The Longest Holiday

‘Hang on,’ I interrupt him, turning to Bridget and Marty. ‘I’m going to take this call,’ I tell them, nodding back towards the airport terminal. ‘I’ll see you through there.’

  ‘We’ll wait for you,’ Marty says, pausing in the queue.

  ‘No, no, it’s okay.’ I brush her off. ‘Go and get us a seat at the bar or something.’

  ‘Okay.’ She nods, but looks concerned.

  I excuse myself as I duck back through the people in the queue and come out into the open space of the terminal.

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ I say to Matthew as the knot inside my stomach tightens.

  ‘Tessa . . .’ He’s obviously finding it difficult to spit it out, but I hate hearing him say her name. My footsteps freeze at the sound of his next words. ‘She’s had the baby.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s had the baby,’ he repeats.

  But she’s, what? Five weeks early?

  ‘Is it okay?’ I ask in a small voice, and although I’m ashamed to admit it, part of me hopes the answer is no.

  ‘He’s in an incubator, but he should be fine.’

  He? ‘It’s a boy?’ I ask as my throat starts to close up.

  Another deep breath. ‘Yes.’

  I don’t recognise this man on the other end of the line. What did I just hear in his tone? Was it pride? Love? I cannot cope with this.

  ‘And Laura,’ he says, his voice on the verge of breaking. ‘He’s had the paternity test.’

  I hold my breath.

  ‘He’s mine.’

  My world shatters around me. What tiny piece of hope I had left is gone. My knees threaten to buckle under me and it takes enormous effort to keep standing.

  ‘Baby, please,’ Matthew says.

  White-hot fury rushes through me at his words.

  ‘I’m. NOT. Your. Baby.’

  There’s so much venom in my voice as I spit these words out. No, I am not his baby. He has a baby of his very own and I hate his guts for it.

  ‘Fuck you, Matthew. Fuck you.’

  I hang up on him, and as I stare at my mobile my hands are shaking. This is real. This is really happening to me. I hate him. I hate my husband. I don’t want to ever see his face again. Why am I stepping onto a plane? I don’t actually have to do this.

  I say this sentence again inside my head: I don’t actually have to do this.

  I could stay. I don’t have to go home. I think of Becky, my assistant, and feel guilty, but I quash the thought. She’ll be okay. She can handle things for a bit longer. A weird calm begins to settle over me.

  I look out of the huge windows at the blue sky beyond. What would I do?

  Come on, I know exactly what I’d do. I’d go back to Key West.

  I think of Leo’s surprise at seeing me again. Then his surprise changes to alarm. Would he consider me delusional if I appeared on his doorstep? I shake my head vigorously at this unwelcome image before thinking: forget Leo! Even if he thinks I’m a nutcase, the fact still remains that I don’t want to go home. I’m not ready to face everything. The feeling of calm grows stronger.

  Acting on impulse, I turn and walk out of the airport, and the blissful feeling that hits me as I step into the warm sunshine almost takes my breath away. I think I might be losing my head, but I don’t care. I’m not going home. I am NOT going home. I look around for car hire signs.

  ‘Laura?’

  The smile is on my face before I even turn around. This must be fate. I spin on my heels and come face to face with Jorge. He’s standing alongside a younger man – Javier, at a guess.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ he asks me with a perplexed expression.

  ‘I’m not going home, Jorge,’ I tell him in a slightly breathless voice, my grin stretching my face.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not going home. I’m going back to Key West.’

  His expression turns wary. Yep, he thinks I’ve lost it, and he’s probably right. I don’t care!

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No, I’m not okay!’ I say in an oddly jubilant voice. ‘The woman my husband had a one-night stand with has just given birth to a baby boy! Hurray for them!’

  Jorge’s expression becomes dark, and I try to ignore the freaked-out stare coming from Javier.

  ‘Hi, I’m Laura,’ I say to him brightly, offering my hand. He takes it hesitantly.

  ‘Sorry, did you know about any of this?’ I ask Jorge apologetically, feeling even more detached from my body as I continue to warble on.

  ‘Leo mentioned it,’ he tells me.

  The sound of his name – the confirmation that he is real and actually exists beyond my imagination . . . It does something strange to me. I take a deep, shaky breath and try not to cry.

  ‘Come on,’ Jorge says quietly, putting his hand on my arm. I do as I’m told. ‘This is Javier,’ he says as we walk. The boy continues to regard me with bewilderment.

  ‘I’ve heard a bit about you,’ I say.

  ‘Laura and Leo are friends,’ he tells Javier, and his words make my insides melt. Leo . . . Leo . . . Leo . . . The thought of him consumes me.

  A moment later I think to ask where we’re going.

  ‘To my car,’ Jorge replies. ‘You want a ride back to Key West?’

  Panic momentarily engulfs me. Am I really, really doing this?

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks with concern.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I reply fervently. ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Over here.’

  We reach the car, a blue hatchback, and Javier puts his suitcase in the boot.

  More panic hits me. I don’t even have my bag! I see Jorge realise this at the same time.

  ‘They’ll courier it to you,’ he assures me. ‘They won’t leave it on the plane if you’re not on it.’

  Javier returns to the car and hesitates, as though he’s not sure whether to get into the front or back.

  ‘I’ll go in the back,’ I tell him, my heart pounding as I climb in.

  Jorge reverses out of the space. ‘How were Marty and Bridget about you staying?’

  I barely hear the second half of his sentence, because the moment he says Marty I jolt out of my seat. Oh my God, Marty! My heart starts to pound more violently.

  ‘They don’t know you’re not going home?’ Jorge asks incredulously over his shoulder as he stops in the middle of the car park.

  ‘I’ll call Marty in a minute,’ I try to assure him. A car beeps from behind us, so he drives forward, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable. I pull out my phone and vaguely realise that my hands are still shaking. I have three missed calls from Marty. I dial her number.

  ‘Laura! Where the hell are you? They’re calling our flight!’ she practically shouts down the phone.

  ‘I’m not going home,’ I tell her.

  ‘What?’ she screeches.

  ‘I’m not going home.’

  ‘Where are you?’ she demands to know. ‘I’m coming to get you!’

  ‘I’m in the car with Jorge. He’s taking me back to Key West.’ I hold my breath in preparation for her onslaught.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  I screw up my eyes tightly.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  It keeps coming.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Laura!’

  And coming . . .

  ‘Get your arse back here, RIGHT NOW!’

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘No. I’m not coming back.’

  ‘We’re going to miss our flight!’ she continues to screech.

  ‘You’re not going to miss your flight,’ I tell her in a surprisingly calm voice. ‘You’re going to get on it, with Bridget. But I am NOT coming home, Marty. I am not coming back to that bastard of a husband. She’s had the baby, Marty. She’s had a baby boy. And it’s Matthew’s. So that’s it. I am not ready to come back. Not yet. No way.’

  I barely even paused for breath while saying that, and now the silence on the other end of the line is deafening.
r />   ‘Jesus Christ, Laura,’ she says again. But at least she’s stopped shouting. Now she just sounds stunned. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she adds in a small voice.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything!’ I tell her vehemently. ‘Get on that plane, go back to your job.’ She’s due back at work on Tuesday. ‘I’m going to be okay.’

  ‘You’re in the car with Jorge?’ she asks again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jeez.’ This time her words are more of an exhalation. In the background I can hear an announcement over the tannoy. Last call for our flight.

  ‘Go,’ I say gently. ‘Call me when you’re home.’

  She sighs loudly.

  ‘We’d better go,’ I hear Bridget urge in the background.

  ‘Okay,’ she says to me down the line. ‘I guess you know what you’re doing.’

  But it’s a lie. That’s clear to us both.

  ‘You can stay with us,’ Jorge tells me as we drive into Key West.

  I’ve been asleep for most of the journey. I think my emotional exhaustion has properly kicked in.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask him with confusion. ‘I’ll just go back to the hotel. See if they’ve got a room.’

  ‘You can do that, of course,’ he says. ‘If you can afford it.’

  I haven’t really thought about the cost of things. I don’t earn mega-bucks.

  ‘But my sister lives in a seven-bedroomed house,’ he continues. ‘There’s more than enough room if you don’t mind sharing.’

  His sister. Carmen. I shudder.

  ‘She’ll be okay,’ Jorge says kindly, as he reads my mind. He glances at his nephew and I remember that Carmen is his mother. ‘Javier agrees,’ Jorge tells me. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Sure. She won’t mind,’ Javier says.

  So naïve!

  ‘Well, okay, thanks,’ I say genuinely. ‘Just until I get myself sorted and work out what I’m doing.’

  ‘You can stay as long as you like,’ Jorge tells me, even though I know that it’s not really his choice.

  I recognise the roads as we enter Old Town, and a flurry of nerves passes through me. I wonder if Leo is at the house. What will he say when he sees me? Once more I imagine alarm on his face and I actually cringe.

  Jorge parks the car on the street outside the house and I wait with trepidation as he gets Javier’s case out of the boot. I follow them through the gate.

  ‘Mi vida!’ I hear Carmen shout with joy, completely oblivious to me as she rushes over and throws her arms around her son. Javier looks slightly uncomfortable as he lets himself be swallowed up by her hug, but he’s nowhere near as uncomfortable as me. I look around warily for Leo, but he’s not in the garden.

  ‘What the . . .’

  Carmen has noticed me.

  ‘Sis, you remember Laura,’ Jorge says calmly.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ she asks with angry confusion.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it later,’ Jorge says. ‘Where’s Leo?’

  ‘Out.’ Her reply is curt.

  ‘Laura needs to stay with us for a little while.’

  Carmen starts to lay into him in Spanish, and I don’t know what she’s saying, but I certainly understand the underlying meaning and I wish the ground would swallow me up. Leo’s name seems to come up quite a lot. Jorge, it seems, gives as good as he gets, and it’s only when Javier interrupts them with a loud, ‘Shut up!’ that they actually stop arguing.

  Carmen grabs her son’s arm and storms off, and Jorge offers me a small smile and nods towards the house.

  ‘That went better than I thought,’ he says.

  ‘You’re being sarcastic, right?’ I mutter.

  ‘Actually, no,’ he says with surprise. ‘You can stay in Leo’s mother’s room.’

  Leo’s mother’s room? Jorge leads me up the stairs. Even though it’s run-down, even though it’s been unloved for a long time, I can see that this old colonial house was once truly beautiful. The old floorboards were once painted white or cream, but now there are worn tread-marks underneath our feet. The walls are dirty from years of handprints, but the old-fashioned coving over my head hints at its beauty. I run my hand up the intricately carved banister and imagine what it would look like with a fresh coat of paint. Jorge pushes open a door to a bedroom at the far end of the corridor, near a second, smaller, steeper staircase. Dust motes whizz through the air as I survey my surroundings. A double bed rests in the centre of the room on dark wooden bedposts, and there are two chests of drawers, one on either side of it. A silver photo frame perches on the dresser, in front of a mirror tarnished with age. A vase of dried flowers sits on the windowsill. The petals look fragile, as though, if you touched them, they would dissolve into dust in your fingertips.

  ‘It could do with a good clean,’ Jorge says apologetically.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll get you some sheets.’

  The bed has a dusky-pink bedspread on it. Perhaps it’s already made underneath, but he’s gone before I can check. I wander into the room and study the picture on the dresser. In it a beautiful young woman with long dark hair cuddles two young boys as they sit on her lap.

  ‘Leo’s mother,’ Jorge tells me as he re-enters the room.

  ‘Are these Leo and Alejandro?’ I point at the boys.

  ‘Yes. Leo told you about Alejandro?’ Jorge asks with surprise.

  ‘Not much. Only that he was his brother and that he died eight years ago.’

  ‘Aah, okay.’

  What else is there to tell? I have a feeling quite a lot. ‘What happened?’ I ask Jorge.

  ‘Drug overdose,’ he replies and I inhale quickly. ‘Leo doesn’t often talk about his family,’ he advises me. ‘There’s a bathroom two doors down. Use anything you need, make yourself at home, and come down for a bite to eat when you’re ready.’

  ‘Thank you!’ I call after him.

  I don’t know what to do once he’s left. I settle for making up the bed with fresh sheets, and fold the bedspread and put it on a chair. I have a look in the wardrobe and drawers; they’re empty, but a pleasantly musty smell wafts out, as though, over the years, perfume has ingrained itself into the wood. I wonder what Leo’s mother was like.

  Finally I pluck up the courage to go downstairs. I hear the clatter of knives and forks coming from a room off the living room. I follow the sound and pause nervously at the doorway. Jorge, Carmen, Eric and Javier are seated around a large eight-seat dining table. There is still no sign of Leo, and I’m strangely relieved not to have to face him yet, even though I won’t relax until his reaction is out of the way.

  Carmen is asking Javier about his travels. She’s more animated and happy than I’ve ever seen her, but she tenses when she becomes aware of my presence and I sense that she doesn’t have many female friends.

  ‘Come in, sit down!’ Jorge gestures to me. Javier gives me a small smile, Eric nods his acknowledgement, and Carmen pretends I don’t exist.

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmur, pulling up a chair next to Jorge.

  In the middle of the table is a large platter of rice with chicken pieces. My stomach twinges with hunger.

  ‘Arroz con pollo?’ Jorge asks me, taking my plate in one hand and a large serving spoon in the other.

  ‘Yes, please. It smells delicious.’

  ‘It’s Carmen’s speciality,’ he tells me as he fills my plate and places it in front of me. I notice Carmen still at this revelation, but she pretends not to be paying attention.

  I load up my fork with the colourful rice and a small chunk of chicken and pop it into my mouth. It tastes divine – I can identify spices like cumin and oregano, plus red pepper, garlic and something tangy.

  ‘Mmm,’ I say, looking up to see Carmen watching me. She shifts in her seat and looks away, but I smile to myself when I realise she was waiting for my response. ‘This is amazing. What’s in it?’ I ask her directly.

  She reels off a list of ingredients, including, to my surp
rise, beer.

  ‘Beer?’ I ask.

  ‘I can give you the recipe if you like,’ she says offhandedly.

  ‘I would love that.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Jorge trying to suppress a smile. Eric dives in for seconds.

  ‘Save some for Leo,’ Carmen snaps at him. He begrudgingly spoons some rice from his plate back onto the platter.

  I try to act casual. ‘When do you think Leo will be back?’

  ‘Who knows with Leonardo?’ Carmen replies shirtily. ‘He hasn’t been around much at all this weekend.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He always goes AWOL on the anniversary of his mother’s death,’ Jorge explains quietly, and Carmen’s sharp look in his direction doesn’t go unnoticed.

  Jorge’s revelation makes me feel uneasy. He goes AWOL? Where? Doing what?

  ‘But he always comes back,’ Jorge adds, for my benefit, I think. He can probably see my mind ticking over. ‘Shame he refused to come to Miami this weekend. It would have taken his mind off things.’

  ‘Eat before it gets cold,’ Carmen interjects. That’s enough of the family history for now.

  After dinner, I help Carmen clear the table. The kitchen is in even more of a state than it was the other night, the pots and pans she’d used for cooking adding to the mess. I falter in my steps, hardly knowing where to start.

  ‘I’ve been very busy at work,’ she informs me, stopping short of saying ‘sorry about the mess’.

  ‘What do you do?’ I ask tentatively as I try to clear some space on the countertop.

  ‘Mostly waiting on tables, but I also work in a gift shop during the holiday season.’ She piles her plates on top of an already precariously stacked pile. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I head up a children’s charity in London.’

  ‘Oh.’ Even she has the grace to look marginally impressed.

  ‘My colleague is handling things right now,’ I add with embarrassment, unable to use the word ‘assistant’, which is technically correct. God bless Becky. I’ll call her tomorrow. What’s the time? I look at my wrist, forgetting that I haven’t worn a watch for the last two weeks. Well, it’s Sunday night, which means it must be Monday morning by now in the UK. My flight is due to land in a couple of hours. My mood turns dark as I remember Matthew will be waiting at the airport to collect me. I go to the sink with the intention of filling it with hot water and starting the washing-up, but it’s full of dishes and there’s nowhere to put them.