The Longest Holiday (3 page)

‘You mean there are some straight guys in Key West?’ Bridget asks pointedly. ‘Are you quite sure, Marty?’

‘Happy to prove it to you,’ Marty replies, glugging down a few more mouthfuls.

‘Whoa, slow down!’ Bridget exclaims, but Marty raises her eyebrows cheekily as she downs the rest of it. ‘Oh …’ Bridget says knowingly, knocking back half of hers, too.

Marty gets up with a look of steely determination on her face as she eyes the boys at the trolley.

‘Wait a sec,’ Bridget gasps, taking another gulp and getting to her feet.

‘I’m going to go and take a shower,’ I call after them.

Marty glances back at me, her brow momentarily furrowed, before she concedes. ‘Sure. Bridge and I will be up soon, then we’ll go and grab a bite to eat. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ I nod, trying to ignore her warily sympathetic smile before I head in the opposite direction.

I wake up with a start in the middle of the night and it takes a moment for me to get my bearings. Then I realise where I am and what I’m doing and an unwelcome feeling of foreboding settles over me. I wonder what the time is. I peer around in the darkness, but there isn’t a digital clock to be seen. I’ll have to switch my phone on, I think with a sigh, trying to psyche myself up before digging around blindly in my bag beside the bed. Ah, there it is. I start to roll off onto the floor and quickly right myself, my arm pressing against some paper on my bed as I do so. I snatch it up. It’s a note, but even as my eyes adjust, I can’t read it in this light. I switch on my phone and wait for it to come back to life, then turn the glowing screen towards the piece of paper.

Gone for dinner at the restaurant next door. Might head into town afterwards for a couple of bevvies. You were snoring – like a Whalepig – didn’t want to wake you. Call me if you get this and want to join us.

M xxxxxxxxxx

I check the clock on the screen. It’s two o’clock in the morning, US time. Marty is on the sofa bed, her chest gently rising and falling with slow, rhythmic breaths. I’m confused. What time did they go out and when did they get back? Did they go out with those jet-skiers? What happened? I came up here to have a shower, and then collapsed on the bed, waiting for them … And obviously fell asleep. I feel half relieved and half annoyed that they didn’t wake me.

My phone suddenly buzzes and I jolt.

Please let me know you’ve landed safely. I love you and miss you so much, LL xxx

LL. That’s Matthew’s nickname for me: Lovely Laura.

My nose starts to prickle and I sit up in bed as an unbearable urge to call him comes over me. No. Don’t. He doesn’t deserve it. I get to my feet, remembering at the last moment to duck my head as I emerge from underneath the stairs, and throw my phone onto the bed. I go to the bathroom and close the door before switching on the light to face myself in the mirror.

I look terrible. My light-blonde hair is crimped and mussed after I went to sleep on it while it was still damp from the shower, and my blue eyes are tinged red and underlined with puffy bags. I splash water on my face and stare at my reflection dolefully. I’m wide awake. There’s no way I’ll fall back asleep after crashing out at, what time was it? Five thirty? I’ve had – I calculate the time in my head – eight and a half hours. No way. That’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks. Shame it wasn’t a whole night’s sleep. What on earth am I going to do with myself now? I remember the swinging seat out on the balcony and decide that’s as good a place as any to pass the time. I sneak out of the front door, resisting the urge to take my phone with me.

Latin music wafts towards me from a distant bar as I climb onto the swinging seat and fold one leg up, using the other to propel me back and forth. I can hear water trickling down rocks from the nearby water feature, and wind chimes chinking together while ceiling fans whir overhead. I take a deep breath and slowly exhale.

I should text Matthew back to let him know I’ve landed safely.

No. Let him stew.

But a text won’t hurt. It’s the decent thing to do. I start to get up, and then force myself back into my seat. No.

I hear laughter coming towards me on a breeze and the strains of Latin music grow stronger. It sounds like it’s nearby.

Clutching this welcome distraction, I climb down from my seat and wander to the end of the balcony. Peering right I can see the sundeck, and beyond it a slightly unkempt-looking garden. From this distance I can see spirals of smoke trailing up into the sky. Predominantly male laughter rings out again. I feel a vicarious thrill as, on an impulse and for want of something better to do, I creep stealthily in my bare feet down the stairs and around the corner to the pool area. The tropical plants near the swimming pool and reception areas are underlit with pretty green and white lights and I can hear the hum of traffic from the road.

I climb the steps to the sundeck, eyes and ears alert, but it’s deserted. I can hear the low murmur of voices as I push my way through the leaves of the palm trees shading the deck – they’re rougher and scratchier than they look, but I feel like I’m Lara Croft, so I suck it up.

The garden – or back yard, as I should call it – of the adjoining ramshackle house is overrun with weeds and the odd piece of rubbish. I spot a rusty bicycle lying in some long grass, and a couple of broken stone statues of female torsos. Lanterns hang from oversized tree leaves and a rope light has been coiled up the trunk of one of the palms. Two guys sit on a beaten-up sofa underneath this tree, opposite a man and a woman in a couple of mismatched armchairs. One of the guys has a cigar and I watch transfixed as the smoke drifts through his fingers. Then he turns to stub it out and I glimpse his face.

I inhale quickly. He has dark eyes and dark eyebrows, olive skin and shortish, black, slicked-back hair. A shadow of stubble graces his chiselled jaw. He’s dressed casually in board shorts and a T-shirt, but he looks like he could be a film star. He’s one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. A feeling of déjà vu strikes me, but I don’t know why. I realise I’m holding my breath, and I have to concentrate to exhale.

He turns back to his friends and says something. They all laugh and the girl leans forward to slap him on his thigh. He good-naturedly bats her away and reaches for a bottle of beer to take a swig. I tear my eyes away from him to scrutinise her. She’s attractive: olive-skinned like him, with medium-length, dark-brown hair. She’s wearing a short, patterned summer dress and flip-flops. I wonder if she’s his girlfriend and I feel strangely piqued. The man on the armchair next to her has a shaved head and a goatie and looks a bit shifty, but the second man on the sofa is quite cute, with short, dark, curly hair and a big smile. Marty would like him, I think, before returning my attention to Mr Beautiful.

He’s stunning. He looks nothing like Matthew, who has blond hair, blue eyes and is unanimously acknowledged by practically everyone I know as freakishly good-looking.

‘He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen …’

I feel flat as I recall the reason for my déjà vu. Those were the same words my friend Susan used on my hen night to describe my future husband.

Out of the blue I feel overwhelmingly sad, a feeling which is swiftly followed by foolishness. What am I doing here, spying like a silly little girl? I back out of the scratchy palm leaves, which, to add insult to injury, are now forking at my hair, and make my way back to the apartment, where my blow-up mattress – and my mobile phone – await.

I gingerly climb onto the bed and open my text messages, staring at the one from Matthew …

For goodness’ sake, I think crossly as I pound the space button before finally accepting that my laptop has well and truly died. Matthew’s MacBook Pro is jubilantly plugged into the charger. I hate it when he does this. His is set up in the bedroom, but he likes checking his emails at the kitchen table, where there’s more light. As do I; that’s why I keep my laptop charger here. Fat lot of good it’s doing me at the moment. I pull the plug out of Matthew’s machine, the sudden movement bringing his screen to life. My laptop always takes forever to start up, and as I connect the plug I glance at Matthew’s glowing screen to see his Facebook page is open. With idle curiosity, I click on his messages to see who’s been in touch recently. He won’t mind; he’s not touchy about stuff like that. Wait. Who’s she? The profile picture at the top of the list is of a pretty, smiling brunette called Tessa Blight. Frowning, I open the message:

Are you the Matthew Perry who was at Elation on 20.10.12?

What’s this about? I recognise the date because it’s exactly a week before our wedding; he had his stag do in London and I know he went to a club called Elation. Who the hell is this girl? Matthew’s working late, so I can’t ask him. I study the picture more carefully. It’s small, but I think she has blue eyes – they look clear and bright, not dark as though they could be brown. Her hair is shiny and straight, and she has a blunt fringe which is cut right above her eyebrows. On the spur of the moment I reply to the message with a simple ‘Yes’.

My laptop has whirred to life so I try to turn my attention to my own Facebook messages, but it’s difficult. I keep checking Matthew’s page, just in case she replies. I feel oddly nervous and on edge. I trust him, but something about this feels wrong. Suddenly, another message pops up from her:

Oh, thank God it’s you!!! I need to talk to you urgently! Can we meet up in London this week? Tomorrow, even?

What the …?

I stare at the message in confusion. ‘Oh, thank God it’s you’? What’s that supposed to mean? And what’s with the urgency?

I hesitate for a moment before replying:

What’s this about?

She writes back instantly:

I’d rather tell you face to face.

Tell me? What’s there to tell? I quickly type:

No, I think you should tell me now.

And then I add for good measure, feeling a bit sick now:

Do you know that I’m married?

It’s a good few minutes before she replies, and the suspense almost kills me. But finally it comes:

No, I didn’t. I’m sorry. But I’m afraid that doesn’t change anything. I didn’t want to do this by messaging, but I can see that it’s going to be complicated. As if it’s not complicated enough! Sorry. I’m pregnant. You’re the father. I’m due in two months. I thought you should know. For the baby’s sake, not mine. So as you can see, we need to meet up. When’s a good time???

I feel like I’m falling, or spinning … And then I hear a key in the lock. I turn to see my husband walk through the door.

‘Hey,’ he says, dropping his bag on the floor and kicking off his shoes. Then he notices my face. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks with alarm. I can’t speak. He crosses the room and I turn the laptop in his direction. He leans over me, and my head throbs with adrenalin as I study his face. The blood drains from his honey-tanned features, his eyes widen in shock and his mouth drops open – all simultaneously – then he tears his gaze away from the screen to look at me.

‘What is going on?’ My voice is barely a whisper and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

He shakes his head, lost for words.

‘Did you have sex with her on your stag do?’ I ask in a tiny, scared voice as I put two and two together.

The look on his face: anxiety, remorse, guilt. All these emotions cross his features, but I just need one answer. And he closes his eyes in despair before giving it to me:

‘Yes.’ He slumps down on the chair beside me, and I’m so tense I feel like my limbs could snap. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘And you got her pregnant?’ I whisper.

He shakes his head again and glances at the laptop screen. ‘I … I don’t know,’ he replies with difficulty.

‘It sounds like you did,’ I point out, feeling oddly detached from my body. ‘What happened?’

Suddenly he has the nerve to look exasperated. ‘Oh God, Laura, I don’t know. I was really pissed. Really fucking pissed. I … I …’

‘You fucked her,’ I say in a strangely calm voice. ‘Do your mates know?’

This thought momentarily hurts me more than anything else.

‘No!’ he exclaims, and I feel an odd sense of relief. Then he adds embarrassment to his motley catalogue of emotions. ‘I … We … It was in the club’s toilets.’

‘You had sex with this girl in the club toilets?’ I ask, still in that abnormally detached manner.

‘I was really bloody drunk,’ he says again.

And then it hits me. The enormity of this. Matthew, who I married only seven months ago – is going to be a dad. Not to our child – my child – the child we were planning on having in couple of years, but to this girl’s baby. This bitch’s baby. This … slag’s baby.

I lose it. I thump him hard in his chest and he cries out in shock as I thump him again and again, hitting his chest and then his face. He reaches out to grab my wrists, but he can’t stop my wails, my screams, my hysteria. Somewhere, blindly, deep inside, I wonder what the neighbours will think.

The neighbours were the least of our problems, I remind myself as I come out of my daze and refocus on the message from Matthew, asking me to text him when I land. I angrily punch out a reply:

I’m here and I shouldn’t have to remind you that I need some space. So don’t text me again.

‘Good morning, sleepyhead!’

Those are Marty’s words to me when I finally open my eyes to see the sunlight streaming between the slats in the venetian blinds.

‘What time is it?’ I ask her. I played Sudoku on my phone until the early hours and finally dropped off at around six a.m. after devouring the whole packet of Oreos which we’d picked up at the airport. It was a long night.

‘Eight thirty,’ she replies.

‘Is that all?’ I thought I’d sleep for at least another couple of hours.

‘Is that all?’ she squeakily echoes me. ‘You fell asleep at about five yesterday afternoon!’

‘And woke up raring to go at two this morning,’ I say wryly.

‘Oh. Did you?’ she asks with confusion.

‘Yep. You were fast asleep. I was up half the night.’

‘Bummer.’

I join her on the sofa bed and tell her about Matthew’s text message and my response.