Mark blinked furiously. It was still so raw. Emily reached across and touched his arm, but he instinctively tensed, raising his elbow to shake her off.
‘Mark, I’m so terribly sorry. I know how much you loved her, how close you two were. She was a very special person.’
He swallowed, then said gruffly, ‘She was.’
After a few moments’ silence she asked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Mark looked straight ahead, breathing heavily, his jaw clenched shut.
At the villa, a truce was called. Mark banned Emily from travelling. She could hardly complain but couldn’t decide if he was slamming the proverbial stable door or punishing her. If he was right about there being no leeway, surely it didn’t matter if it was two days or four. She tentatively suggested going back for the hair appointment she’d missed in her dash back to Portugal, even offering to catch a late-night flight and return later the same day. ‘I wouldn’t be in the UK for a single tax day,’ she pointed out.
His face twisted with disgust. ‘Unless you decide to rebook onto an earlier flight to avoid the inconvenience of the 22.20plane. After all, you’ve no idea what that flight is like.’
It was Mark’s first tennis lesson since the night at the bar on Garao beach. The sun was high in the sky, and Tim was dressed in purple gym shorts and a clashing jade-green nylon top. He hardly spoke but drove the older man around the court mercilessly; it could’ve been Djokovic feeding Mark the balls.
Mark asked for a break and collapsed into a chair, glugging back half a bottle of water, then tipping the rest over his head, relishing the cold splattering his face.
Tim waited by the net, arms crossed. ‘You ready yet?’
Mark heaved himself upright. Something was wrong with Tim today, and Mark was the fall guy.
The Ovington Square sale was due to complete in a few days. Mark dithered over filling out the tax forms, leaving the unopened email winking at his conscience. He had thirty days to complyifhe still intended to claim they were tax-resident in Portugal. He’d never lied to a regulatory authority, but the price of the truth had never been this high before. He finalized Gwen’s funeral arrangements, following Deidre’s suggestions, and called Pedro’s office. The lawyer was still on leave. Was that good news or bad? He sat by the pool, his feet in the water, mulling over the problem; was the lawyer in police custody or at home? He’d had to delay the appointment with the new lawyer until next week; given her track record, he didn’t trust Emily to go back and supervise the removals, so he was going instead.
Emily sat down beside him. ‘I’ve just remembered something quite important.’
‘Topic?’ he asked, listening to the soothing hum of the pool pump.
‘Tax rules,’ she said softly.
They dragged the bone out for one more serious chew. Emily reminded him that Jess shared their son’s political views. ‘But she’s more active than Alex.’
‘How so?’ he asked.
She told him Jess sat on the local council.
‘She’s a local Labour councillor?’ whispered Mark, his eyes wide.
She chewed her lip. ‘Yes, I wasn’t thrilled when I remembered that either.’
Mark leaned forward like a pet straining to reach a treat held a fraction too far away. ‘Marvellous. Aleftybound by professional ethics has stumbled over your tax indiscretion. I’m sure your secret is safe with her!’
The day the sale completed was a shattering one for Mark. He caught a delayed late-night flight to Gatwick. At three-thirty in the morning, he stumbled up the stairs of their former home and let himself into the once elegantly furnished entrance hall now filled with cardboard boxes. Rugs were rolled up and covered in plastic wrapping, pictures swaddled in bubble wrap balanced against the walls. He had a flashback of his former life, the many previous occasions he’d arrived home in the dark, similarly exhausted, but elated, as the lead banker who’d just completed a complicated deal. He mourned that lost life, just as much as Emily did. She’d adapted once already, to the peculiar life of a senior banker’s wife; he should never have asked her to reinvent herself again, carve out a new existence in a strange country in her mid-forties. He didn’t want to sell this house any more than she did. Maybe he should’ve stayed and fought, defended his reputation instead of sounding the retreat and sloping off like a cowardly novice cadet slinking away from his first confrontation with the enemy.
Disconsolately he summoned the lift and lurched upwards to the marital bed which sat similarly lonely, with no supporting side tables, comforting lamps, or pictures, even bereft of its headboard, which was now securely padded with bubble wrap and propped against the wall. Svetlana had done an excellentjob, not just packing up the house but holding the fort for the last year. He would miss her. She already had another position, but Mark felt the same tingle of pride he used to have when he awarded juniors at the bank their bonus; before leaving for Faro airport, he’d paid Svetlana’s salary, adding a six-month tip.
Mark tumbled into bed and pulled the duvet over his head. The removals team was due in four hours, his flight back to Faro was later today.
In Portugal, Emily woke with a start. She could hear the dogs barking downstairs, but that wasn’t what had woken her. In between the woofing, she heard a bell ringing. She reached for her watch on the bedside table. Four in the morning!
Bbbbbbring.
It sounded like something, or someone, was leaning against the doorbell. She switched on the lights and exchanged the duvet for her dressing gown. At the top of the double staircase, she called out, ‘All right, that’s enough. Hush now.’
The dogs whined to a halt, their tails wagging, throwing a glance upwards at authority as she descended to the sound of the dinging bell.
Emily slid back the bolt. Fran was outside, huddled in a fleece, her palm against the bell. ‘It’s you. What are you doing here at this time of night?’
Fran shifted sideways, exposing a rucksack. ‘Please? Just for tonight?’
