by Paige Toon
‘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.
This place is the very definition of eclectic. I look around at the murals and battered blue, yellow and grey weatherboarding. A man on a small stage plays a leopard-print guitar and his harmonica, while surrounded by statues of angels and mermaids. Vines hang down from the big old trees shading the tables – not that we need shade today – and the sandy ground is dotted with broken-up bits of tiles and bricks. A family of chickens wanders freely around the yard. Despite the weather, practically everyone here is wearing beach dresses or Bermuda shorts. I notice a skinny, leathery brown woman in a short fluorescent-pink dress with a palm tree tattooed on her ankle. Anything goes. I smile to myself and glance past her to see Leo sitting at a table on his own, drinking a coffee and reading a newspaper.
‘It’s Leo!’ I gasp in Marty and Bridget’s general direction as they stand by the bar. ‘I’m going to go and say hi.’ I don’t wait for them to answer.
Wet sand seeps into my flip-flops and I try to kick it out as I make my way between the stone tables and wrought-iron chairs to talk to him. I’m almost at his table before he looks up.
‘Hello!’ I exclaim, barely able to contain my delight. Not very cool of me.
His eyes widen briefly with surprise. ‘Hello,’ he replies.
‘What are you doing here?’ So not cool. He’s drinking a coffee – dur!
He lifts up his cup in response.
‘But of course I can see that. Silly me.’ Without thinking, I pull up a chair and sit down. ‘Bummer about the dive today.’ I lean forward and put my arms on the table. He’s slouched right back in his chair, his elbow resting on the armrest. The saying, ‘He’s so laid back he could be in a coma,’ comes to me.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got the day off?’
‘Yeah.’
A man of so few words. But I’m not giving up.
‘What have you got planned?’
He shrugs. ‘Nothing.’
‘We were thinking about going on one of those little conch train tours.’
Out of the blue, he throws his head back and laughs loudly.
‘What’s so funny?’ I pretend to be offended, but I’m grinning, too.
‘The thought of you three jiggling around Key West on one of those things . . .’ The corners of his eyes crinkle up very attractively when he smiles.
‘Bridget and Marty would rather visit Ernest Hemingway’s house,’ I confide with a shrug.
‘Don’t you want to do that? He has a lot of cats,’ he adds with a trace of irony.
‘Not fond of cats.’
‘Really?’
‘No. Prefer dogs.’
‘Me, too.’
Aw. ‘Anyway, I’d rather learn some of the history about this place.’
‘I can tell you that.’
The mini gymnasts living inside my stomach start to cartwheel. ‘Can you?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He brushes me off. ‘Send them off to Hemingway’s. Are you having breakfast?’
I was planning on it, but I won’t if it means him leaving without me . . .
‘Um, depends.’
‘Laura! Table’s ready!’ Marty calls.
‘Do you want to join us?’ I ask him quickly.
‘No, you go ahead. I’ll wait for you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’ He grins and looks away from me as he takes a sip of his coffee. I get up and walk towards a smirking Marty with a great big smile on my face.
‘You are NOT!’ she cries under her breath when I tell her about the change of plan.
‘So we’re not doing the conch tour?’ Bridget asks, to be sure.
‘No, you guys can go to Hemingway’s,’ I say flippantly.
‘Maybe we’ll join you on your tour,’ Marty teases.
‘No, he wants me all to himself,’ I joke, but, actually, he did say to send Bridget and Marty off to Hemingway’s, so maybe it’s not so far from the truth.
I can barely concentrate during breakfast. Marty orders the Lobster Benedict, Bridget chooses pancakes with maple syrup, and I opt for a fruit platter with banana bread, but I pick at it.
‘Go on, then,’ Marty says finally when she’s had enough of me fidgeting. ‘We’ll settle the bill.’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Have fun,’ Bridget says with a wink as I scrape my chair out from the table in my hurry to leave.
‘Thank you!’
I hear them discussing me before I’m even out of the room. I hurry outside and back around the corner, hoping Leo is still there. He is!
‘That was quick,’ he says, downing the last of his coffee. He stands up.
‘I wasn’t that hungry,’ I tell him.
‘You should eat more.’ He nods towards the exit so I lead the way out. What does he mean by that? Am I too skinny for him?
‘I’ve lost a bit of weight recently,’ I feel compelled to confess as we step out onto the street.
‘Why?’ His brow furrows as his hand waves me in the right direction.
‘Oh, you don’t want to know about all that.’
He says nothing, tucking his newspaper under his arm and shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts.
‘So how long are you in Key West?’ I ask, trying not to feel hurt about his disinterest as we set off. Yes, I know I asked him not to show any interest, but still . . .
‘For the next couple of months. Until the summer season is over.’
‘What do you do in Miami?’
‘This and that.’
‘What sort of this and that?’ I probe.
‘Working in bars, cigar factories . . . Nothing very interesting.’
‘It must be interesting working in a cigar factory?’
‘No. It isn’t.’
Matthew is a journalist, working for a respectable newspaper. Just as with Will, I’ve always felt proud of his drive and achievements, although at least with Matthew I never have to fear for his life.
‘Have you noticed the houses here pretty much all have tin roofs?’ Leo breaks into my thoughts.
‘Oh, er . . .’ I look around, but of course he’s right. ‘Yes?’
‘Fire prevention. Key West has been almost razed to the ground in the past, the wind carrying the fire from rooftop to rooftop. Now tin roofs are mandatory because they don’t catch alight.’
‘Cool,’ I comment.
‘See the woodwork?’
He points up at the porch belonging to a colonial house. The wooden decoration hanging from the eaves is intricately carved like lace. It’s very pretty.
‘It’s called gingerbread,’ Leo explains. ‘There’s a lot of it here in Key West. Hand-carved by master carpenters and ship-builders. I’ve seen some in the shape of geckos, flowers, violins, palm leaves . . . One house even has it in the shape of gingerbread.’
I smile at him with delight and he smiles back at me. ‘I’ll have to keep my eyes open for that one.’ We keep walking. ‘How do you know so much about the history here?’
‘I used to work on the conch trains when I was a teenager.’
‘You didn’t!’
‘I did.’
‘And there’s you taking the mickey about us going on the tour!’ I whack him on his arm.
‘Ouch.’ He shakes his arm.
‘That didn’t hurt,’ I chide, as a man dressed like Elvis rides past us on a scooter. ‘He looked like he was taking himself seriously,’ I say and Leo smirks. ‘So where are you taking me?’ I ask.
‘Southernmost Point. Have you been there yet?’ he replies.
‘No. Keep meaning to go.’
‘Did you know we’re closer to Havana than mainland Florida?’
‘Is that right? Nuts.’ I want to ask him about his parents, but I settle on a more comfortable subject. ‘Do y
ou think you will go to Miami this weekend?’ I ask hopefully as we continue to stroll.
‘Nah. It doesn’t take two people to collect my nephew.’
I’m despondent, but then I realise what he’s said. ‘Your nephew? I thought it was Jorge’s nephew?’
‘It is. He’s both.’
‘You and Jorge are brothers?’ Eh?
‘No.’ He chuckles. ‘Jorge’s sister Carmen was married to my brother.’
‘Oh! Where’s your brother, then?’ The man’s name comes back to me from the other night: ‘Eric?’
‘No.’ His response is sharp. But of course Eric and Leo look nothing alike. ‘No. Eric is Carmen’s boyfriend. Alejandro is dead.’
I falter in my steps and look up at him in shock.
‘Oh God. I’m sorry.’
I realise he’s also come to a stop on the pavement. I turn to look at the enormous tree he’s staring at.
‘Have you seen a banyan tree before?’ he asks me.
‘No,’ I admit, feeling slightly out of kilter at his revelation.
The tree in front of me is strange; its roots look like they’re dripping from the tree, like candle wax. I notice other, thick, vine-like trunks coming down from the branches, so that the whole front of the tree appears to span three front yards.
‘This one is a hundred years old. Every time a root touches the ground, it forms a new trunk.’
‘That’s amazing.’ It is genuinely remarkable.
Suddenly the heavens open.
‘I forgot my umbrella!’ I cry, as Leo tugs me further under the tree for shelter. The touch of his hand on my arm . . . It actually takes my breath away. It’s the oddest sensation – I’ve never had that before with a man.
A mother hen with a dozen chicks scuttles across the road and into the undergrowth.
‘Seriously, what’s with all the chickens?’ I blurt out.
‘They were brought here in the mid-nineteenth century for cock fighting and food.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Now they keep the scorpions in check.’
‘Scorpions?’ I inadvertently look at the ground, while scrunching up my toes in my flip-flops.
He smiles and looks down at me as another shiver goes through me. I don’t think I’ve ever been this attracted to another human being before. It really is a first-class distraction.
