The Longest Holiday (4 page)

‘Did he text you back?’ she asks.

‘Yeah. He wrote back immediately to apologise again, remind me that he loves me, and to promise to give me some space.’ I shake my head. ‘I didn’t reply.’

Bridget hangs over the railings, dressed jubilantly in her green bikini. ‘Who’s ready to hit the pool?’

I didn’t even realise she was awake.

‘Me!’ Marty replies, jumping up.

‘Um, I can’t,’ I say. ‘I need to go and buy a swimming costume first.’

‘Borrow one of mine,’ Bridget says, disappearing for a moment.

‘Really?’ I ask hopefully as she reappears. We’re pretty much the same size, but her generosity takes me by surprise.

She throws a fifties-style, navy-blue-and-white polka-dot costume down to me. She shrugs. ‘I brought three.’

I remember the weight of her suitcase. Of course she did. ‘Thanks,’ I say with a smile.

‘Come on, then.’ Marty snaps us to it.

We barely move from our poolside positions all day. Marty goes off to source pastries from a local bakery for breakfast, we order lunch from the restaurant next door, delivered directly to the pool, and we’re still here, hogging our three sunloungers at happy hour. The Germans have nothing on us. It’s so unlike me to do this; usually I have to be out there sightseeing and filling up my day with activities, but today … Sigh. It’s been all about the sunshine.

I’m feeling surprisingly okay. This may be because I’m trying not to think about Matthew. I came away to clear my head, and while this might imply that I plan to do some serious thinking, what I really want to do is take that sentence literally: clear my head of everything involving my husband. I don’t want to think about him at all. Or rather, no more than I can help it.

It’s my turn to get the drinks, so I tie my canary-yellow sarong around my waist – I did remember to bring that, at least – and wander over to the happy hour trolley. I’m just shaking some savoury snacks into a plastic cup, when I see Rick and his two mates approaching.

‘Hello again,’ Rick says with a smile as he grabs three beers out of the bucket and hands two to his mates. ‘We must stop meeting like this.’ He cracks his can open and I laugh nervously, trying to pick up the drinks I’ve just prepared. But four cups are a struggle, when you include the snacks. ‘Let me help.’ His hand swoops in and picks up one of the drinks. ‘Where are you sitting?’

I nod towards Marty and Bridget, who are lying on their backs with their sunglasses on, oblivious to everything.

‘Aah, Marty and Bridget,’ he says as he follows me over there. ‘We met them last night.’ Which I know, of course. Marty told me earlier that they had a few drinks by the pool. ‘Your name’s Laura, right?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Carl and Tom,’ he says, jabbing his thumb at his buddies, and we exchange a hi, even though I already know their names, because Marty told me earlier. She’s been wondering all day where they are – Tom in particular. Now, as we arrive back at the sunloungers, she bolts upright.

‘Oh, hi!’ she exclaims. Bridget swiftly follows suit.

‘How’s it going?’ Rick asks, passing Marty her drink and settling down on my empty sunlounger. Carl and Tom make themselves comfortable next to my friends, so I have no choice but to sit alongside Rick.

‘You girls had a good day?’ Tom asks Marty.

‘It’s been suitably unproductive,’ she jokes, indicating her surroundings. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘Jet-skiing.’

‘All day, every day?’ Marty asks with a grin, as the image of them bronzed, wet and glistening probably pops into her mind.

‘Just today. We’re taking tomorrow off to go scuba-diving.’

‘I’d love to be able to scuba-dive,’ Bridget enthuses.

Actually, so would I. I’ve often thought about learning.

‘Come with us?’ Carl suggests, turning to look at her.

‘Don’t you have to do a PADI course or something?’ Bridget asks.

‘Yeah, but you could ask about it. They do snorkelling day trips, too.’

‘Snorkelling would be good,’ Marty chips in. ‘You up for that, Laura?’

‘Sure.’ I take a sip of my drink. This is okay. They’re just people; we’re only talking; I am perfectly capable of holding an ordinary conversation …

‘Where did you disappear to last night, then?’ Rick asks me, taking a swig of his beer before putting it on the ground.

‘I went upstairs to take a shower and ended up falling asleep.’

‘Lightweight,’ he teases, removing his cap and sunnies and running his hand through his sandy-blond hair before leaning forward and turning to look at me. Whoa. I almost reel backwards. His eyes are a piercing blue, even bluer than Matthew’s. I instantly decide that I don’t like blue eyes and inadvertently shiver.

‘You’re not cold, are you?’ he asks, his eyes dropping to my cleavage. I don’t have much of one normally, but Bridget’s swimming costume cinches me in.

‘No, I’m fine,’ I reply, turning my attention to the other two boys – much safer. ‘When’s your jet-skiing tournament?’ I ask.

‘Wednesday,’ Carl tells me. That’s the day after tomorrow.

‘We’ll have to come and watch you,’ Bridget says with a tipsy giggle, patting him on his muscled thigh.

‘You like to watch, do you?’ Carl asks with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

Bridget giggles and a red spot forms on each of her cheeks.

‘Are you all hitting Duval Street later?’ I ask.

‘Hell, yeah,’ Tom replies, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Thought we’d check out Sloppy Joe’s,’ he says of the infamous bar, once frequented by Key West’s most prominent former resident, Ernest Hemingway.

‘So what are you chicks doing down here in the keys, anyway?’ Carl leans back on his elbows. They are all ridiculously tanned and fit.

‘Just a little girls’ holiday,’ Marty replies, tucking her hair behind one ear. ‘Bridge is a travel writer so she’s doing a piece and we’re making the most of her discount,’ she adds with a smile.

‘Nice job. Wasn’t your boyfriend pissed that you brought your friends instead of him?’ Carl asks Bridget with a sideways glance – definitely fancies her.

‘I’m single,’ she replies with a shrug.

‘No boyfriends for us, thank you very much,’ Marty adds flippantly.

I open my mouth to speak, but she silences me with a look.

‘Girls just wanna have fun, hey?’ Rick says.

‘Absolutely!’ Marty says. I raise my eyebrows, but keep my mouth shut. I down the rest of my drink.

‘You want another one of those?’ Rick asks.

‘No, I’m going to get ready. You coming?’ I ask Marty meaningfully.

She hesitates before nodding. She knows she’s in for it.

‘I’ll be up in a bit!’ Bridget calls after us.

‘See you at Sloppy’s,’ Rick adds and I glance back to meet his eyes, wishing a split second later that I hadn’t.

‘What are you doing, telling him I’m single?’ I hiss at Marty when we’re out of earshot.

‘I didn’t say you were single,’ she replies glibly. ‘I said we didn’t have boyfriends. Technically it’s true.’ We reach the apartment and she rummages around in her beach bag for the key.

‘You’re misleading him,’ I say when we’re inside. ‘I’m married.’

Her face softens. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Let’s just follow Cyndi’s mantra and have some fun, eh? They’re only here until Friday.’

I sigh. ‘Okay.’

‘You jump in the shower first. I’m going to raid my suitcase for an outfit to knock Tom’s socks off.’

‘Just his socks?’ I ask wryly. She sniggers and I head into the bathroom determined to put Rick out of my mind, along with every other blue-eyed boy I’ve ever fallen in love with.

‘You should have your palms read!’ Bridget cries gleefully. We’re on our way to Duval Street after dinner. There’s a palm-reading stall set up on the pavement with a wiry-looking, deeply tanned man of indeterminate age sitting at a table.

‘Definitely not.’ I shake my head with drunken determination as I try not to look the palm reader in the eye.

‘You should!’ Bridget persists loudly.

‘You will never get Laura to do that,’ Marty butts in, slurring slightly. ‘She once had her palms read when we were in Ibiza – she totally freaked out.’

‘Really?’ Bridget asks with curiosity as she zigzags on the pavement. ‘What did they say?’

‘Nothing.’ I wave her away. ‘It’s a load of tosh.’

‘That’s not what you thought at the time,’ Marty says with a smirk.

‘Anyway, what are they going to say now?’ I move on quickly. ‘That my life is crap and my husband is a bastard?’

‘Maybe they’ll tell you that you’re about to find love – or at least lust – with a mysterious jet-skier.’ Bridget punches me playfully. ‘Oh, his face when you went upstairs!’ she exclaims for about the fifth time. ‘He was heartbroken!’

‘Cut it out,’ I snap. ‘I’m not interested.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Bridget says, brushing me off.

‘Oh, it definitely is,’ I try to say firmly, but it’s difficult considering all the alcohol I’ve already consumed this evening.

‘We’ll see how you feel after a couple of shots of tequila,’ Marty says.

‘I am not doing tequila shots,’ I reiterate, and then suddenly a giant cockerel hops onto the pavement in front of us and lets out the loudest cock-a-doodle-doo I’ve ever heard.

‘What the hell?’ Marty splutters.

‘Where did he come from?’ Bridget cries, taking my arm and giving him a wide berth. He cock-a-doodle-doos again as we pass and we all jolt in shock before cracking up laughing.

‘Hey!’ a male voice shouts from ahead of us. Through blurry vision brought on from tears of laughter I recognise Rick, Tom and Carl approaching.

‘That rooster just scared the shit out of us!’ Marty exclaims, pointing back at it. ‘What on earth is a rooster doing wandering the streets?’

I wipe away my tears to see Rick smiling down at me. He’s wearing cream-coloured chinos and a pale green polo shirt. No cap tonight. ‘You haven’t noticed the chickens before?’ he says.

‘What chickens?’

‘They’re everywhere.’

‘Are they?’ I ask with disbelief.

‘Look.’ He points up at a tree and, sure enough, there are a few hens roosting on a branch. ‘They’re all over the place in the daytime with their chicks. Hell knows what a rooster is doing up at this hour, though.’

‘That’s taking “free-range” a step too far,’ Marty says. She is not a fan of birds.

Tom and Carl have also forgone their caps and sunnies tonight, revealing short brown hair and blue eyes (Tom), and even shorter brown hair and … what colour are Carl’s eyes? Green. Whoops. He just caught me staring at him.

‘You heading to Sloppy’s?’ Rick asks.

‘Guess so,’ I reply. ‘I don’t think I need to drink anymore though.’

Suddenly a man dressed as a giant baby swerves onto the pavement in front of us from a side street. He’s quickly followed by seven mates, chanting and laughing and carrying plastic glasses with beer sloshing over the sides.

Stags. I freeze on the pavement.

Marty appears at my side. ‘Tequila?’

Bugger it. ‘Go on, then.’

Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. Naughty Marty.

‘WOOOOOOOOOOO! I LOVE this song!’

Yep, that was me screaming. And now I appear to be dancing on a table. How did that happen?

I have a flashback to my hen night, when my friend Natalie tried to teach me how to tango. I wonder if I can tango on this table. I could also really do with one of those penis whistles Cheryl gave me that night. I need to make some NOISE!

‘Laura, come down!’ two Bridgets shout up at me. Yay! Now I’m seeing double. ‘You’re going to kill yourself!’

I crack up laughing and stumble. Straight into Rick’s arms.

‘You okay?’ he asks with amusement as he puts me down.

‘You are definitely not pissed enough,’ I berate him.

‘Pissed?’

‘Drunk,’ I explain, forgetting pissed means angry, here.

‘Oh.’ He shrugs. ‘I don’t drink much. Anyway, we’ve got a dive tomorrow.’

Whoops. The snorkelling. Forgot about that.

‘Take Your Mama’ by Scissor Sisters starts to play and another memory of my hen night comes back to me: Shona and Sharon doing karaoke! That was a fun evening. I should do it again sometime. Do it again? Another hen do? Suddenly I find this thought absolutely hilarious. I burst into uncontrollable laughter.

‘I think you’ve had one too many tequilas,’ Marty says, swiftly replacing Rick at my side.

‘Correction!’ I say in a comedy American accent. ‘I haven’t had enough! More tequila!’ I shout. ‘Bloody hell, I loved my hen do. We should do it again sometime!’ I squeal out loud to Marty. By now I’m in hysterics.

‘I think we need to get you something else to eat,’ Marty says firmly.

‘Peanut M&Ms!’ I erupt. ‘Do you remember how Amy and Susan had those on tap on my hen night? Where are they now? They should be here! On THIS hen do! And where’re Allison and Andrea? Where are they? Why didn’t you invite them?’ Out of the blue I feel angry with her.

‘Time to get you to bed.’ Marty marches me out of the bar, grabbing a resigned Bridget as we pass. ‘See you in the morning, boys!’ she calls in their general direction.

‘You are no fun at all,’ I say as we spill out onto the pavement, right into the path of an oncoming hen, wearing a veil and L-plates. She’s followed by a gaggle of girls all laughing and dressed up to the nines.

‘Hey! You!’ I shout as they start to pass us. The bride-to-be gives me a look of surprise over her shoulder. ‘Don’t do it!’ I yell at her, before loudly lamenting: ‘Where are all the GAYS?’

‘Shhhhh!’ Marty warns, pulling me away. ‘Ignore her, she’s drunk!’ she tells the stunned girls, who warily move on.

Without warning, my anger turns to despair. ‘She’s having my baby! MY baby, Marty! It’s not fair.’

‘I know it’s not, shush, shush,’ Marty murmurs as she pulls me into her warm embrace.

‘Why did he do it?’ Tears start streaming down my face. ‘How could he do this to me? Wasn’t I enough?’

‘Of course you’re enough!’ Marty tells me fervently, shaking me at the same time. ‘He’s an idiot! He made a mistake!’

I start to sob. I’m vaguely aware of Bridget flagging down a cab, and after that: nothing.

I can’t believe we’re going through with this. I’ve already thrown up twice in the night, and now Marty seems to think it’s a bright idea to put me on a moving boat.