The Longest Holiday (9 page)

This place is the very definition of eclectic. I look around at the murals and battered blue, yellow and grey weatherboarding. A man on a small stage plays a leopard-print guitar and his harmonica, while surrounded by statues of angels and mermaids. Vines hang down from the big old trees shading the tables – not that we need shade today – and the sandy ground is dotted with broken-up bits of tiles and bricks. A family of chickens wanders freely around the yard. Despite the weather, practically everyone here is wearing beach dresses or Bermuda shorts. I notice a skinny, leathery brown woman in a short fluorescent-pink dress with a palm tree tattooed on her ankle. Anything goes. I smile to myself and glance past her to see Leo sitting at a table on his own, drinking a coffee and reading a newspaper.

‘It’s Leo!’ I gasp in Marty and Bridget’s general direction as they stand by the bar. ‘I’m going to go and say hi.’ I don’t wait for them to answer.

Wet sand seeps into my flip-flops and I try to kick it out as I make my way between the stone tables and wrought-iron chairs to talk to him. I’m almost at his table before he looks up.

‘Hello!’ I exclaim, barely able to contain my delight. Not very cool of me.

His eyes widen briefly with surprise. ‘Hello,’ he replies.

‘What are you doing here?’ So not cool. He’s drinking a coffee – dur!

He lifts up his cup in response.

‘But of course I can see that. Silly me.’ Without thinking, I pull up a chair and sit down. ‘Bummer about the dive today.’ I lean forward and put my arms on the table. He’s slouched right back in his chair, his elbow resting on the armrest. The saying, ‘He’s so laid back he could be in a coma,’ comes to me.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you got the day off?’

‘Yeah.’

A man of so few words. But I’m not giving up.

‘What have you got planned?’

He shrugs. ‘Nothing.’

‘We were thinking about going on one of those little conch train tours.’

Out of the blue, he throws his head back and laughs loudly.

‘What’s so funny?’ I pretend to be offended, but I’m grinning, too.

‘The thought of you three jiggling around Key West on one of those things …’ The corners of his eyes crinkle up very attractively when he smiles.

‘Bridget and Marty would rather visit Ernest Hemingway’s house,’ I confide with a shrug.

‘Don’t you want to do that? He has a lot of cats,’ he adds with a trace of irony.

‘Not fond of cats.’

‘Really?’

‘No. Prefer dogs.’

‘Me, too.’

Aw. ‘Anyway, I’d rather learn some of the history about this place.’

‘I can tell you that.’

The mini gymnasts living inside my stomach start to cartwheel. ‘Can you?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ He brushes me off. ‘Send them off to Hemingway’s. Are you having breakfast?’

I was planning on it, but I won’t if it means him leaving without me …

‘Um, depends.’

‘Laura! Table’s ready!’ Marty calls.

‘Do you want to join us?’ I ask him quickly.

‘No, you go ahead. I’ll wait for you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’ He grins and looks away from me as he takes a sip of his coffee. I get up and walk towards a smirking Marty with a great big smile on my face.

‘You are NOT!’ she cries under her breath when I tell her about the change of plan.

‘So we’re not doing the conch tour?’ Bridget asks, to be sure.

‘No, you guys can go to Hemingway’s,’ I say flippantly.

‘Maybe we’ll join you on your tour,’ Marty teases.

‘No, he wants me all to himself,’ I joke, but, actually, he did say to send Bridget and Marty off to Hemingway’s, so maybe it’s not so far from the truth.

I can barely concentrate during breakfast. Marty orders the Lobster Benedict, Bridget chooses pancakes with maple syrup, and I opt for a fruit platter with banana bread, but I pick at it.

‘Go on, then,’ Marty says finally when she’s had enough of me fidgeting. ‘We’ll settle the bill.’

‘Are you sure?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Have fun,’ Bridget says with a wink as I scrape my chair out from the table in my hurry to leave.

‘Thank you!’

I hear them discussing me before I’m even out of the room. I hurry outside and back around the corner, hoping Leo is still there. He is!

‘That was quick,’ he says, downing the last of his coffee. He stands up.

‘I wasn’t that hungry,’ I tell him.

‘You should eat more.’ He nods towards the exit so I lead the way out. What does he mean by that? Am I too skinny for him?

‘I’ve lost a bit of weight recently,’ I feel compelled to confess as we step out onto the street.

‘Why?’ His brow furrows as his hand waves me in the right direction.

‘Oh, you don’t want to know about all that.’

He says nothing, tucking his newspaper under his arm and shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts.

‘So how long are you in Key West?’ I ask, trying not to feel hurt about his disinterest as we set off. Yes, I know I asked him not to show any interest, but still …

‘For the next couple of months. Until the summer season is over.’

‘What do you do in Miami?’

‘This and that.’

‘What sort of this and that?’ I probe.

‘Working in bars, cigar factories … Nothing very interesting.’

‘It must be interesting working in a cigar factory?’

‘No. It isn’t.’

Matthew is a journalist, working for a respectable newspaper. Just as with Will, I’ve always felt proud of his drive and achievements, although at least with Matthew I never have to fear for his life.

‘Have you noticed the houses here pretty much all have tin roofs?’ Leo breaks into my thoughts.

‘Oh, er …’ I look around, but of course he’s right. ‘Yes?’

‘Fire prevention. Key West has been almost razed to the ground in the past, the wind carrying the fire from rooftop to rooftop. Now tin roofs are mandatory because they don’t catch alight.’

‘Cool,’ I comment.

‘See the woodwork?’

He points up at the porch belonging to a colonial house. The wooden decoration hanging from the eaves is intricately carved like lace. It’s very pretty.

‘It’s called gingerbread,’ Leo explains. ‘There’s a lot of it here in Key West. Hand-carved by master carpenters and ship-builders. I’ve seen some in the shape of geckos, flowers, violins, palm leaves … One house even has it in the shape of gingerbread.’

I smile at him with delight and he smiles back at me. ‘I’ll have to keep my eyes open for that one.’ We keep walking. ‘How do you know so much about the history here?’

‘I used to work on the conch trains when I was a teenager.’

‘You didn’t!’

‘I did.’

‘And there’s you taking the mickey about us going on the tour!’ I whack him on his arm.

‘Ouch.’ He shakes his arm.

‘That didn’t hurt,’ I chide, as a man dressed like Elvis rides past us on a scooter. ‘He looked like he was taking himself seriously,’ I say and Leo smirks. ‘So where are you taking me?’ I ask.

‘Southernmost Point. Have you been there yet?’ he replies.

‘No. Keep meaning to go.’

‘Did you know we’re closer to Havana than mainland Florida?’

‘Is that right? Nuts.’ I want to ask him about his parents, but I settle on a more comfortable subject. ‘Do you think you will go to Miami this weekend?’ I ask hopefully as we continue to stroll.

‘Nah. It doesn’t take two people to collect my nephew.’

I’m despondent, but then I realise what he’s said. ‘Your nephew? I thought it was Jorge’s nephew?’

‘It is. He’s both.’

‘You and Jorge are brothers?’ Eh?

‘No.’ He chuckles. ‘Jorge’s sister Carmen was married to my brother.’

‘Oh! Where’s your brother, then?’ The man’s name comes back to me from the other night: ‘Eric?’

‘No.’ His response is sharp. But of course Eric and Leo look nothing alike. ‘No. Eric is Carmen’s boyfriend. Alejandro is dead.’

I falter in my steps and look up at him in shock.

‘Oh God. I’m sorry.’

I realise he’s also come to a stop on the pavement. I turn to look at the enormous tree he’s staring at.

‘Have you seen a banyan tree before?’ he asks me.

‘No,’ I admit, feeling slightly out of kilter at his revelation.

The tree in front of me is strange; its roots look like they’re dripping from the tree, like candle wax. I notice other, thick, vine-like trunks coming down from the branches, so that the whole front of the tree appears to span three front yards.

‘This one is a hundred years old. Every time a root touches the ground, it forms a new trunk.’

‘That’s amazing.’ It is genuinely remarkable.

Suddenly the heavens open.

‘I forgot my umbrella!’ I cry, as Leo tugs me further under the tree for shelter. The touch of his hand on my arm … It actually takes my breath away. It’s the oddest sensation – I’ve never had that before with a man.

A mother hen with a dozen chicks scuttles across the road and into the undergrowth.

‘Seriously, what’s with all the chickens?’ I blurt out.

‘They were brought here in the mid-nineteenth century for cock fighting and food.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Now they keep the scorpions in check.’

‘Scorpions?’ I inadvertently look at the ground, while scrunching up my toes in my flip-flops.

He smiles and looks down at me as another shiver goes through me. I don’t think I’ve ever been this attracted to another human being before. It really is a first-class distraction.

A drop of rain makes its way through the leaves of the banyan tree and lands on my head, making me flinch.

‘You never answered my question, by the way,’ Leo says casually. ‘Why don’t you want to go home?’

‘Oh.’ My heart sinks. ‘It’s complicated.’

He regards me for a moment as I stand there, quietly contemplating whether or not to tell him, and then his gaze drops to where the fingers of my right hand are unwittingly fidgeting with the ring finger of my left hand. I left my rings at home, as a bitter reminder to Matthew about what he’d done. My finger feels vacant without them.

‘Married,’ Leo says in low voice, which doesn’t belie his surprise. His eyes dart up to meet mine. I don’t deny it. He sucks the air in through his teeth.

‘Like I said, it’s complicated.’

‘Why isn’t he here with you?’ Pause. ‘Have you left him?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe,’ I reply. I’m vaguely aware of more raindrops falling through the leaves and running down Leo’s slick black hair. My T-shirt is feeling damp. He seems oblivious.

‘What did he do?’

‘How do you know it wasn’t me?’

‘It wasn’t you,’ he says firmly, with odd insight.

My reply comes out in a rush. ‘He had sex with another woman a week before he married me. She’s seven months pregnant.’

He breathes in sharply. ‘Whoa.’

It’s the most animated I’ve seen him.

‘Fuck,’ he adds.

His response makes me laugh. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

But he doesn’t mirror my expression. His eyes have clouded over. He looks away from me, staring into the distance. An uneasy feeling settles over me. ‘When did you find out?’

‘Two weeks before I came here. Marty persuaded me I needed to get away, have some space, clear my head.’

He nods shrewdly. ‘Did he tell you himself?’ he asks.

I roll my eyes. ‘No. I saw a message on his Facebook page, asking if he was the Matthew Perry who was at a club called Elation on the night of his stag do. She was just some random girl he shagged in the club’s toilets.’

My face burns with humiliation as I relay this. He doesn’t seem to notice as he ponders what I’ve said. ‘How did she know his surname if she was so random?’

I tut. ‘I asked that question, too. They met while dancing to “I’ll Be There for You”, the theme tune from Friends. You know Matthew Perry is also the name of one of the actors? My Matthew joked his nickname was Chandler.’ I shake my head, hating the thought of him flirting with the slapper.

He snorts in disgust. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asks finally.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I can ever forgive him. I haven’t had enough time to think about all this. At the moment, I never want to see his face again.’

Anger overcomes me, but it’s swiftly followed by a deep and aching sadness. To my horror, a lump forms in my throat and out of the blue I want to cry, but there’s nowhere to run in this downpour.

He holds my gaze for a long time, and miraculously my tears abate. Right then, I want nothing more than for him to hold me, for him to take me in his arms, for me to press my face into his chest. It’s not about the sex, it’s about the intimacy, and suddenly I crave that with this man. But his hands stay firmly wedged in his pockets. He looks away from me and I take a shaky breath as I notice that the rain has all but stopped.

‘Let’s go,’ he says, but neither of us speaks for a while as we walk. It takes some time before it even occurs to me to wonder why we’re walking back in the direction we’ve just come.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask with confusion.

‘Hemingway’s house is up here.’ His pace seems to quicken.

‘But I …’ I didn’t want to go to Hemingway’s house!

‘You should be with your friends,’ he mutters. ‘And I’ve got some things I need to do.’

My stomach falls flat and my throat closes up. So that’s it. I’ve scared him away. I can’t speak. I’m too shocked and disappointed to utter a single word.

We come to a stop outside a white house with a brick wall around it. It shouldn’t be too hard to find Bridget and Marty inside, should I choose to go in. It’s more tempting to go back to the hotel and sob my heart out, instead.

‘See you tomorrow, yes?’ he asks bluntly.

I’m almost too hurt to reply, but I force myself to act blasé.

‘If the storm has passed by then.’

‘It should do. Storms never last long in Key West.’

I nod curtly. ‘Thanks for the tour.’

‘You’re welcome.’ I see something in his expression, but I turn away before I can think any more about it.

That day I feel like my heart has broken all over again. I don’t go to Hemingway’s house. I feel too sad to put on a brave face in front of Marty and Bridget. I also feel too humiliated. So I jump in a passing cab and head back to our hotel. All the tears from the last week and a half flood me in one go, and I sit on the sofa and make my way through half a roll of toilet paper.