortnum bag hidden in the locked cupboard the couple used to store personal items, he snatched it out, untied the bronze-coloured ribbon, and pulled out an expensive looking bottle of perfume. He didn’t recognize the brand as one Emily wore – what a time to be experimenting with a new scent!
Mark stormed downstairs to reclaim his temporary office. While here, he could forget about the house rules, a list that seemed to grow by the day. The latest directive concerned the stacking of the dishwasher which, Emily stipulated, needed to be done from the back, working forwards. Did she make this nonsense up just to annoy him? Today, Mark could read through the post and his business papers with no interruptions from Emily, a dog, or an entitled guest.
At his first board meeting, three investment banks (excluding his former employer), were pitching for the mandate to advise on a listing on the London Stock Exchange. Earlier that week, Mark had sampled the first sweet taste of revenge, by wasting his old bank’s time with truckloads of work. Mark destroyed their written submission, pointing out their lack of understanding of the business model, casting doubt on their valuation assumptions, undermining their credibility, and eliminating them from the shortlist invited to today’s formal presentations.
‘Morning, Ellis,’ hailed his fellow noddy as he was shown into the boardroom. ‘This is your show, really. You’re the point man on City matters.’
The executive team filed in and took seats around the table, allgreeting Mark with similar comments. Mark sat back preparing to enjoy the pitch from the buyer’s, rather than the seller’s, perspective. He fired challenging questions about process, probing each bank’s assumptions on timing, and basked in the warmth of admiration radiating from his fellow directors ... but he would much rather have been sitting on the other side of the table, fighting to secure appointment.
With a tingle of excitement, Emily watched the man counting out her money. He shuffled it into a wad, folded it, and held it towards her.
‘Added an extra tenner, to say thanks for looking after us.’
She blushed, fingering the crisp, clean new notes. Cash, excellent! She would hang onto that. She slipped the money into her back pocket and went to strip the beds. That task completed, she poured herself a glass of water and sat on the terrace with the dogs slumped nearby, panting warm breath onto her feet. Emily opened the iPad and pulled up her website. Fran had mentioned that her parents offered a discount if guests booked a longer stay. Could she boost sales that way? She peered at the home page; something was different ... What was it? She tucked her legs away from the dogs, opened the calendar, and felt a stab of pride; she wouldn’t have to offer discounts if bookings carried on at this rate.
Emily clicked open an enquiry. It was a message from a couple asking if she could provide a cooked breakfast. She frowned, then scrolled back to the home page. The picture of the table laden with cooked breakfasts was missing. She read the copy on the home page slowly and realized that the wordcookedhad been replaced withcontinental. Who’d been meddling with her website?
