by Paige Toon
She used this argument on me in England, but it seemed to make more sense then. Now I just wonder what I’m doing. Running away is only prolonging the inevitable. I don’t even know what the inevitable is yet, but shouldn’t I be back at home, trying to work that out?
‘Has he contacted you?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t switched on my phone.’
‘Oh. Probably for the best.’
‘Mmm.’
Pause.
‘If a tidal wave came along right now, we’d be well screwed,’ she muses.
‘Thank you for that comforting thought, Marty,’ I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster.
‘EEEEEEEEEEE!’
We turn with a start to see Bridget, in a lime-green bikini, running into the ocean. We squeal as water splashes in our direction.
‘Come on!’ she shouts, sinking to her knees on the sandy bed, so the water comes up to her neck, soaking half of her hair.
Marty grabs my arm. ‘Come on.’
I hesitate, but she’s made up my mind for me. She drags me back to the car to hunt for our swimming costumes.
She’s right. This is what I need. And even if it turns out I’m wrong, I’m not going to get back on a plane today. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.
I heave my suitcase out of the car and unzip it. Where’s my bikini?
Marty is already dragging her T-shirt over her head, keeping an eye out to make sure the middle-aged man at the picnic table isn’t perving.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t pack one,’ she says as I rummage through my belongings at an increasingly frenetic speed.
My heart sinks. It’s bright bloody yellow. If it were here, I would have found it by now. I can see it so clearly sitting in my drawer at home – a purchase for my honeymoon, taunting me . . .
‘For fuck’s sake!’ I erupt, furious all of a sudden. I said it was hard to care about anything, but right now I DO care. I care immensely.
‘Have mine,’ Marty insists, shoving it into my hands before I can protest. And the next thing I know, she’s flinging herself into the water in her mismatched red bra and stripy knickers. If the man hadn’t noticed us before, he has now.
‘Hurry up!’ she shouts back at me. She’s a little shorter and curvier than me, but her costume stretches to fit. I’m not about to let her immodesty go to waste, so I hurry up and join her, this time with a smile on my face.
An hour later, our hair still damp, tangled and salty from the seawater, we drive into Key West. The final Florida key is only about four miles long and two miles wide, so it takes us next to no time to pass through the characterless part of the new town before we reach the old town, where beautiful historic houses, hotels and B&Bs line the tiny lanes and streets. Tropical trees and plants are crammed into the small front gardens, casting welcome shade over colonial balconies and front porches. The weatherboarded houses and their wooden shutters are painted with contrasting hues: pink and lilac, grey and green, yellow and white, and everywhere the blossom on the trees is bursting with vibrant colour.
‘I think this is it, here,’ Bridget says, turning into a small car park.
Our hotel is situated a few blocks east of Duval Street, where most of the nightlife is, and as we get out of the car and pull our suitcases around to the front entrance, I feel a small flutter of anticipation. The hotel, set within a lush landscape, is white with green shutters and has an overhanging porch. Mike, the friendly, gay, front-desk clerk takes us on a short tour of the property, and I can’t help but smile at Marty as we round a corner to see the cool blue pool. The sunloungers are still full of people chilling out with drinks in the late afternoon sunshine, and my eyes inadvertently fall on three well-rounded middle-aged men in skimpy, brightly coloured briefs. There’s also a hot tub, a hammock area set under palm trees, and swinging chairs hanging from the porches. Mike informs us that happy hour begins poolside at four p.m. daily and lasts for an hour, when we can help ourselves to as many free drinks as we’d like. It’s already in full swing, but he gives us three complimentary beers to take up to our room in case we don’t make it down in time. He doesn’t know Marty very well.
We’re staying in a loft apartment on the first floor at the front of the house. We have our own secluded balcony with a swinging chair, plus two more white, wrought-iron chairs and a small table. Inside the apartment there is a double bed situated at the top of a spiral staircase, which Marty had agreed Bridget could have because her travel feature is scoring them a good discount on this place. The sofa converts into a second double bed for Marty, and underneath the staircase is a blow-up single mattress: my sleeping quarters.
‘I don’t mind going there,’ Marty says graciously as I put my bag next to my bed, which is half a metre high and pretty impressive for an inflatable.
‘No, it’s okay,’ I reply, sitting down and almost sliding off. It looks sturdier than it actually is. Bridget snorts.
‘I’ll crash upstairs with you, if you’re not careful,’ Marty warns her. ‘Laura can have the sofa bed.’
‘Yeah, yeah, you’re always trying to cop a feel,’ Bridget jokes, trying to drag her enormous suitcase up the spiral staircase, noisily bumping it up one step at a time. ‘Give me a hand, would you?’ she finally snaps. I quickly get up and crack my head on the underside of the staircase.
‘Shit, are you alright?’ Marty exclaims.
‘Ow,’ I reply, pressing my hand to my head. That really hurt.
‘Quick!’ Bridget gasps, snapping us to action. Marty runs to her aid, before the suitcase can come crashing down on me, too. I carefully step out from under the staircase and my head continues to throb as I straighten up. At the foot of my bed is a bathroom with a shower; there’s a flat-screen TV in front of the sofa and a small kitchen area behind it, with a tiny fridge, microwave and coffee machine. Finally, after much effing and blinding, Marty and Bridget deposit Bridget’s suitcase and return downstairs. I’m not surprised they struggled. Almost half of our luggage allowance was used up by Bridget’s bag alone. Just as well I packed light, otherwise we could have been paying excess. I remember my forgotten bikini and sigh. I’ll have to buy a new one before I can take a dip in that glorious-looking pool.
‘Happy hour?’ Marty suggests.
‘I might jump in the shower first,’ I say.
‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ She grabs my hand and pulls me across the room towards the door.
‘Can’t I wash my hair?’ I beg, dragging my feet.
‘Your golden locks look stunning, as usual,’ she says wryly, not paying any heed to me. I give Bridget a pleading look over my shoulder, but she just purses her lips and follows us out of the apartment.
‘Have you brought us to the gayest place on the planet?’ Marty snipes under her breath at Bridget ten minutes later, as we gawp at the second set of skimpily clad, rotund middle-aged men who have just climbed into the hot tub. ‘Don’t think I didn’t see all the rainbow flags on our drive in here.’
‘Oh, shush,’ she snaps.
‘Good one,’ Marty adds with a deadpan expression. ‘Just what we wanted for an all-girls holiday.’
I try not to giggle as Bridget defends herself. ‘This is a top destination for hot guys—’
‘Gays,’ Marty annoyingly interjects.
‘STRAIGHT guys on stag weekends and . . . and . . .’
Marty shoots her a warning look and Bridget’s voice fizzles out as she realises what she’s said.
They know of course that the last thing I want to see on this holiday is a bunch of wasted stags chatting up girls while their girlfriends and future wives are stuck at home in blissful ignorance. I feel ill as I picture, not for the first time, how Matthew must have looked on his stag do.
‘Sorry,’ Bridget apologises.
‘Don’t be silly.’ I brush her off, and violently shake my head to rid myself of the images that are still dwelling there. ‘I’m going to get another one,’ I say, standing up. ‘Same again?’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Marty says approvingly. ‘Yes, please.’
I wander over to the trolley on the other side of the pool, where a few people are gathered, helping themselves to drinks and savoury snack thingies. I extract three large plastic cups from the stack, pouring at least two shots of vodka into each. I reach for the jug of cranberry juice, but freeze mid-move as another hand gets there first.
‘Let me get that for you . . .’
I look up to see a bare-chested guy in sunglasses and a baseball hat grinning at me, jug aloft.
‘Thanks.’ I hold up the three glasses.
‘Say when,’ he murmurs as he starts to pour.
‘That’ll do,’ I tell him as he fills the first to about two-thirds of its capacity. I inadvertently glance at his chest as he starts pouring the second. He’s toned and tanned, an All-American kind of guy, and I can tell he’s good-looking, even with his face partially obscured.
‘You like it strong,’ he comments as he moves onto the third glass .
‘May as well.’
‘British?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Laura.’
‘I’m Rick.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘You here for long?’ he asks.
‘Two weeks.’
‘Cool.’
‘What about you?’ I feel obliged to ask.
‘A few days. My buddies and I are here for a jet-skiing tournament.’
‘Wow. That sounds like fun.’ I nod at the drinks and make to move off. ‘See you around, no doubt.’
‘No doubt.’ He flashes me a pearly-toothed grin and I wander back over to our sunloungers.
It’s when I’m only a few feet away that I look up to see Bridget and Marty staring at me, agog.
‘What?’ I ask a little defensively.
‘Check out you, chatting up the hot guy!’ Bridget cries with glee and a touch of envy.
‘Shh!’ I frown. ‘He helped me with the drinks.’
‘I bet he did.’
‘Who are his friends?’ Marty asks in a low voice. We look over to see two similarly shirtless, tanned and toned guys in baseball caps and sunglasses jog down the steps from the sundeck.
‘They’re here for a jet-skiing tournament,’ I say with a shrug as they join Rick at the trolley and crack open a couple of cans of beer. ‘Probably gay.’
‘No way.’ Marty takes a very large gulp of her drink.
‘You mean there are some straight guys in Key West?’ Bridget asks pointedly. ‘Are you quite sure, Marty?’
‘Happy to prove it to you,’ Marty replies, glugging down a few more mouthfuls.
‘Whoa, slow down!’ Bridget exclaims, but Marty raises her eyebrows cheekily as she downs the rest of it. ‘Oh . . .’ Bridget says knowingly, knocking back half of hers, too.
Marty gets up with a look of steely determination on her face as she eyes the boys at the trolley.
‘Wait a sec,’ Bridget gasps, taking another gulp and getting to her feet.
‘I’m going to go and take a shower,’ I call after them.
Marty glances back at me, her brow momentarily furrowed, before she concedes. ‘Sure. Bridge and I will be up soon, then we’ll go and grab a bite to eat. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ I nod, trying to ignore her warily sympathetic smile before I head in the opposite direction.
I wake up with a start in the middle of the night and it takes a moment for me to get my bearings. Then I realise where I am and what I’m doing and an unwelcome feeling of foreboding settles over me. I wonder what the time is. I peer around in the darkness, but there isn’t a digital clock to be seen. I’ll have to switch my phone on, I think with a sigh, trying to psyche myself up before digging around blindly in my bag beside the bed. Ah, there it is. I start to roll off onto the floor and quickly right myself, my arm pressing against some paper on my bed as I do so. I snatch it up. It’s a note, but even as my eyes adjust, I can’t read it in this light. I switch on my phone and wait for it to come back to life, then turn the glowing screen towards the piece of paper.
Gone for dinner at the restaurant next door. Might head into town afterwards for a couple of bevvies. You were snoring – like a Whalepig – didn’t want to wake you. Call me if you get this and want to join us.
M xxxxxxxxxx
I check the clock on the screen. It’s two o’clock in the morning, US time. Marty is on the sofa bed, her chest gently rising and falling with slow, rhythmic breaths. I’m confused. What time did they go out and when did they get back? Did they go out with those jet-skiers? What happened? I came up here to have a shower, and then collapsed on the bed, waiting for them . . . And obviously fell asleep. I feel half relieved and half annoyed that they didn’t wake me.
My phone suddenly buzzes and I jolt.
Please let me know you’ve landed safely. I love you and miss you so much, LL xxx
LL. That’s Matthew’s nickname for me: Lovely Laura.
My nose starts to prickle and I sit up in bed as an unbearable urge to call him comes over me. No. Don’t. He doesn’t deserve it. I get to my feet, remembering at the last moment to duck my head as I emerge from underneath the stairs, and throw my phone onto the bed. I go to the bathroom and close the door before switching on the light to face myself in the mirror.
I look terrible. My light-blonde hair is crimped and mussed after I went to sleep on it while it was still damp from the shower, and my blue eyes are tinged red and underlined with puffy bags. I splash water on my face and stare at my reflection dolefully. I’m wide awake. There’s no way I’ll fall back asleep after crashing out at, what time was it? Five thirty? I’ve had – I calculate the time in my head – eight and a half hours. No way. That’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks. Shame it wasn’t a whole night’s sleep. What on earth am I going to do with myself now? I remember the swinging seat out on the balcony and decide that’s as good a place as any to pass the time. I sneak out of the front door, resisting the urge to take my phone with me.
Latin music wafts towards me from a distant bar as I climb onto the swinging seat and fold one leg up, using the other to propel me back and forth. I can hear water trickling down rocks from the nearby water feature, and wind chimes chinking together while ceiling fans whir overhead. I take a deep breath and slowly exhale.
I should text Matthew back to let him know I’ve landed safely.
No. Let him stew.
But a text won’t hurt. It’s the decent thing to do. I start to get up, and then force myself back into my seat. No.
I hear laughter coming towards me on a breeze and the strains of Latin music grow stronger. It sounds like it’s nearby.
Clutching this welcome distraction, I climb down from my seat and wander to the end of the balcony. Peering right I can see the sundeck, and beyond it a slightly unkempt-looking garden. From this distance I can see spirals of smoke trailing up into the sky. Predominantly male laughter rings out again. I feel a vicarious thrill as, on an impulse and for want of something better to do, I creep stealthily in my bare feet down the stairs and around the corner to the pool area. The tropical plants near the swimming pool and reception areas are underlit with pretty green and white lights and I can hear the hum of traffic from the road.
I climb the steps to the sundeck, eyes and ears alert, but it’s deserted. I can hear the low murmur of voices as I push my way through the leaves of the palm trees shading the deck – they’re rougher and scratchier than they look, but I feel like I’m Lara Croft, so I suck it up.
The garden – or back yard, as I should call it – of the adjoining ramshackle house is overrun with weeds and the odd piece of rubbish. I spot a rusty bicycle lying in some long grass, and a couple of broken stone statues of female torsos. Lanterns hang from oversized tree leaves and a rope light has been coiled up the trunk of one of the palms. Two guys sit on a beaten-up sofa underneath this tree, opposite a man and a woman in a coup
le of mismatched armchairs. One of the guys has a cigar and I watch transfixed as the smoke drifts through his fingers. Then he turns to stub it out and I glimpse his face.
I inhale quickly. He has dark eyes and dark eyebrows, olive skin and shortish, black, slicked-back hair. A shadow of stubble graces his chiselled jaw. He’s dressed casually in board shorts and a T-shirt, but he looks like he could be a film star. He’s one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. A feeling of déjà vu strikes me, but I don’t know why. I realise I’m holding my breath, and I have to concentrate to exhale.
He turns back to his friends and says something. They all laugh and the girl leans forward to slap him on his thigh. He good-naturedly bats her away and reaches for a bottle of beer to take a swig. I tear my eyes away from him to scrutinise her. She’s attractive: olive-skinned like him, with medium-length, dark-brown hair. She’s wearing a short, patterned summer dress and flip-flops. I wonder if she’s his girlfriend and I feel strangely piqued. The man on the armchair next to her has a shaved head and a goatie and looks a bit shifty, but the second man on the sofa is quite cute, with short, dark, curly hair and a big smile. Marty would like him, I think, before returning my attention to Mr Beautiful.
He’s stunning. He looks nothing like Matthew, who has blond hair, blue eyes and is unanimously acknowledged by practically everyone I know as freakishly good-looking.
‘He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen . . .’
I feel flat as I recall the reason for my déjà vu. Those were the same words my friend Susan used on my hen night to describe my future husband.
Out of the blue I feel overwhelmingly sad, a feeling which is swiftly followed by foolishness. What am I doing here, spying like a silly little girl? I back out of the scratchy palm leaves, which, to add insult to injury, are now forking at my hair, and make my way back to the apartment, where my blow-up mattress – and my mobile phone – await.
I gingerly climb onto the bed and open my text messages, staring at the one from Matthew . . .
For goodness’ sake, I think crossly as I pound the space button before finally accepting that my laptop has well and truly died. Matthew’s MacBook Pro is jubilantly plugged into the charger. I hate it when he does this. His is set up in the bedroom, but he likes checking his emails at the kitchen table, where there’s more light. As do I; that’s why I keep my laptop charger here. Fat lot of good it’s doing me at the moment. I pull the plug out of Matthew’s machine, the sudden movement bringing his screen to life. My laptop always takes forever to start up, and as I connect the plug I glance at Matthew’s glowing screen to see his Facebook page is open. With idle curiosity, I click on his messages to see who’s been in touch recently. He won’t mind; he’s not touchy about stuff like that. Wait. Who’s she? The profile picture at the top of the list is of a pretty, smiling brunette called Tessa Blight. Frowning, I open the message:
