Despite living in Essex for nearly fifty years, his mother still spoke with a Bargoed accent, the soft lilt of the Welsh mining town she was born into, where she’d lived happily until shewas eighteen, before being enticed away by the exotic future promised by Mark’s wayward father. For the first decade of Mark’s life, the wastrel had played a walk-on part, confusing the young boy for those occasional periods when, briefly, a father figure was present at the cramped kitchen table. He bellowed out instructions and advice to both son and wife, who, it seemed to Mark, coped remarkably well without any interference from this comparative stranger. When Mark was ten, his parents divorced; no one stepped in to be a father figure.
‘Mum. It’s me.’
‘Oh, lovely boy. Where you to then? I know you’re busy, but I love to hear from you.’
He fished around for things to say, listening to his mother jolly along about her little triumphs in the garden, then talk about her corgi Romeo’s latest bid for fatherhood, and how he’d been returned by a glowering neighbour with a red setter. Mark let the words rumble on, comparing his mother’s life to his wife’s. One spent all the money he could earn, the other hardly any.
‘Gotta dash, Mum. Emily’s organized tickets to a show, and I’ve got some work to finish first.’
The couple left the house at ten-thirty. Mark hailed a taxi and held the door open for his wife who was chattering like a schoolgirl reunited with friends after the long summer holidays. He climbed in behind her, dodging the gushing words by pulling out his phone.
At Olympia, they passed through security and into the main hall, where exhibitors had gone to extraordinary lengths to metaphorically transport potential clients to the sunny shores they were selling. There were exotic plants, fat terracotta pots, straw hats, and brightly coloured pool towels. There were huge posters featuring powder-blue skies, landscapes filled with olive groves or vineyards, and sandy beaches with happy swimsuit-wearing families, hand in hand, enjoying the brilliant sunshine.
Banners advertised the hotspot each stand specialized in. Exhibitors were clustered geographically, the more off-beat locations relegated to the outskirts. The couple passed stands for Turkey and Croatia. Mark even noticed a few trying to tempt customers as far afield as Florida. There was a buzz of excited conversations, and he caught snatches of laughter as he was steered towards Spain and a firm of estate agents. Emily announced that she had an appointment with Margery.
Margery – “call me Marge” – was identified, and the couple were fawned over for half an hour. Marge worked her way down a questionnaire pinned to a clipboard, directing the pitch entirely Emily’s way. Was access to a golf course important? How crucial was it to be close to the airport? Marge’s sales patter didn’t falter when, after twenty minutes discussing the merits of buying on or off a condominium, Mark announced he needed to make a phone call and left.
Emily did falter. She’d earned this villa; Mark wasn’t going to wriggle off this hook. But there was no mileage in fighting the phone: maybe the big deal was still teetering. It would explain why he’d yet to apologize for being downright rude yesterday, sniping at her for spending less than £100,000 on gym equipment. And he was keeping Bonus Day a tight secret. She was pretty sure it had been yesterday; even if her source was fibbing, Mark must know the date – the boss always tipped the wink to his star MD.
After another ten minutes of Marge and still no sign of Mark, she went husband-hunting, clutching a wodge of brochures and promising to be in touch with dates for a house-hunting trip. Where was Mark? Surely, he must be off the phone by now.Not considering French property, she concluded, circling the stands twice. After walking through Italy and Greece, she saw him, in animated conversation wearing that focused look, typically reserved for relating tedious war stories about City deals. Asshe watched, her husband threw his head back and laughed. Her eyes searching for clues, spotted a banner: PORTUGAL. Ok, that’s tacked onto the side of Spain. The happier he was, the bigger the budget.
She made her way over. Mark stood up and pulled out a chair like an attentive maître d’. ‘Emily, meet Peter Mathews, my new best friend.’
‘I think your new best friend is the NHR scheme,’ said Peter, winking.
Both men erupted in laughter. This was no polite forced titter: Mark was guffawing.
‘I’m sorry, guys, you’re going to have to share the code,’ she said, standing beside her husband. He was reaching out a hand for one of hers. Emily shot the estate agent a quizzical look, before arching her eyebrows at Mark, who was still grinning like a child on Christmas morning. He put his arms around her.
‘It’s time for an adventure.Weare emigrating toPortugal.’
No consultation, no explanation. Her husband – the architect of their game plan for over 20 years – expected her to uproot her perfect life in London and decamp to a country she’d never even been to.
Why?
She was given a loving look, but no explanation. Emily stood to one side, her mind a scrambled mess of worries – she didn’t want to leave London permanently, just occasionally. She watched Mark scoop up a pile of papers, pump Peter’s arm, and with her hand in his, he kissed her forehead, promising to explain everything over lunch. Where would she like to go? Money no object. He whisked her out of the exhibition, bouncing like a teenage Alex on the first day of a half-term trip to Devon, anticipating hitting the surf after weeks away.
It was shortly after noon and the exhibition was open until late. In the entrance lobby Emily and Mark were headingagainst the tide, forcing them to weave their way through a throng of incoming customers. Once they escaped that obstacle, the couple emerged onto the forecourt into a teeming mass of excited arrivals who were not looking where they were going, shaking off umbrellas and stumbling into departing customers. None of these normally intensely irritating encounters with the public provoked a reaction from Mark.
Fifteen minutes later they were being shown to a table. Vintage champagne was ordered,that’s a little presumptive.The bottle was opened, poured, then left on a nearby trolley in an ice bucket.
Mark raised his glass. ‘To you.’ He reached across the white linen tablecloth, and she felt his fingers stroking the back of her hand, then he took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, and said, ‘I have quite a lot to say.’
It was forty-five minutes since he’d announced they were emigrating, Emily thought, and the verb ‘to discuss’ was yet to make an appearance. Her stomach clenched as her mind circled through possibilities. Was he ill? Was there more to working from home yesterday than he’d led her believe? Was there another woman? She reached for her glass, took a gulp of champagne, swishing it round her mouth and allowing it to dribble down her throat, before taking another slug.
‘The first piece of news is ...’ He drained his own glass before rushing on – ‘I’ve left the bank and I’m not joining another one.’
Emily swallowed her mouthful of champagne, coughing as the bubbles swamped her throat and fizzed uncomfortably at the tip of her nose.
‘I’ve decided on a new career. One that gives me more time to spend with you and Alex.’
Emily glared at her husband as she hissed across the linen. ‘Oh, please,’ she said, drawing out the words. ‘You’ve just told me we’re relocating to Portugal, a country we’ve yet to even visit,and now you announce you’ve decided to cast aside your job, which certainly for the first twenty-three years of our marriage has been your entire life.’ She shook her head. ‘And this selfless act of sacrifice has been motivated by your sudden desire to spend more time with our son, with whom you can’t hold a civilized conversation?’ Fixing Mark with a pitiless gaze, she demanded a little respect, and ‘a little more of the truth, please.’
His lips pulled into an unattractive grimace. He ran a hand through his hair, then down his face, and around the back of his neck. Emily felt her heart fluttering, like a trapped butterfly. She twisted the stem of her glass. What was the truth?
Mark ran his tongue around his dry lips, blinked, then looked across at the woman he loved. She was sitting upright, her spine straight, and he had a fleeting memory of Emily’s father, ever the military tactician, and his favourite piece of advice:Always face your foe with conviction, shoulders back, chest out, show them you can handle whatever they throw your way. What would his father-in-law – if he was still alive – have to say about this mess?
‘OK. The truth is my luck has run out.’ He spoke calmly, his voice disguising his inner angst. ‘The enemy has outmanoeuvred me.’ He clicked his tongue and huffed. ‘I’ve been skewered. I need to let the dust settle for a few years. The shit who shafted me isn’t half as good as he thinks he is.’
