The Longest Holiday

by Paige Toon

‘Don’t be crazy.’ Damn, he looks sexy when he frowns. ‘You can stay at mine.’

  ‘Do you have room?’

  ‘It’s a one-bedroomed apartment, but I’ll sleep on the couch.’

  ‘No, I’ll sleep on the couch!’ I exclaim.

  He tuts and casts his eyes heavenwards, putting his hand on my lower back to guide me outside. My stomach is full of butterflies when we return to the sofa, or couch, as he calls it.

  I feel much happier drinking wine, and I’m instantly more chilled out as we settle back down. Leo puts the opened wine bottle on the ground near his feet and leans back, returning his arm to the space behind my head. I’m full of anticipation about going to Miami with him. The wine goes down easily – he tops up my glass occasionally – and soon we’re all relaxed and laughing at Jorge and Javier’s silly jokes. I’m surprised when Carmen and Eric stand up and say their goodnights.

  ‘What’s the time?’ I ask.

  Eric digs into his pocket and pulls out his mobile phone. ‘Twelve thirty,’ he drawls.

  ‘You off to bed, honey?’ Carmen asks Javier sweetly in the background.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I should go to bed, too,’ Jorge says, heaving himself up from the sofa. ‘Early start tomorrow.’

  I survey the scene with disappointment. I’m not in the slightest bit tired, thanks to my afternoon nap. Then it occurs to me that Leo hasn’t moved an inch.

  ‘Don’t stay up too late,’ Jorge warns over his shoulder as he starts to walk off. ‘You’re working tomorrow, remember?’ He’s talking to Leo.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Leo replies, in an unusually jaunty voice, for him.

  ‘Night,’ Carmen calls from the door, calling to Max to bring him inside. He sleeps on the laundry floor.

  ‘Night!’ I call back, suddenly aware that there’s too much room on this sofa. I shift away from Leo and pull my knees up so I’m leaning against the armrest and facing him. He stretches lazily and reaches for the bottle of wine.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say as he tops me up. ‘Have I drunk all of that?’ I ask with alarm, spying the near-empty bottle.

  ‘Yep,’ he replies with a smirk, reaching for his cigar case and lighting up.

  I can watch his mouth from here, I realise with a thrill. He swivels so he’s facing me, his eyes closing slightly as he puffs on the cigar.

  ‘Do you smoke smoke?’ I ask, for want of a more interesting conversation.

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head, scrutinising the cigar in his fingers. ‘Only cigars occasionally.’ He hesitates. ‘These were my father’s.’

  ‘Your father’s cigars?’ I’m confused.

  ‘I’ve got boxes of them in my room.’

  ‘No way? You still have a load of his cigars?’

  He shrugs. ‘Yeah. I smoke only when I’m here,’ he says, gazing around him. ‘I shouldn’t smoke at all. These are illegal, for a start,’ he adds with a grin. His father must have imported these Cuban cigars into the United States during the trade embargo. But he continues before I can comment. ‘Besides, my mother hated it.’

  ‘Did she?’

  He smiles fondly. ‘She beat me the first time she caught me with one of his cigars.’ He tilts his head to one side, thoughtfully. ‘I wanted to be like him.’ He studies his cigar again. ‘You know, it was five weeks before we even knew he was dead.’

  I breathe in sharply.

  ‘Nobody told us. But my mother knew something was wrong.’ He gazes off into the distance. ‘He said he’d come back at the end of August, I remember that much. But she was . . .’ His voice trails off. ‘She knew something was wrong before that.’

  ‘How?’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘She had her palms read.’

  ‘No way,’ I exclaim. ‘Not by that guy on Duval Street?’

  He nods wryly. ‘The very same.’

  I shudder. ‘What did he say?’ I ask nervously.

  ‘He totally freaked her out.’ His smile falls. ‘And after that she went down to the docks at all hours until she managed to speak to one of his colleagues . . . They confirmed it.’ He puffs on his cigar one last time before stubbing it out. ‘Colleagues,’ he repeats, and I wonder why he says it sarcastically.

  ‘They came looking for his stash after he died,’ he reveals.

  ‘The cigars?’

  ‘They didn’t find them. My father stored them under the floorboards in the loft room – it wasn’t my room, back then. Alejandro tried to scare them off with a baseball bat.’ He laughs darkly as he remembers. ‘My mother was furious.’

  I’m holding my breath again. I really must stop doing that.

  ‘Am I scaring you?’ he asks when I exhale.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I reply quickly.

  ‘Are you tired?’

  ‘Not after that nap.’ Pause. ‘Are you?’ Please say no, please say no.

  ‘No. Although I should be, thanks to you making all that noise this morning.’

  ‘This morning? Oh, the cleaning!’ Was that only this morning? It feels like days ago.

  ‘I’m going to get another beer,’ he tells me, getting to his feet. ‘You want me to open the other bottle?’

  ‘Better not. Can I just have a water, please?’

  ‘Water,’ he mutters, shaking his head with disgust as he walks off.

  ‘Tell me something funny,’ he says on his return.

  ‘There’s not much funny about my life at the moment,’ I reply sardonically.

  ‘Have you had your palms read?’ he asks curiously.

  I shift on the sofa. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘The way you reacted when I told you about my mother.’

  ‘Oh.’ I laugh uneasily. ‘Yeah, I did once.’

  ‘Is it all bullshit?’

  I shrug and meet his eyes. ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

  ‘Who knows? He told her something which freaked her out. My father, Alejandro, my mother . . . They’re all dead, so he can’t have been very positive.’

  I sigh. ‘I had my palms read when I was eighteen and on holiday with Marty. The woman – Deadly Diane, we nicknamed her – told me that something bad would happen to me and that it had something to do with a black car.’ I shake my head. ‘I avoided taking black cabs – taxis,’ I explain, ‘for years.’

  He stares at me directly.

  ‘In the end, it wasn’t me I had to be worried about,’ I say quietly. He waits for me to continue. ‘My boyfriend before Matthew died in a car accident. He was a racing driver. He drove a black car. Well, it was black, white and silver, but . . .’ My voice trails off.

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Will Trust.’

  Leo looks shocked. ‘That was you? You were his girlfriend? I read about you in the papers.’

  I give him a small shrug and meet his eyes.

  ‘I thought we were supposed to be talking about something funny!’ I exclaim, and he smiles at me, accepting my change of subject. ‘What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?’ I ask.

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Shit! Eight?’ I ask with horror. ‘But that’s like, only a few hours away!’

  He stands up and holds his hand down to me. ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed.’

  He pulls me to my feet and I wobble. He steadies me with his hands and suddenly I’m alive with goosebumps. With you? Can I come to bed with you? I don’t say this out loud, but surely one look into my eyes as I stare up at him tells him what I’m thinking. Right now I don’t care.

  He meets my gaze for a long moment before dropping his hands from my arms and taking a step backwards.

  I quickly avert my gaze before he can see my humiliation. I may be drunk, but I can still feel it. I call goodnight over my shoulder as I hurry up the stairs.

  The house is quiet when I wake up the next morning with a pounding headache. Why didn’t I choose vodka? The hangovers are much more bearable. The memory of last night comes back to me and my face heats up as I recall Leo stepping away from me. I bury
my face in my hands, even though there’s no one there to see me. I’m so embarrassed. Maybe I’m overreacting. I try to rationalise the situation. He steadied me with his hands and then let me go. That’s not so bad, is it? Who’s to say he knew what was going through my mind? I take a deep breath and spend a considerable time trying to convince myself. Finally I climb out of bed and pull on my beach dress before going downstairs. My phone battery has well and truly conked out so I have no idea of the time. The house seems deserted, and when I eventually locate the time on a news channel I see that it’s already after eleven. I slump down on the sofa and veg out in front of the telly until I can bring myself to go and grab a bowl of cereal and hunt out some ibuprofen.

  My suitcase arrives at around one thirty, and by then my mood has improved. I’m so pleased to have my things back. I charge up my phone and feel strange as I unpack my things into the drawers and wardrobe. For a moment everything seems very surreal – I can’t actually believe I’m here, that I stayed . . . I wonder what’s going on back home. I change into my favourite light-blue sundress, then I switch on my phone. There are three messages from Matthew asking me, in an increasingly resigned voice, to call him, two from Marty, pretty much saying the same thing, one from my mum, and one from Becky, wondering what’s going on. I ring her first.

  ‘Laura!’ she exclaims. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Still in Key West,’ I admit with embarrassment. ‘I’m so sorry, I should have called you.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asks with surprise.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not coming home yet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She’s confused.

  ‘Matthew’s . . . The girl, Tessa . . . She’s had the baby.’

  ‘Oh.’ Silence.

  ‘Yep.’ I half laugh.

  ‘That’s pretty early, isn’t it? Is it okay?’

  ‘It’s a he. And yes, they say he’ll be fine.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  Gotta love Becky. Never afraid to swear in front of her boss.

  ‘How are things there?’ I ask.

  ‘Fine, it’s all fine,’ she replies. ‘Everything’s pretty much sewn up for the ball next month.’

  ‘Bollocks, I forgot about that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s under control. We’ve sold seventy-five per cent of the tickets and the Twitter campaign is bringing in new sales every day.’

  ‘That’s fantastic! You were so right about Twitter.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you gave me the go-ahead.’

  I smile. She really was a good find.

  ‘But how are you?’ she asks kindly. ‘When are you coming home?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply quietly. ‘I can’t face it yet.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘But listen,’ I start. ‘I’m going to go to Miami and buy a computer at the weekend. I’ll be able to do some work from here as of next week.’

  ‘How long are you thinking of staying?’ she asks again, this time with more surprise.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ I respond. ‘I might stay for the summer.’

  ‘Really?’

  My answer takes me aback, and I was the one who said it.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says quickly. ‘Look, everything’s going well here, and if you can work from there – which of course you can – then, wicked. We’ll get it sorted out.’

  She sounds so in control, so competent. I’m relieved.

  ‘Thanks, Becky,’ I say softly.

  ‘You’re welcome. Enjoy the sunshine! I’m jealous as hell!’

  We both laugh weakly, because no one could be properly jealous of my situation.

  ‘Call me about anything, okay?’ I tell her firmly. ‘Consider me back at work from Monday.’

  ‘Cool.’ I think she’s smiling.

  ‘Speak then.’

  We say our goodbyes and hang up. I sit there for a moment staring at my phone. Am I really staying here for the summer? It’s the end of May now . . . I’m allowed to stay in the USA for ninety days without a visa. Why shouldn’t I? Leo will be here . . . My face burns as I remember last night, but I put the memory out of my head and call Mum. She’s okay, just a little worried, but she totally freaks out when I repeat my plans to stay.

  ‘Laura, you cannot just up and leave your home for three months!’ she cries.

  ‘Why not?’ I ask defensively.

  ‘You’re a grown woman!’

  ‘Thanks for that, Mum,’ I say wryly.

  ‘You need to come home and talk to your husband,’ she says firmly.

  ‘No,’ I reply, equally firmly.

  ‘Laura!’ she snaps.

  Now I’m getting cross. ‘Mum, you’re right, I am an adult, and I’m capable of making my own decision. I’m staying here for the summer. I’m going to do some work – Becky’s happy about it, so why shouldn’t you be? I need some more time. If I come back now, I may as well file for divorce,’ I end dramatically.

  She doesn’t speak for so long that I wonder if she’s still there.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Okay,’ she sniffs. ‘It’s up to you. I just hope you’re not doing anything silly.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I ask and immediately wish I hadn’t.

  ‘With that man.’

  ‘I told you, he’s just a friend.’ I say it too loudly. She who denies too much, and all that. But in this case, it really is the truth. If he’s even that. ‘Look, I’m going to go. I’ve got a headache and—’

  ‘Why have you got a headache?’

  For pity’s sake. ‘I drank too much last night, okay?’

  I can feel her disapproval radiating down the line from thousands of miles away.

  ‘How’s Dad?’ I try to sound normal. Why shouldn’t I change the subject and ask about my father?

  ‘Worried about you,’ she replies haughtily.

  ‘Well, tell him not to. Is he there? Can I have a word?’

  ‘No, he’s in the grain shed.’ Dad’s an arable farmer. He’s heading for retirement, but he likes to keep his eye on the ball, even if hired hands do most of the work.

  ‘Well, give him my love when he comes in.’

  Pause. ‘Okay. I will do.’

  ‘Love you, too, Mum.’

  ‘You, too.’

  I don’t have the energy to ring Marty after that, let alone Matthew. I send them both texts instead, telling them I have my phone back and that I’ll call later. My phone rings instantly. It’s Marty. So much for that plan.

  ‘Hey,’ I say with no enthusiasm.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asks. ‘Has anything happened with Leo?’

  ‘No!’ I cry.

  By the time I’ve managed to convince her that nothing is going on, I’m well and truly knackered. And then Matthew calls. I should have left my bloody phone off!

  ‘Look, Matthew, I’m tired, okay? I don’t have the energy to talk.’ Those are my first words to him.

  ‘Tough, because you’re going to have to,’ he snaps. ‘You can’t stay over there forever, Laura.’

  ‘I’m not planning on staying here forever, Matthew,’ I reply pedantically flopping backwards on the bed.

  ‘When are you coming home, then?’

  ‘I think I’ll stay here for the summer,’ I say casually.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shh.’ He’s hurting my head.

  ‘What about work?’

  ‘I’m going to get a new computer at the weekend. I can do some stuff from here,’ I explain, quite proud of my plan. He doesn’t answer for a long while.

  ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ He sounds bitter.

  I sit upright on the bed as anger surges through me. ‘Don’t you dare have a go at me!’ I shout into the phone. ‘Do you think I want this?’

  He has the grace to stay silent.

  ‘Have you seen him? The baby?’ I ask angrily.

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ he replies quietly, but his words feel like a slap around my face. Of
course he’s seen his son. Of course he has. But I wasn’t prepared for the pain of hearing this. I stifle a sob and hang up on him, then I turn my phone off.

  I cry so hard it triples the pain in my head, but it’s a long time before I can stop. Finally I go downstairs and get myself some more cereal – I don’t feel like eating, but I know I need to put something in my stomach. I sit at the dining-room table and spoon in mouthfuls, my whole body aching with despair. Am I being really stupid? Should I just go home and face up to everything?

  After, well, let’s call it brunch, I take a couple more ibuprofen and melancholically tidy the house and clean the kitchen. The only time I smile during all of this is when I wash the dishes from last night, remembering Leo’s coconut curry. But soon I’m back in the depths of desolation. I go and watch daytime television in a daze.

  At four thirty, Leo and Jorge come home and my spirits lift, despite last night’s embarrassment.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Jorge asks jovially, coming over and flopping down into a chair. His hair is extra curly from the salt water. Leo appears in the doorway. He’s wearing khaki-coloured shorts and a yellow T-shirt.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, looking at me directly.

  ‘How was your dive?’ I try to act normally.

  ‘I didn’t dive today,’ he responds.

  ‘That’s right, you were driving the boat.’

  ‘It was good,’ Jorge interjects, dragging my attention away. ‘Fantastic visibility. It’s going to be good tonight!’

  ‘Tonight?’ I ask Jorge with confusion, aware that Leo hasn’t moved from the doorway.

  ‘The night dive. Have you forgotten?’ he asks in an accusing tone.

  ‘Er, yes, I sort of had.’

  ‘You are coming, aren’t you?’ he asks with annoyance.

  ‘Um—’

  ‘How was your day?’ Leo interrupts. His eyes flit over my dress. ‘You been shopping?’

  ‘My suitcase arrived.’

  ‘Happy?’

  His eyes burn into mine for a long moment, and I find I can’t answer him. Then he looks at my lips.

  ‘So what time are we going for this dive tonight, then?’ I ask Jorge, trying to still my beating heart.

  ‘Sunset,’ he replies, as Leo turns his attention to the television.

  Was it my imagination, or did Leo just think about kissing me?