Emily’s heart fluttered. She brushed aside a Fortnum & Mason bag to make room for her handbag and sat, clutching the sides of the chair.
The knife efficiently shredded the herbs then was turned Emily’s way again. ‘There’s no nice way of saying this. Charles offered Mark the decent way out when we were in that restaurant. Mark should have admitted, when he had the chance, the reason why you guys are in Portugal.’
Emily swallowed. What could she say?
She heard voices behind her; the other guests were on their way down, and she willed them to speed up. She didn’t want to hear what Mary had to say, but how could Mary know for sure that Mark wasn’t on a sabbatical?
‘Hello ladies!’ said a familiar voice.
Emily spun around and nearly fell off her chair. Paul was standing in the doorway, resplendent in purple and white braces and a matching bowtie. She gripped the seat of the bar stool, her lips pressed together in a straight line. Emily’s heart was beating like a woodpecker hammering a tree trunk. Mary shouldn’t be punishing her this way. The last person she wanted to have dinner with was that man. How dare Mary subject her to this ordeal?
Mary hissed at her, ‘I’ve known all along Mark was sacked. Why didn’t you tell me the truth? I’m supposed to be your best friend!’
Mark heard his mother’s footsteps on the stairs, a little creaking noise: the top step with the slightly dodgy floorboard below the leaky roof. He heard her pause outside his childhood bedroom door, and smelt the toasted bacon sandwich ...
He woke with a start, shivered, and sat up. He wasn’t in Colchester, in the house his mother hadn’t lived in for over a decade. He was in Portugal, in his study, and a jet of water was pulsating through the open window. Mark pushed himself out of reach. The arc juddered across the room, reached the closed side of the opposite window, and splattered the glass. He got up, his eyes tracing the water spraying his lawn and calculated the source. Tommy’s irrigation system was on; this water should be falling the other side of the fence, watering the barren land! That effing man was the source of the water in his study.
He pulled the window shut and ran out the front door, sprinting around the side of his house, and halted, his fists bunched, listening to the hammering noise of his neighbour’s irrigation system hitting the study window. The arc pulsed further away. Mark ducked clear of the water and darted over to the fence line. Holding down the sagging fence with one hand he stepped over. No wonder this area was so dry! He could seea thin, black plastic pipe, with a six-inch spike protruding from it and water pumping out. Mark crouched down, wrapped his hands over the water source. It pushed back against his palms. Water was squirting out of the sides of his hands, his arms were wet, his face dripping. Closing his eyes and spitting out water, he twisted, pulled, tugged, but couldn’t wrench the spike free. He jumped up, cold water spraying his legs and stamped on the jet. There was a cracking noise followed by an explosive hiss. He looked down at the spike, now bent sideways, the water flowing in a constant direction onto the parched land.
He mopped up the puddle in his study and was soon rubbing his fingers over the miniscule third set of screws for the front door lock, cursing Emily for her constant door slamming. Crouching, he slotted the tiny screwdriver – from a set David kept for fixing his sunglasses – in place and twisted, but the screw kept revolving, rather than tightening. He refused to buy a whole new lock, and Emily was coming home today, so he had to get it working.
By Friday afternoon, the lock was reassembled, but Mark’s mood had darkened. The Bank of England had hiked rates to 1.25%, and the London mortgage – now at the lenders SVR of 3.25% – would cost nearly £7,000 a month, upping their monthly run rate to £16,000. July, and its bumper crop of London bookings couldn’t come soon enough for their bank balance. The couple had yet to net a penny from renting out Ovington Square. Only yesterday, he learnt that Emily had spent nearly £10,000 sorting out the pool, replacing the damaged automatic cover, and purchasing a new running machine, as well as servicing the rest of the gym equipment. Initially, Mark assumed he could charge the repairs on to the guilty guests, but they denied they’d even been into the basement. Who’d caused the damage, a poltergeist? Mark instructed Svetlana to take photos of every room in the house from now on, as a recordbefore future guests arrived.
There was a loud hissing noise. Emily dropped the frying pan, and it sank into the water, a cloud of steam rising from the basin.
‘All done,’ she said. ‘Tray’s ready. The mother is the one with no egg. And what did the experts have to say about messing with my website?’
Mark fumbled with the tray.
‘Careful there,’ said Emily. ‘Well?’ She ran a damp cloth over the greasy spits of oil by the hob.
‘It was a mistake. They’ll sort it.’
She squirted a jet of multi-surface spray over the counters and pulled on a pair of Marigolds as she listened to Mark serving the breakfasts.
The mother’s voice piped up, ‘Could you put a load of washing on for us please? You know what kids are like.’
‘We’re not running a launderette,’ snapped Mark.
Emily’s fingers curled around the end of the frying pan. Why couldn’t Mark just be courteous? It was like trying to run a business with a rival’s sabotage agent embedded in your team. There’s no way he spoke to clients at the bank like that. She heard the father asking for a clean mug, saying in a non-judgmental voice, that his had tea stains.
There was a bark of laughter from Mark. ‘No. It’s clean. I pulled it out of the dishwasher myself this morning.’
‘Could I have a different one, please?’ the father asked again.
‘It’s clean. Let me show you. Come over here where the light is better.’
She heard the scraping sound of a chair being pushed across the floor tiles, then Mark’s voice growing more forceful. Emily peeled off her rubber gloves and hurled them onto the counter.
Out on the terrace, over by the railings, Mark was bent over, holding a mug in his hand with a finger inside it as if inspecting an antique for cracks. Emily placed a clean cup on the table.‘Here’s a fresh mug for your husband,’ she said. ‘Oh, and I’m putting on a load of darks myself later; if you let me have your washing, there’s plenty of room.’
The other woman patted Emily on the arm. ‘Ta, love.’
‘Mark. A word, please,’ said Emily tartly.
Both men turned around. The guest raised his eyes at her and walked back to his family. He sat down mumbling, ‘Take a piece of advice from me, mate. Stick to the day job. Don’t ever consider a career in the hospitality sector.’
‘I was only explaining—’
