‘Wait there, dinner in twenty minutes. Glass of wine?’
Precisely twenty minutes later, Mark walked onto the terracecarrying a tray. Emily was sitting at the table, her low-heeled work shoes lying discarded underneath, being nosed gently by the dogs.
‘More wine?’ he asked, handing over a plate.
She gazed down at the food. ‘Wow, this is amazing. I forgot I married a chef! You really are remarkably good at this.’ She picked up a spear of asparagus and nibbled at it while he filled two glasses of wine, then took the bottle back inside.
He sat down in front of his own plate, poking a piece of asparagus into the hollandaise sauce. The first time he’d served her an egg-based sauce, she’d confessed she had never attempted one herself, too nervous it would split. Mark approached cooking with the same detailed planning he had an M&A transaction. Strict timetables were drawn up, each ingredient allotted a place in the sequence, ensuring that every constituent part of the meal was ready simultaneously.
‘Are you working this Saturday, or can I sort out some tennis?’ he asked.
She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Not sure. We’ve a big pitch coming up. We’re all ready, but the client hasn’t told us when they want to meet. Can I let you know tomorrow?’ She pushed the remains of her asparagus spear into the sauce. ‘Sorry, but it goes with the territory, being on call at weekends,’ she said, taking a bite of the hollandaise-laden vegetable.
‘Let me know when you know. And, Emily, we need to decide if we’re going back to London.’
‘I know,’ she said without looking at him.
‘I’ve had Mum’s house valued, and the local agents think that, with the way you’ve remodelled Villa Anna, it would fly out the door.’
‘Don’t give me all the glory. If you hadn’t made friends with Tommy and bought that strip of land off him, this wouldn’t be quite so easy to sell!’
‘I’d hardly call us mates!’
‘I think you’re as close to being a friend of Tommy’s as anyone outside his family is going to get.’
He watched her stroking the side of her glass, then switched his gaze to two blue jays, their beaks bobbing up and down as they pecked at the grass. He would miss this place; it wasn’t just the heat but the light, there was something so vivid about the light in the Algarve. Mark picked up their empty plates and planted a kiss on Emily’s head saying, ‘Let me know about tennis.’
It was Saturday afternoon. The big pitch was on; the client wanted to meet at his Villa on Quinta do Lago, and Emily was on her way to collect the mood boards. It was only a few hundred yards from the car park to the office, but the small of her back felt damp and she sensed the prickles of sweat on her forehead. A trickle slipped down her nose, her sunglasses following. She slid them back into place and sped up, her sling-back shoes rattling on the pavement. She stuck out her lower lip and puffed a breath upwards at her hot face, praying the client wouldn’t want to meet outside.
Emily’s phone rang. Slowing down, she poked around in her handbag, fished it out, and stopped dead, phone in one hand, office key in the other.Damn, she should’ve blocked that number.She stuffed the phone inside her bra, muffling the sound, but could still feel it vibrating against her ribcage. She lifted her arms like wings – sweaty armpits would not be a good look for the pitch – and unlocked the door. The air conditioning was turned off, and the muggy heat hit her like a blast wave; she left the door open and ran to Miguel’s desk. The phone rang into her message system, sending out an alert that, to Emily, felt like a stab from her moral compass, but she ignored both the call to action and the still-small voice of her conscience, grabbed the boards, and turned to go.
There was a ping from under her blouse. Her instinct was to ignore the written message too, but people don’t always follow their instincts. For the second time, she pulled out her phone.
I’m at Faro airport. I must see you. I will be at your villa in an hour.
Her jaw fell, and the mood boards clattered onto the floor. Emily sat at her desk, her head in her hands, thoughts spinning like garden leaves in a winter storm. She was trapped. Thank goodness she hadn’t blocked the number. How long would this pitch take? Was there a better rendezvous spot? At least they’d be alone at the villa. She chewed a fingernail, then replied.I’m at work, come in two hours.
Humming to himself, Mark unwrapped a clean tea towel, draped it over a pan, and pushed the pan to the back of the counter, out of the sun; with the doors shut, the kitchen would soon be hot enough for the dough to prove. He flicked his head back, then jerked it forwards; his sunglasses obediently dropped into place and, still humming, he stepped outside, knelt to dip a finger in the dogs’ water bowl – tepid – poured the contents into a nearby lavender pot, then refilled it, letting the cold water run through his fingers.
He punched in the alarm code and locked the villa. All his paying guests were at the beach and not due back until early evening, but if someone did need to get in, he’d told everyone he and Emily were playing in the Saturday social mixed doubles, so to just come and find them at Martin’s tennis centre.
The gate slid open, and Mark noticed David pegging washing onto a rotary line. He called out, ‘I’m trying out a new recipe for focaccia bread. Pop round for a beer later. Seven suit you?’
David turned, two green plastic pegs dangling between his lips. He mumbled something, the pegs bobbing up and down. Mark chuckled, pointing a finger at his own mouth. David pulled out the pegs, fastening a pair of socks with each one. ‘Yes, please.Rather you than me on court, it’s over 30 degrees.’ He dipped his hand into a laundry basket at his feet, emerging with a pair of shorts. ‘Emily not playing?’
‘She’s got a big pitch on, and it’s running late. She’s joining later.’
David turned his back on Mark, his arms reaching up to the washing line, calling out, ‘See you at seven then. Play well!’
Mark did play well. He was partnered with Martin – who was standing in for Emily – and he was at the net, poised to take advantage of Martin’s serve. The opponents were at their base line, discussing tactics. He could see another foursome on the next court battling out a rally, shouts ofyoursandmine, and the squeaking of tennis shoes on the court intermingled with the background throaty roar of high-performance sports cars, their drivers revving the engines as they raced past the centre.
Hearing a screech of brakes, Mark glanced up. The sun was glinting off the little Fiat as it accelerated up the dirt track, spitting out clouds of dust. He raised his racket in greeting, expecting a toot in response, but Emily sprinted past the fence, without looking his way.
Martin called out from behind him, ‘Come on, guys, let’s play, eh?’
Mark knelt. He caught a glimpse of a second car, driving more slowly up the dirt track. It was a BMW Z4 sports car, and the roof was down. The driver stopped, turned his head towards the courts, and Mark did a double-take. He straightened and felt a searing pain on the back of his head.
‘Yikes! Sorry, Mark, thought we agreed you would duck,’ said Martin.
