Jess shook her head. ‘Thanks anyway.’ she mumbled.
The food arrived, the fish skin charred and crispy, the flesh plump and moist. Wine was poured, and Mark kicked off his shoes, digging his toes into the warm sand. ‘If we’re going to be here for a few hours, can I have a second beer?’ he asked.
Across the table, Emily’s eyes twinkled at him. ‘Stay as long as you like. The taxi driver said to call when we want collecting. Fran is popping in to feed and walk the dogs.’
The waiter approached. Alex ordered a second bottle of wine and Mark gritted his teeth. Both ladies patted their waistline at the suggestion of dessert, saying, ‘Not for me, thanks.’
Mark’s jaw relaxed.
‘I’ll have the tres delicias,’ said Alex, and Mark clenched his toes in the sand. He felt Emily’s foot stroking the side of his leg.
‘Isn’t this a treat?’ she said, switching her gaze to the youngsters. ‘It’s so lovely to have you both here. We’ll miss you when you go.’
The waiter was crossing the terrace towards their table, credit card machine in one hand, and Mark mentally calculated the bill. He’d declined a coffee to keep the cost down, but it would still be over three hundred euros. He reached out to claim the bill.
‘Let me pay,’ said Alex.
Mark’s eyes popped open as if he’d been slapped in the face.‘With your mother’s money?’ he asked sulkily.
‘No, mine. I still have savings from last year and the surfing season starts at Easter. I’ll be earning a decent whack again soon.’
The youngsters spent the weekend in Lisbon and, on Sunday, caught separate flights, Jess to Bristol, Alex to Gatwick. Early Monday morning, Alex’s father telephoned. Alex was already showered and dressed. Svetlana was in the kitchen, washing up after he’d cooked, and they’d eaten at the breakfast counter together. He was upstairs, daydreaming about Jess. Did she really want to work in Barnstaple all her life, pulling together tax returns for farmers from a paper bag of receipts? She’d been invaluable helping him prepare a budget for the business he wanted to run alongside teaching kids to surf – making old-fashioned but “green” surfboards from wood instead of plastic – but accountants were not confined to Devon. Nor were surfers.
The conversation started innocently, with his father asking how he was. Did the couple have fun in Lisbon and were the Sintra palaces as spectacular as promised? But Alex should’ve guessed there was an ulterior motive – when was the last time his father called?
‘Bad news, son. Ovington Square is sold.’
Alex’s jaw dropped. ‘You want me to move to the Croyde house?’ It was miles from Barnstaple, but it would give him time to find somewhere to rent.
There was a pause. His father took a deep breath. ‘No, we’ve already sold the Croyde house.’
He stood up. ‘What?Why? Why didn’t someone tell me?’
‘We don’t need Croyde. We don’t use it anymore.’
‘You never used Croyde!’ spat Alex. ‘Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing, give me some time to plan? I’m starting work again at Easter.’
‘You don’t have to be out until the end of the month.’
Suddenly it dawned on him why his parents didn’t need either house. Rage pulsed through his body. ‘I know why you’re out there, you selfish bastards. You’re evading tax.’
The silence confirmed his – Jess’s – guess. Driving up to Lisbon she’d told him why she’d been so morose at Armona. Collecting the spilt contents of his mother’s handbag, she’d spotted his mother’s itinerary for her London trip and claimed there was only one explanation for the detailed record of days on the page: his parents were tax exiles. It wasn’t their tax status that bothered Jess – all her clients did their best to minimize their tax bills – it was the dishonesty. When Alex accused his parents of being on the NHR, his father had denied it.
Hearing Svetlana vacuuming the corridor, Alex’s chest swelled with anger. One rule for the rich, another for everyone else. He punched the side of the sofa, his whole body shaking. ‘You are, aren’t you? What happened? Did you get fired and skulk off to evade tax rather than find another job?’
‘Avoidance not evasion, Alex. There’s a big difference. Your mother and I aren’t doing anything illegal.’
‘Don’t try and sidestep this on a technicality. It’s morally wrong. The rich should pay their taxes, not leave the problem to the workers.’
‘Wow, listen to yourself,’ Mark retorted. ‘One second, you’re complaining about being turfed out of your rent-free luxury house, and the next, you’re moaning about a man legitimately minimizing his tax bill.’
Alex tried to keep his voice calm. ‘I’m not complaining about having to move, I’d just have appreciated more notice. But I guess you didn’t want to tell me the reason why you no longer need a house in the UK.’
‘The view may be amazing but climb down from the moral high ground of socialism for five minutes. You, son, are a raging hypocrite, cherry-picking the soundbites that suit youand discarding the ones that don’t. Whether or not your mother and I pay a few more quid in tax won’t make any difference. Until the West finds a way of taxing the super-rich, of reclaiming for distribution the wealth that’s been diverted from the old economy into the arms of a few tech billionaires, you lefties are wasting your time.’ There was a pause then his father rushed on. ‘Think about it, Alex.’
The line went dead.
He caught the last train to Devon. Sitting with his nose pressed up against the train window, Alex still felt dazed; his parents had become tax exiles and lied to him about it. He sat lost in his own thoughts, staring sightlessly at travelers milling about on the platform. He could believe this of his father, so proud, determined to cling on to what he’d achieved at any cost, but why had his mother gone along with the scheme and why hadn’t they just told him what they were doing?
