He ate his breakfast, imagining Villa Anna guests eating theirs. He dipped a slice of toast in his egg yolk; it didn’t taste like an “egg lady” egg. The guests were always cheerful, and often took their dirty plates through to the kitchen, complimenting Emily on the free-range eggs, or the crispness of the bacon. Was that because they were on holiday? It wasn’t Svetlana’s fault Alex had used up the housekeeping money. Mark picked up his mug and the full cafetiere of coffee and carried them down to the kitchen.
The housekeeper was drying a frying pan.
‘Svetlana, fancy a cup of coffee?’
The frying pan slipped out of the housekeeper’s hands and hit the floor with a clunk.
Mark’s mood darkened when he read the electricity meter. He rushed around the house, turning off boilers and radiators – it was August,the heating shouldn’t have been on. He checked the basement and let out a string of expletives. Every cardio machine was blinking at him – who’d switched them on and why didn’t they turn them off afterwards? The pool was uncovered, steam rising from the water like a natural hot spring; he checked the thermostat – thirty degrees.
Alex!
Twenty-one
August 10th
Ellis bank balance: £3,785.03
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 30 Mark: 21
With Mark away, Emily hosted a small drinks party, inviting Martin from the tennis centre, Tina and John, and two other ladies she played tennis with, suggesting they bring their husbands. She extended the invitation to Miguel and Fran; Mark wouldn’t entertain either of them, but he wasn’t there. The wine was chilling, the canapes arranged on plates, there was a pile of paper napkins folded into triangles, and the smell of lemon hung above the upstairs terrace where four citronella candles were alight, their flames blowing sideways in a stiff breeze.
The group drank their way through eight bottles of wine, Fran was getting frisky with Martin, and Emily called last orders. Tina was having a heated discussion with one of the women about Brexit, claiming it was responsible for the UK’s rampant inflation.
Emily looked from one to the other of her warring guests. ‘The last time we were on court, I don’t recall either of you claiming to be an economist. Why not agree to differ and have another glass of wine?’
‘Top up for me,’ demanded Fran, tapping the side of her empty glass with a wobbly finger.
‘I think you’ve had enough already,’ said Emily, picking up Fran’s glass. ‘I’ll fetch you a glass of water. You can thank me in the morning!’
Miguel followed her into the kitchen, carrying the empty plates. He stood to the side of the sink, his back to the countertop while she rinsed off the crumbs.
‘You are very good with people, Emily.’
She grunted and turned off the tap. ‘My husband has his prickly moments. I guess I’ve learned over the years.’
‘Don’t underestimate your skill. I could use you in my business.’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ve my arms full running the B&B.’
‘And you enjoy that?’
She shunted Miguel out of the way, pulled down the door of the dishwasher, and inspected the contents, moving a few plates – mostly Mark’s lunch plates – to the back of the machine, then added the new ones. ‘It’s more work than I thought it would be.’
‘But if you enjoy what you do, that doesn’t matter. If you don’t enjoy it, stop ... do something else.’
She counted the empty racks in the dishwasher; plenty of space for breakfast. She imagined herself working alongside Miguel each day, advising rich clients on how to redecorate sumptuous houses, spending their money the way she used to spend her own as if it was as easy to come by as air. In her mind’s eye she was laughing, and so was he.
Her mouth twitched into a smile, and she stood up. ‘Sadly, it’s a case of needs must. We’re fully booked, and it wouldn’t be right to cancel people’s holidays.’ She raised her eyebrows at Miguel and shrugged. ‘Come and help me persuade Fran to go home.’ She held his dark eyes with her own. ‘Preferably alone.’
Twenty minutes later the guests left, Fran hiccupping her way down the front steps, draped between two of Emily’s tennis friends, like a puppet whose strings had been snipped. Emilyclosed the front door behind them, reflecting on what Miguel had said. She shouldn’t be slaving away at a job she didn’t enjoy, simply to pursue Mark’s dreams.
That night, Mark flew back to Faro, offering to catch a cab home. Emily was woken by pounding on her bedroom door.
‘Coming!’ she cried.
She could hear birds singing behind the blackout curtain. She pulled on a dressing gown, flung open the curtains, the warmth of the sun bursting through. She could see down into Mark’s study; he was showered, dressed and already at his desk. Why hadn’t the guests taken their problem to him?
‘Yes?’ she said blearily as she opened the door.
