The Longest Holiday (8 page)

‘That was good,’ Leo says approvingly when we’re back on the boat. ‘You’ve picked it up quickly.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply, his compliment warming me from the inside out.

I was able to adjust my buoyancy much more easily this time. Bridget and Marty seemed to struggle, and I could tell Marty absolutely hated the bit where we had to remove our masks and put them back on again underwater. I didn’t like that much, either. I liked the buddy sharing, though – the bit where Leo and I had to practise using each other’s air, passing the mouthpiece between us. Bloody hell, I fancy him.

I’m crushed when Bridget and Marty want to go straight back to the hotel to get cleaned up before dinner.

‘Just one drink,’ I plead.

‘Oh, Laura, the salt water is making my skin feel all tight and disgusting,’ Marty moans. ‘I need a shower,’ she adds annoyingly and I could kick her.

‘We’ll be quick!’ I know I’m sounding desperate, but I don’t really care.

‘Come on, just the one,’ Bridget chips in, and I could kiss her.

Marty sighs. ‘Go on, then.’

Jorge and Leo are already there. Tegan is with them.

‘Forecast not looking good for tomorrow,’ she comments as she turns around from her position at the bar and hands beers to Jorge and Leo. To my dismay, she pulls up a stool next to Leo. ‘Storm coming.’

‘What does that mean for us?’ I ask, halting in front of them instead of going straight to the bar. It’s my round.

‘Call the office in the morning,’ Jorge replies. ‘We might have to postpone the dive.’

‘Postpone it to when?’ Bridget asks worriedly.

‘Depends on the storm,’ Jorge says.

‘It will probably last only a day,’ Tegan chips in. ‘You should be able to continue on Thursday.’

‘Good,’ Bridget replies. ‘We’re going to Miami on Friday,’ she reminds us.

I don’t want to go to Miami. I want to stay here.

‘Are you getting the drinks, or what?’ Marty nudges me.

‘Yeah, yeah. Beer?’

Bridget and Marty nod as I go to stand at the bar, to the left of Tegan.

‘We’re going to Miami this weekend too, actually,’ I hear Jorge say. I glance over my shoulder to see him asking Leo: ‘You are coming, aren’t you?’

Leo shrugs. ‘Haven’t decided yet.’

Leo in Miami while I’m in Miami? Maybe Friday won’t be the last time I see him. My heart is on its own emotional roller coaster: up and down, up and down.

‘What can I get you?’

I look up to see the barman speaking to me.

‘Three beers, please.’

‘My sister’s son is coming back from his travels,’ I hear Jorge telling Marty and Bridget. ‘We’re collecting him from the airport. At least, I am. I’ll check on my apartment and pick up my post while I’m there.’

‘Where has he been?’ I ask Jorge, paying the bartender and taking the drinks back to my friends.

‘South America. Cuba, too, but don’t tell the authorities.’

I read somewhere recently that since the Cold War, US citizens have been forbidden to travel to Cuba without a special licence.

‘Cuba?’ I ask with interest, my eyes flitting between Jorge and Leo. ‘Do you have any family there?’

‘Going way back,’ Jorge replies with a grin. ‘My grandparents were Cuban. Leo’s father was, too.’ He glances at Leo, but Leo doesn’t react.

‘What shall we do in Miami, then?’ Marty asks. ‘Any good recommendations?’

Jorge said Leo’s father was Cuban. Past tense. Does that mean he’s dead? It’s not a question I feel comfortable asking.

Later, Marty, Bridget and I find ourselves on our balcony with a bottle of vodka and a couple of cartons of cranberry which we picked up from a nearby off-licence after dinner. We decided to head back here rather than hit another bar. The wind has picked up and we can definitely sense a storm is coming. To my disappointment, it looks like Tegan was right about the dive being postponed.

‘That is so rubbish about tomorrow’s dive,’ I say. I’m squeezed next to Bridget on the swinging seat. Marty is on one of the two wrought-iron chairs, with her bare feet resting on the other.

‘I think your disappointment is greater than ours,’ Marty replies with a knowing look.

Bridget jovially nudges me.

‘Okay, I fancy him. So what?’ I snap, buoyed by the alcohol.

Bridget bursts out laughing. ‘Too right!’ She chinks my glass. ‘And why shouldn’t you?’

Marty’s face softens. ‘That’s hilarious.’

‘What is?’ I ask, feeling relief more than anything. It’s nice to be able to come clean and not have the piss taken out of me.

‘I love that you just admitted it,’ Marty says warmly.

I scoff and take another gulp of my vodka cranberry. ‘It’s not like I’m going to do anything about it.’

‘You should just shag him and be done with it,’ Bridget says.

I splutter and almost spit out my drink. ‘I don’t think so!’

‘I would,’ Bridget confesses between giggles.

‘Yeah, I know you would.’ I nod emphatically in the direction of her bedroom inside the apartment. ‘You already did,’ I add.

‘Aw,’ she says fondly, thinking of Carl, before asking Marty, ‘Did you really not shag Tom?’

‘Nope,’ Marty replies casually and I can’t help liking her more for her response. Marty has never slept around. Neither have I. It’s one thing we absolutely have in common.

‘How many men have you slept with?’ I ask Bridget curiously, unable to stop myself.

‘Oh, blimey, I don’t know,’ she replies.

‘You don’t know?’ My voice sounds a little squeaky.

‘She’s lost count,’ Marty says wryly.

Bridget kicks Marty’s foot good-naturedly. ‘I haven’t lost count. I just haven’t counted.’ She glances at me. ‘I don’t know, twenty? Twenty-five? What about you?’ she asks before I can react.

‘Three,’ I reply.

‘Three?’ She giggles. ‘You definitely need to shag Leo, then.’

‘Stop it!’ I slap her thigh.

‘So who were the three?’ she asks.

‘Will, Guy and Matthew,’ Marty butts in on my behalf.

‘Who’s Guy?’ Bridget asks. She knows about Will and Matthew.

I sigh. Guy was a mistake. My one mistake. The only reason I know I may be able to find it in my heart to forgive Matthew. Because I’ve cheated, too. Not on him. On Will. My first love.

I confess this to Bridget.

‘Really?’ she asks. I know she wouldn’t have pegged me to be the cheating type. ‘But you didn’t split up over it?’ She shakes her head, almost confirming what she already thinks she knows: that we were still together when Will died.

Only she’s wrong, of course.

‘No. No, this happened years before the accident,’ I tell her. ‘Guy was someone I worked with. I let my crush get out of control, and Will was away racing a lot at the time.’

‘Jeez, you’ve had a shitty time with men,’ she blurts out.

‘Oh, stop it.’ I wave her away. I’m no angel; I’ve just divulged that.

‘Seriously,’ she says, and I hear the anguish in her voice. ‘How the hell did you get over his death?’

Marty stays silent, her expression serious as she watches our exchange.

‘Matthew,’ I reply, my own throat closing up with that one word.

My first boyfriend, Will, was my childhood sweetheart. I was literally the girl next door. We were neighbours in a tiny village in Cambridgeshire and I still remember how his grandfather used to take him go-karting every weekend as a boy. Years later he secured a drive in a Formula One car. But while it was impossible not to be proud of him for his incredible achievements, I could never be happy. The racing scared the hell out of me, and in the end, my fears were justified. I loved him to death. I still loved him when he died, when he was killed in a car racing accident. But he no longer loved me. At least, not like he used to. He called it off with me weeks before the race, told me it was over. It was no great surprise – we had been growing apart for some time. I suspect he was interested in someone else. I’d seen the way he’d looked at this girl who worked for the racing team. Of course I’ll never know for sure. And I don’t want to know. The thought of one man being unfaithful to me is quite enough, thank you.

In a way, the hardest thing following his death was the fact that no one knew we had split up. We hadn’t made that fact public. To my everlasting shame, I had asked Will to keep up appearances until after the race. I worked for a charity at the time, and we’d organised a ball to take place at the British Grand Prix, Will’s last ever race. His presence there was paramount to the charity’s success, so he did that one last thing for me. And then he died.

I still remember the press plastering images of us together all over the tabloids, how dishonourable I’d felt not telling them the truth as they went on about our love, the fact that we had grown up together and were destined to marry.

We weren’t going to get married. It was over. We’d split up. But oh, how they went on. I didn’t think they’d ever let it lie.

‘What were his last words to you?’ they’d ask me. ‘Did he tell you he loved you, like in the song?’

That damn song. ‘Tell Laura I Love Her’. It may have hit the charts decades ago, but it haunted me. The song relays the story of a racing driver who tells his girlfriend – named Laura – that he loves her before he dies in a car racing accident. Uncanny, huh? Yep, the press thought so, too.

I probably added some fuel to their fire when I set up a charity in Will’s name: Trust for Children. I still head it up. Guilt pricks me now as I think of my assistant, Becky, having to handle things on her own. But she’ll be okay. She’s a great assistant. She was shocked when I revealed my current situation.

Luckily the tabloids pretty much leave me alone these days, otherwise I’d have the humiliation of most of Britain knowing about Matthew.

Okay, so yes, I’ve had a shit time with men.

I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Matthew helped me get over Will,’ I tell Bridget, who has remained silent and contemplative for a change. Then I confide in her the truth: that Will and I had split up before he died.

‘No way?’ She’s stunned. ‘Why?’

I tell her about how we’d grown apart, and about the girl, the one who worked in hospitality for the team.

‘Do you know for sure that he cheated on you?’ she asks with a furrowed brow.

‘No, and I don’t want to. If he did, he did. But it’s done now.’

‘Did you ever want to ask her?’

‘No. I had my chance, once. I bumped into her after Will’s death. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to ask her. Anyway, she moved on and so did I. She’s seeing another racing driver now. Will’s ex-teammate. At least I think they’re still together. Are they?’ I ask Marty. She watches Formula One.

‘Yes,’ she replies a touch edgily. ‘I think they’ve just got engaged, actually.’

‘Good for her,’ I say to Marty’s everlasting surprise. She can’t understand my ‘generosity of spirit’, as she calls it. I liked the girl the few times I met her, despite my concerns about Will’s feelings. And if she did love Will, then she lost him, too. I guess she found someone to help her heal, like I did.

I met Matthew only months after Will’s death. He’s a journalist, but I never felt as though I couldn’t trust him. He was writing a story about my charity work and my attraction to him was immediate. I could tell the feeling was mutual, but oh, the guilt. Even though Will had possibly cheated on me before ending our relationship, I couldn’t bring myself to start over with anyone else. But Matthew and I became friends, and when our friendship developed I fell head over heels. I couldn’t stop myself. His proposal came quickly. And even though my parents thought I’d lost my head, I said yes. Why not? I deserved a second chance at love.

I let out a bitter laugh. ‘What a fuckwit.’

‘Who?’ Bridget asks, taken aback by the acrimonious tone that has crept into my voice.

‘Matthew. But Will was a bastard, too, in the end.’ I sigh. ‘Can we change the subject? What were we talking about before we got onto my disastrous love life?’

‘We were talking about Leo,’ Marty reminds me with a twinkle in her eye.

‘Move on!’ I practically shout. ‘No, how many people have we slept with, that was it.’

‘Aah, yes,’ Bridget says, remembering. ‘What about you, Marty?’

‘Jack, Ben, Keith, Simon and … Pablo.’ I crack up laughing as I say this last name.

‘Who’s Pablo?’ Bridget asks with confusion. I only laugh more.

‘Piss off,’ Marty says with a grin, kicking my foot this time.

‘Pablo was her one true love,’ I tell Bridget as I try to stifle my giggles. Marty mutters and shakes her head, but I know she doesn’t mind me taking the mickey.

‘She met him in Ibiza, when we were eighteen. At the end of the holiday she didn’t want to come home again.’ I grin. ‘We’ve all been there, right? Except Marty didn’t come home.’

‘Really?’ Bridget looks surprised.

‘I still remember your dad’s face!’ I say, hooting loudly. I’ve definitely had a few too many vodkas. My hysteria is infectious.

It wasn’t funny at the time, me turning up at the airport, sans Marty. He went absolutely ballistic. It took me months to forgive her for sending me home alone, even though she followed only a few weeks after me, in the end. With her tail between her legs. Turns out Pablo wasn’t The One, after all.

‘Oh, I wish I’d been there,’ Bridget manages to spit out, as tears trail down her cheeks.

The memory comes back to me of Marty’s dad’s stunned face as he stands next to my dad at the airport. Then, in my mind, he transforms into Matthew. Imagine how Matthew would feel if I didn’t come home? The thought is tremendously appealing.

Today the flags look like they’re trying to get away from their masts, like overeager puppies on leashes being restrained by their masters. The rain has stopped pelting down for a moment, so we decide to brave the weather and go out for breakfast.

At the weekend we discovered a place called Blue Heaven, a restaurant with two indoor spaces and a large outdoor area and bar. We didn’t bother with food because the queue was enormous, but we sat and had a few cocktails, trying to avoid the deposits from the cockerel perching precariously on a branch over our heads.

We’re hoping it will be less busy today, with the bad weather and it being a Wednesday, but it’s still full to capacity, so we wait by the outdoor bar for our names to be called.