The last guests departed on Sunday afternoon. Early Monday morning, Emily was rinsing wine glasses under the hot tap, trying to put her finger on why she felt sad. She wasn’t surprised Alex and Jess were getting married; they were well suited, she both liked and admired her son’s choice and was confident she would grow to love the girl. Jess was good for Alex. Emily was genuinely pleased, but standing with the hot water running, she became aware of a sinking sensation. It was like taking the champagne stopper off a half-full bottle, hearing the reassuring pop, and then spotting the lack of bubbles as you pour. Why did she feel flat? It wasn’t work – she and Miguel were due at a breakfast meeting with a new British client who owned the most spectacular villa in Praia de Luz. She glanced at her watch; it would take them an hour to get there, and her boss would be here soon.
Emily picked up a glass cloth, then put it back down and pinched the skin on the back of her hand, counting the seconds as the fold sank back into place. Was she getting old, was that what this was about? She polished the glasses and, leaving them on the draining board, went into the cloakroom and stood in front of the mirror, her chin jutting towards it as she used both hands to smooth the skin from her cheek bones, stretching it taut. She turned her head sideways to consider the view from a different angle, deciding it wasn’t too bad, nothing that a quickjab of Botox wouldn’t improve.
She heard the front door close – Mark was late for his jog this morning – and returned to the kitchen, wondering if this deflated feeling could be pinned on her son forging his own future. Did this herald a new chapter in her own life? And where should that chapter unfold, Portugal or London? She stared at the empty draining board; she was sure she’d left the glasses there. She gave a small tut. Must be having a senior moment and forgotten she put them away.
Although Martin’s tennis centre didn’t open for another hour, two men in sports kit were outside. Mark had delayed his run to seven o’clock and, instead of taking his usual route, jogged there wondering with each step how he would break the news to Emily if this test didn’t go his way.
Tim skidded to a halt and got off his bicycle, letting it smack to the ground, plucked a key from his pocket, and squatted to unfasten the padlock. ‘No one will be here before seven-thirty,’ he said. ‘That’s when the cleaning team starts.’
Mark pulled one side of the gate wide and crunched across the gravel car park. His coach pushed the other, securing it against the fence with a loop of chain.
Tim wheeled his bike towards the clubhouse. ‘Coffee?’ he offered.
‘Ta.’
They reached the terrace. ‘Espresso, right?’ said Tim.
Initially, Mark had been livid when Fran pulled him aside and whispered that she’d told Tim who the father was, but he wasn’t surprised. The pair were clearly an item again. Tim was always massaging Fran’s neck or fetching her a cushion or a glass of water. Mark now understood why Tim had run him ragged on the tennis court that first lesson after the night at the Garao beach bar. Tim must’ve guessed his sometime girlfriend had spent the night with Mark. Did his one-night stand with Francause Tim to realize how much he cared about the girl?
Halfway through his next lesson, when they were collecting the balls, Tim had mentioned that Fran had ordered the DNA test. Mark sat back on his heels, squashing a tennis ball in each balled fist. This was between him and Fran – no one else should be involved. Then it occurred to him that if it proved necessary, he’d rather negotiate arrangements with Tim than Fran as she stroked her swollen belly. Mark had dumped the tennis balls in the basket hoping he wouldn’t need Tim’s help to broker anything!
He stalked the Ellis post-box for days and pounced like a hungry cat at its dinner bowl on a white padded envelope. He ripped it open, still standing in the street, then let out a howl. The covering letter, the instruction leaflet, everything was written in Portuguese. He banged the little plastic door of the post-box shut.He needed a translator. Tim?! The man had been brought up here. Mark stuffed the paperwork back into the envelope, hid the package in the side pocket of his tennis bag, pulled the zip tightly shut and drove home, a step closer to proving his innocence.
Today, with Tim’s guidance, Mark was performing his part of the DNA test. He pulled out a seat, wishing he was at the tennis centre for a lesson.
‘One espresso.’ Tim slid the tiny cup onto the table. He drew up a chair, shook off his rucksack, and pulled a creased sheet of paper from a side pocket.
‘Fran’s blood sample is being taken by a nurse this morning. Did you bring the swab?’
Mark placed a white envelope on the table and shook the package, spilling the contents. Tim consulted the instructions. ‘We put your swab into that ...’ – he poked at a capsule and reread the leaflet – ‘... and it goes into this pre-addressed envelope.’ He raised his head, a self-satisfied look on his face, asif he’d passed an exam.
A phone rang from inside the clubhouse. ‘Bloody tourists! They forget we’re on the same time zone as the UK. As if we’d be open this early.’ Tim rose and trotted across the terrace. The ringing stopped, and he retraced his steps, sat down, passing Mark a stick like an elongated cotton bud, the sort of tool Emily used if she messed up her eye makeup and needed to remove some. ‘You can do this in the gents in front of the mirror, or I can do it for you. All they need is a few cells from the inside of your cheek.’
‘Reckon I can find my own cheek without a mirror,’ mumbled Mark, taking the stick. He wasn’t going to outsource any part of this test!
The phone rang again. Tim didn’t budge.
‘That’s your mobile.’
‘No drama. They’ll call back. We’re nearly done.’
Mark took a firmer grip of the swab, opened his mouth, and poked around inside, then removed it. Both men peered at the swab, then at each other. Tim held out the capsule. Mark dropped in the loaded stick, and Tim screwed the cap on, then put it in the envelope. A phone rang again. Tim rolled his eyes.
‘Gotta be a woman,’ snorted Mark.
‘Two ticks,’ Tim said, running inside.
Mark sat on the decking drinking his coffee, listening to the sprinkler system chugging its way around, spraying water onto the clubhouse lawn – an unnaturally glossy dark green against the unirrigated, parched, brown land beyond the perimeter fence. His fate was sealed in that envelope; if the child was his, he’d make sure it was provided for both financially, and emotionally, and accept the consequences to his own life. He should never have had unprotected sex.
If the child wasn’t his, he would slay his other demons; Mark wasn’t going to live in fear anymore.
Tim returned, saying, ‘Mum. Might’ve guessed. I told her to leave a message next time. Do you want to take this to the surgery, or do you want me to?’ he asked, handing over the envelope.
Mark took it and sealed it. ‘I’ll drop it myself, just tell me where to go.’
‘I’ll sketch you a map. The leaflet says results in less than a week. They go to Fran and come to your post-box too, but of course it’ll be in Portuguese.’
It was three days since the Praia de Luz meeting and every one of them had been frantic, with Emily forced to work afternoons as well as her morning shift to keep up with demand. This morning, the maestro Miguel was out, and she was holding the fort. She chivvied the seamstress about a curtain order, tracked down a missing shipment of furniture to a depot in Lisbon, and sold a pair of lamps to a couple remodelling their bedroom. At lunchtime she checked her personal emails, noting another booking for the B&B, then marked the message as unread. Should she just forward the email to Mark?
