by Paige Toon
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.
‘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 ju
st 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.