He rubbed his chin and locked eyes with her. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Your mother was arranging to meet someone in London. On the Friday night.’ Jess paused.
‘Her friend, Mary,’ Alex said to prove he was concentrating.
‘Well, that would mean she wasn’t catching the late-night flight recorded on that sheet of paper. If she was going to meet her friend for a drink the night she flew out, she must have caught an earlier flight. No one her age arranges to meet for a drink at two in the morning.’
The mist cleared, and he gaped at Jess. ‘Oops!’ he said slowly.
‘Yes. Oops,’ she replied, her eyes wide. ‘I’m not sure your mother has been following the rules.’
Twenty-nine
March 20th
Ellis bank balance: (£131,834.82) Overdrawn.
90-Day Rule Tally: Emily: 88 Mark: 86
In Villa Anna’s new kitchen, Emily was debating having a tiny glass of champagne. Alex had found his feet: Jess was the making of him. This time last year, who’d have thought he would be running his own business? The villa renovation was a success – Mark agreed the money was well spent – and there would soon be pots of money; she was emerging like a red squirrel from its winter torpor. Champagne seemed appropriate, especially as later this week she was going home. She’d been doing a lot of thinking lately – this would be the last time Ovington Square was her home. What did she want from London in the future?
Mark walked in. ‘Travel pack,’ he said, dropping the pages onto the breakfast counter. ‘Do me a favour, don’t load the credit card.’
‘I wasn’t planning to, but why are you still being so stingy?’ she snapped.
‘Just wait until we have the money.’
‘But we’ve sold the houses.’
He closed his eyes and started laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.
‘It’s my fault,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘We won’t get thecash for London until the buyers complete at the end of March.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ She’d hardly splashed the cash, but she wouldn’t have leant Fran so much if she’d known. ‘Sorry! Want a drink?’ she offered, lifting her glass.
‘Bit early for me, thanks,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.
She glanced at her itinerary, then back up at him. ‘I’m going for three days, not two.’
‘Yes, three days.’ He spoke slowly, as if addressing a child. ‘You’re on the last flight which stretches two tax days into three.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I thought I had threeproperdays in London. I’ve got plans.’
‘Well, you’re a big girl now. You can use the phone and change them.’
‘Ha, ha.’
She shook the travel wallet at him, flapping it up and down as if swatting at a fly. ‘You’re obsessed with this 90-day rule. Do you imagine I’m being stalked by a tax inspector checking every flight I board?’
She sighed heavily and stomped off with her glass.
Before dinner, Mark drove Emily to Faro airport. He’d tried copying her pre-flight napping in the lounge, pushing three leather seats together as a makeshift bed and propping his head against a rolled-up jacket, but it was no quieter in the lounge than on the plane. How did Emily do it?
Letting himself back into the villa, he was worrying about Pedro. For several days his lawyer hadn’t been returning calls or responding to emails, and earlier that afternoon, Mark had discovered that Pedro was “on leave”. Mark had an appointment with a new lawyer the following week; it couldn’t come soon enough.
The dogs greeted him, jumping up and bouncing off his legs. He opened the sliding door, closing it once they’d slithered between his legs.
