Later that evening, Emily climbed out of the Fiat and walked towards the front steps, flanked by the elephants with their garish saddles. She let herself in and walked through the hallway. She could see Mark sitting on the terrace, his back towards her. She slid open the French windows, and he glanced at her, briefly, over his shoulder. She sat down in the chair next to him – they had to talk this through. There was a child involved.
‘So,’ she said quietly.
He sat up breathing noisily. Good, he was anxious. Maybe she was about to hear the truth. ‘You’ve every right to be cross, but I’ve something to say, and if you still want a divorce when I’ve finished, I won’t challenge you.’
His breathing settled. Emily looked at him. His eyes were closed. He told her about his meetings with Tim and how he was convinced Fran would be horrified when she heard what Tim had tried to pull off.
‘I’m not trying to defend myself for sleeping with Fran,’ he said, waving a hand at her, ‘but honestly ...’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t remember anything about that night.’
For a few minutes the couple sat without speaking. She could smell the sweet smoky scent of meat cooking on a neighbour’s barbeque. Her stomach rumbled; she’d had nothing to eat since she met with Fran that morning.
Mark opened his eyes and looked into hers. ‘I love you, Emily. I admire how you’ve coped with everything I’ve thrown at you. Not just this past year, I mean all our married life. You’ve just got on with things and done your best, even when I neglected you.’
Emily cringed inwardly at the flattering tone. She hung her head, tears pricking against her eyelids. She dabbed her littlefingers into the corners of her eyes and cleared her throat. ‘Have I? I’m not so sure.’
She felt his gaze fall on her and peered up, seeing his eyebrows rise. ‘Not true. You fought the battles worth fighting and ignored those you couldn’t win. You chose well! And you always stuck up for Alex. You were a close-knit team of two, you protected him until he found his feet. He was never going to be a beach bum, there’s too much of me in him.’
She reached out a hand, which he grasped, their forearms resting on the tabletop between them.
He gave a single slow nod. ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked. ‘Do you still want a divorce?’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t even remember going to bed with the girl,’ she said. ‘It was your subconscious revenge for me breaking the 90-day rule. A few months ago, you might’ve had a different answer, but I’ve become fond of you again. I admire the way you’ve battled on, tackling all the problems that, when I’m honest with myself, I helped create.’
Her arm was uncomfortable, so she released her grip. Mark patted hers before she withdrew it, sending a pleasurable shiver up her arm.
‘Where do you want to live?’ he asked. She didn’t answer, and he started filling in the silence. ‘We could sell the villa and go back to London. I know you miss your girlfriends, and the shopping, especially Fortnum’s.’
She gave a little start. ‘Fortnum’s?’
His lips creased into a smile. ‘I found all those little turquoise bags. Couldn’t resist, eh? We can’t afford to live the life we used to have or be anywhere near the centre of town. There won’t be any staff, or designer dresses or charity balls.’
She let her eyes travel around her remodelled garden. She would miss the climate, this country, this relaxed way of living, the charming hospitable Portuguese. ‘Strangely, I don’t missLondon nearly so much as I used to.’
She turned the question over to him.
‘Emily it’s not up to me,’ he said, rising, and coming to stand behind her. ‘I will live wherever makes you happy.’ She felt his hands massaging her shoulders and gulped down a sob. ‘Do you want to stay in Portugal?’ he asked.
She weighed the options. ‘Can I think about it for a few days?’ she asked in a wavering voice.
Mark stroked her hair, then kissed the top of her head. ‘Yup.’
Thirty-six
Emily had never expected to become an expert on the topic of football. But being both tolerably knowledgeable about the off-side rule and, more crucially, able to recognize the players’ names, had become a necessary tool for her full-time job with Miguel. Premier League footballers were not used to explaining who they were.
‘Did you secure that one?’ asked her boss.
She put down the phone, beaming across at him. ‘I did.’
He pointed a finger at her. ‘I was right to take you on full-time. You are a natural.’
Reading the words,astute advice, Mark felt the laughter rippling up from his stomach. How often had he been complimented on that? But never by a twelve-year-old child referring to a recommendation of where to eat the best pizza in the Algarve. Mark reread the comments, his face glowing – his first five-star review.
‘Penny for them?’ asked Emily, resting her hands on his shoulders.
He thrust his computer her way. ‘Read that,’ he commanded and watched her eyes track across the screen.
‘Well done, you!’ she said, giving him a mock salute.
