His mouth watered as the fork got closer. When was the last time he’d eaten like this? When could he spare the tax days to visit again?
He arrived at Heathrow to catch the mid-morning flight, feeling as gloomy as the London weather. He was worried about his mother’s health, and the Ellis overdraft, and returning to a life he didn’t want to lead. Standing in his socks, watching the plastic trays inch along the conveyor belt towards him, praying his container wouldn’t be diverted to the queue requiring the time-consuming hand search, he reflected on his problems. The common root cause was his inability to spend sufficient time in the UK. He shrugged his jacket back on and laced up his shoes. Surely there was a way to stretch out his allowance.
The key was planning. The tax rules were designed to catch the unwary, but he’d taken expert advice. The important point was the individual’s location at midnight on any given day. If in the UK, that counted as one of your 90 days. So, a flight landing in London at 22.30 wasted a day, even though you were only physically present for just over an hour. Had he missed a trick?
Emily called while Mark was choosing a bottle of duty-free champagne to buy her as a gift.
‘Darling, can you give me the number of the website designer?’ she purred.
‘Why?’ He slipped the bottle noiselessly into his basket.
‘Someone’s been messing with my website.’ Mark gulped. ‘They’ve deleted the breakfast image.’
He chewed his lips, listening to her complain that the wordcookedhad been replaced withcontinental, and managed a faint laugh. ‘I’m at the airport. I’ve plenty of time to sort that out for you. Probably updated the wrong website by mistake.’
He ended the call, bought the champagne, and rang Pedro, leaving a message asking for an update on the hot food licence.
In the lounge, Mark helped himself to a pre-flight drink, mulling over how to maximize his time in the UK. He was fond of the national carrier, and after twenty years of globetrotting first-class, advising on cross-border deals, he had more Avios points than the average person could use in a lifetime. But British Airways only operated a handful of flights to Faro. Could he have caught a late-night plane back to Portugal yesterday with a different airline, saving a tax day? He carried his beer to a remote table, opened a packet of crisps, and joined the lounge Wi-Fi. Several operators offered later flights from London to Faro. They weren’t much later, but one of them offered a considerably later flight on theoutwardleg. Now that was interesting. The EasyJet timetable revealed that their last flight departed Faro at 22.20 and didn’t reach London until 00.40 the following morning. If he’d caught that plane on Monday, he would’ve entered the UK a tax day later, while still being able to attend the same meetings. Admittedly into Gatwick, which wasn’t as convenient as Heathrow.
By his second beer, he’d worked out that, in theory, he could return to the UK without being present for tax purposes at all, by arriving at 00.40 and departing before midnight on the same day! That would be useful to shave a day off each trip. Five days would drop to four for the minor inconvenience of arriving a little later and a little further away from Ovington Square. Crucially, these midnight flights would help Emily, who seemed to be rampaging through her allowance at a frightening pace, like a student at university freshers’ week downing cocktails during happy hour.
Sixteen
June 10th
Ellis bank balance: (£6,782.78) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 21 Mark: 9
The redesign of Villa Anna had progressed inside to the entrance hall where the tantalizing scent of eau de Portugal hung in the air. Emily had arranged the meeting to conclude well before she collected Mark. The designer was standing beside her, running a hand over his chin.
‘Yes, this is indeed abigproblem.’ He waved his arms, drawing a large circle to indicate the size of his client’s predicament. ‘You need somewhere to hang coats. It does rain in the winter, and of course you must have a cloakroom.’ He tutted. ‘You cannot expect guests to wander around the house searching for a bathroom like a game of hide and seek.’
Miguel understood Emily in a way Mark used to before he lost the rhythm of their relationship. The night before he left for his business trip, Mark scowled – he never used to scowl – as she dropped a hot cottage pie in front of him still in its microwavable plastic container.
‘Only paying guests get cooked meals?’
She’d sat down and cut away the plastic top of her butter bean and lentil bake. She didn’t owe him an explanation! Dipping her fork into her dish, she’d peeked up at him. He was shaking hishead from side to side, his cheeks sucked in. Now what? She was close to throwing something at him.
‘Run out of plates, have we?’
‘I’m not one of your juniors at the bank that you can yell at!’ she said. ‘This way, there’s less to go in the dishwasher. And while we’re on the topic, can you remember to empty it when it’s your turn?’ She blew on a forkful of hot food, wishing he’d just shut up and eat. ‘Miguel thinks we should change to a solid gate.’
Mark grunted.
She screwed up her eyes, trying to recall how the designer had explained the idea. ‘We need to set the stage. He says it’s like having holes in the curtain at a theatre.’
Mark put down his cutlery and folded his hands behind his neck, eyes narrowed at her, then leaned over his food snarling, ‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with the gate we have.’ He glared at his pie and reverted to the attack. ‘So, what’s next on your hit list? Is that effing rule book going to ban drinking water from a glass? Do you want me to drink straight from the tap?’ He raised his beer. ‘See. I’ve already got the message that I have to drink lager from the can. I can’t have bottles because there’s already too much going into the glass recycling box, and I must squash the cans because that,’ he mimicked his wife’s posher accent,‘minimizes the space it takes up in the recycling bin.’ I mean we can’t have you making a second trip to the recycling bins, can we?’
She picked up her meal. ‘I think I’ll eat outside with the dogs. They’re better company.’
He didn’t follow her, or come out to apologize, and in the morning, they drove to the airport in silence; she dropped him off without kissing him goodbye and sped off, hating herself for feeling liberated at the thought of five days without him.
Emily dismissed the unpleasant memories of the last marital meal and channelled her thoughts on Miguel. ‘I’m so glad youunderstand. Mark doesn’t agree.’ She waved a hand around the hallway. ‘My husband wants to cut a slice off one of the spare bedrooms for a cloakroom and buy a coat stand.’
Miguel raised his hand like a traffic policeman. ‘Stop, stop, please.A coat stand?’he queried as if she’d suggested the couple might install scaffolding to store their coats.
Emily giggled. She laughed a lot when she was with Miguel. There was something niggling her brain about these sessions though; who did Miguel remind her of?
