‘Mum, gotta go. Tell me when you know the date for that specialist. If I can, of course I’ll come. If I can’t, I’ll organize a driver for you and Deidre.’
Mark checked his tax days. Ninety days sounded a lot, but living within its confines was challenging. He frowned at the screen. He was worrying unnecessarily; his mother wouldn’t be an urgent case, she didn’t even have a weak heart. Her doctor was just being cautious, getting her a slot in the queue.
At 4 o’clock, Mark was ferreting around in the fridge for milk when the bell rang. Emily returning early? He opened the front door. There was a small red car at the gate. A stocky man in checked shorts and matching short-sleeved shirt – a bizarre outfit that reminded Mark of a clown – was gripping the bars, peering through them like a caged animal.
‘Can I help you?’ spat Mark.
‘Villa Anna?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr and Mrs Tilney. We’re here for two nights.’
‘Right.’ Mark released the gate lock. He ran inside, dashed into each downstairs bedroom then trotted upstairs; there were bare mattresses in all three. Where did Emily keep the linen?
He tucked in his T-shirt and jogged downstairs, an image of himself dressed in one of his handmade navy-blue suits leading a team of bankers to greet a business client in his mind.
Twenty-four
October 17th
Ellis bank balance: (£10,122.07) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 36 Mark: 26
Bookings for the B&B were sporadic, and Emily began working mornings for Miguel. Mark was authorized to delete any reference to hot food from the website and left in charge of breakfast. He set up a table in the shade on the terrace, plugged in the kettle and toaster, and left baskets of pastries and cereals, and an iced bucket with pots of yoghurt. One morning, shoes kicked off, he was idling his way through the financial news – not as terrifying since Mr Hunt became chancellor, especially since both houses were back under offer – when, from behind him, came a rap on the glass door.
He swung his chair around. A short stocky lady grinned at him. Her round smiley face reminded him of his mother, and his heart skipped a beat. Mark downed his coffee and slid open the door.
‘We’re ready for the cooked breakfast now, love.’
His head jerked backwards as if he’d been punched in the face. ‘Cooked?’
‘Yes, love. Sunny side up, but I’m not fussy if the yolk breaks.’
‘But we don’t offer cooked breakfasts. Not since my wife started working.’
She chuckled, and he learned they’d booked in May. Before he changed the website. All summer, they’d been serving cooked breakfasts illegally to guests who hadn’t expected it. What were the odds on someone legitimately expecting one the day there was no chef?
‘Right. Right. I’ll see what I can do.’
How difficult could this be? He sat at his desk and typedhow to cook breakfastin the search engine. He read the list of ingredients, printed off the instructions. In the kitchen, he found eggs, tomatoes, and mushrooms, and there were sausages and bacon in the freezer. He pursed his lips and read step 1.
Heat olive oil on the flat grill plate over a low heat.What was a grill plate? And how low was a low heat? He called his mother. The microwave was soon buzzing beside him, defrosting the meat. Mark tried to light the stove. The smell of gas filled his nostrils, but no flame appeared. He called Essex again.
With the hob working, he poured an inch of oil into the frying pan and started with the sausages, wondering what was meant by “golden”; he liked his sausages brown. He added the bacon, which sunk beneath the oil. Nothing seemed to be changing colour, so he switched up the heat. The meat started bubbling in the pan. He turned his back on the stove and read the instructions for the vegetables.
Mark placed one of the tomatoes in the flat of his palm and held it a few inches from his face, examining it from every direction like a fortune teller gazing into a crystal ball – where was this green eye that needed removing? He smelt smoke and wheeled round. The contents of the pan were bubbling furiously beneath a fountain of spitting oil. He picked up a fork and poked at a sausage, flinching as a splash of hot fat landed on his wrist.
He heard a cough and turned to find his mother’s doppelganger swatting away fumes.
‘Need a hand in here, love?’
His eyes stung; his nose was running. Mark tore off a piece of kitchen paper and dabbed at his face. ‘My wife normally does this. It’s a lot more complicated than I realized.’
Shaking her head and chuckling, she came in, removed the frying pan with one hand and turned down the heat with the other. ‘You’re not supposed to deep-fry the sausages, love. Let’s get the grill on, shall we?’ She raised her eyes, and they twinkled at him, sending his heart fluttering. ‘Cooking is like everything else, easy when you know how.’ She spread a few sheets of kitchen paper on the counter and fished out the submerged meat. ‘Let’s start again. You going to join us?’
At eleven o’clock Mark picked up three empty plates. His eyes shone as he said to his mother’s lookalike, ‘Dolly, I’m going to move two sunbeds under the shade of those pine trees for you and Rick. While I wash up, can I get you two a beer or a glass of wine?’
