The Longest Holiday

by Paige Toon

  ‘Thanks.’

  He takes a swig, leaning back against the counter and staring at me. He’s wearing a navy-blue T-shirt and well-worn denim jeans, and looks sexy as hell. I tear my eyes away to study the kitchen. It doesn’t look like it’s been touched since the seventies: yellow and grey lino on the floor, pale orange cupboards with melamine peeling off them. Dishes are stacked in the sink, and the counters are covered, too. It’s a mess. I meet Leo’s eyes and I think something akin to embarrassment passes through them before he puts his guard back up.

  ‘Come through.’ He leads me into the living room. It’s still a mess, with old battered sofas and armchairs, and a huge box-shaped TV that looks like it left a factory in the eighties and surely can’t still be functioning. I take in a few more details, like the picture frames hanging on the browned walls and the antique chests of drawers and matching wardrobe. The odd thought comes to me that someone used to love this place, but it’s been unloved for far too long.

  ‘Whose house is this?’ I find myself asking.

  Leo glances at me sharply. For a moment he seems a little bit lost. He collapses onto one of the armchairs.

  ‘It’s complicated.’ I’m familiar with this answer – I used it on him only yesterday – but it’s not one I was expecting.

  I sit down on the sofa and tuck my knees up. He shifts awkwardly and looks out through the door. I follow his gaze, but there’s no one there and I can hear the others outside on the chairs.

  ‘This was my mother’s house,’ he says quietly. ‘I grew up here.’

  ‘Where is . . .’

  ‘She passed away a long time ago.’ He glances down at his hands, then takes a swig of his beer. He runs his hand through his black hair and rests his elbow on one of the armrests.

  I try to prompt him. ‘But now Carmen and Eric live here?’

  He half rolls his eyes and leans forward to plonk his beer down on the stain-spotted coffee table. ‘Yes, they do.’

  Bloody hell, he wasn’t joking when he said it was complicated. ‘Spit it out.’

  He laughs. ‘Oh, Laura. I hate talking about this.’

  Warmth floods me at the familiarity of the way he just addressed me. ‘I didn’t want to tell you about my crap, either,’ I shrewdly remind him. ‘But I did.’

  He holds my stare. ‘Yes, you did.’ He sighs. ‘When my mother died, she left this house to me. My brother Alejandro was very angry.’ He says Alejandro with a Spanish accent, and it’s sexy as hell. ‘He was my older brother.’

  ‘Sorry, how old are you?’ I interrupt.

  ‘Thirty-three,’ he replies. Four years older than me. I nod for him to continue. ‘In the end, I went to Miami, and Alejandro, Carmen and Javier came to live here. Javier is my nephew.’ He gives me a knowing look, and I gather he’s speaking about the same nephew Jorge is collecting from the airport this weekend. ‘Alejandro died eight years ago.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I regard him with compassion, knowing as I do now that his parents are also dead. ‘Was he your only sibling?’

  ‘Yes. But Jorge is like a brother to me.’

  We smile at each other. ‘I can see that.’ The two uncles . . . ‘So if Alejandro is no longer around, and Carmen has moved on with Eric, why don’t you ask for your house back?’

  ‘Like I say, it’s complicated.’ He stares at me directly and it makes me feel shivery again.

  I try not to stutter when I speak. ‘Javier . . . You let them stay because of Javier?’

  He hesitates and then nods. He still hasn’t taken his eyes away from mine.

  ‘But how old is he now?’

  ‘Eighteen, almost nineteen.’

  ‘And he’s just been travelling. He’s flown the nest.’ He shrugs. ‘I see what you mean when you say it’s complicated.’ He finally breaks eye contact when he reaches for his beer. ‘Would you like to live here?’ I ask him.

  He thinks for a moment. ‘I don’t know. When I come back for the summer, like this, I can see myself living here. But Miami has its draws, too.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m going to like Miami.’

  He raises one eyebrow. ‘Really? Why not?’

  ‘It all looks a bit big and scary to me.’

  ‘It’s big, but not scary. Not when you get used to it.’

  ‘We’ve only got two days,’ I point out with a smile.

  ‘Just enough time to ride around Miami Beach on a Segway and do the boat tour past the celebrities’ houses.’ He throws his head back and laughs loudly.

  ‘Bugger off,’ I joke, because obviously he’s taking the piss. Again.

  ‘Well, well, well, looks like we’re missing out on the party.’

  I look up to see a clearly unamused Carmen standing at the door. Eric appears behind her, and I can hear Jorge in the kitchen. I think this might be my cue to leave, unfortunately. But she steps past the coffee table and slumps down onto the sofa next to me.

  ‘Laura, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply warily, because I don’t like the look in her eyes.

  ‘Jorge says you’re married.’ She says this with a pointed stare at Leo. A bad feeling settles over me.

  ‘Carmen!’ I hear Jorge saying sharply from the kitchen.

  ‘I’m going to bed. Night, night,’ Eric says dozily from the doorway. No one pays him any attention.

  ‘You should get some sleep, too, Carmen,’ Leo says in a low, warning tone. ‘You look like you need it.’

  ‘Fuck off, Leonardo,’ she snaps, taking me by surprise when she says what is obviously his full name. ‘If anyone needs sleep, it’s you.’ Then her glare turns into a fake smile. ‘But I guess you don’t plan on getting any tonight,’ she says silkily, looking at me. ‘Sleep, that is.’

  Okay, time to go.

  ‘She’s drunk. Ignore her,’ Jorge says angrily as he comes into the room and over to her. ‘Come on, off to bed, sis.’ He grabs her arm and hauls her off the sofa, but I’m on my feet by then, too.

  ‘I should be going anyway,’ I say to Leo.

  He nods abruptly and slowly gets to his feet. I hear Carmen laughing as Jorge leads her down the corridor. I walk into the kitchen and put my beer on the countertop.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ I say, turning around to walk to the door, but coming to an abrupt stop when I discover he’s right in front of me. I look up at him with surprise, but he leans past me and puts his own bottle down on the counter. My heart skips a beat as I breathe in his warmth. His neck is so close to me . . .

  ‘I’ll walk you back,’ he says calmly, seemingly unaware of the butterfly-inducing effect he has on me.

  Neither of us says anything as we wander through the unkempt garden to the gate, or on the way around the corner towards the hotel’s back entrance. Finally we find ourselves in the uplit garden by the swimming pool. There are goosebumps on my arms, but they’re not there from the cold.

  I turn around to face him. ‘Our apartment is just up the stairs.’

  ‘I hope everything works out for you,’ he says quietly, seriously.

  ‘You really won’t come to Miami? Show us around?’ I plead in a small voice. I don’t want this to be the last time I see him.

  ‘I can’t.’ He shakes his head slightly in the relative darkness.

  Can’t or won’t?

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he asks.

  ‘South Beach,’ I reply. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘In the Wynwood district,’ he tells me. ‘Check out the Wynwood Walls if you get the chance. A few of my friends are graffiti artists and they work there.’

  ‘Graffiti artists?’ I ask with confusion. Isn’t graffiti illegal?

  ‘Professional graffiti artists,’ he explains with a smile. ‘The exteriors of the buildings in Wynwood are like one big accessible art gallery. It’s pretty cool.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. I’ll definitely do what I can to check it out.’

  He touches my upper arm lightly, then his fingers trail down my arm and fall into my hand. He
gives me a quick squeeze.

  ‘Good luck,’ he says, stepping away from me. I grip the tip of his fingers with my own fingertips as his hand slips away from me, trying to hold onto him for a few seconds more. My chest constricts as he walks out of the gate.

  Will Smith blares out of the stereo: ‘I’m going to Miami . . .’ and practically everyone on the boat starts to bop along to the music; next to me, Bridget and Marty sing along, too. I see the female tour guide yawn. She looks bored as hell, and I know how she feels. I wonder how many times she’s had to listen to this song.

  I don’t care how much Rosie O’Donnell’s house sold for. I don’t want to know about Gloria Estefan’s club-slash-restaurant. I’m embarrassed to be sitting here on this boat, passing by the properties of celebrities and millionaires as a tour guide informs us over a loudspeaker how much their homes are worth. I can’t believe anyone in their right mind would choose to live in this goldfish bowl. If Leo could see me now, on this frigging boat . . .

  I miss him so much.

  Oh. My. God. We have just passed a yacht full of bikini-clad girls dancing to music played by the on-board DJ. It’s the middle of the day! I can’t believe what a cliché this place is.

  I’ve been here only twenty-four hours, but as you can probably tell I’m not much of a fan. I want to like Miami. Bridget and Marty seem to. And it is sort of fascinating.

  Everything is so shiny here. Glittery and shiny. Yesterday we drove into the city past mirrored skyscrapers that glowed blindingly white in the sun, before taking the bridge that would lead us to Miami Beach. This is a city built on water, like a giant skyscraper-ed Venice. Millionaires’ yachts populate the harbours and you’re never far from the ocean. Even the people are shiny. This morning at breakfast there was a big girl sitting at the table next to us dressed in a sequinned top and a short skirt, as though she was going out clubbing, not eating a plate of pancakes. Another woman was wearing glittery gold moisturising lotion. Most of the handbags and sunglasses I see are designer, glinting gold in the sunlight. I went into a shop and the walls of the changing rooms were covered with tiny spheres of glass, glittering like droplets of water, frozen in time.

  I do like the art deco buildings in South Beach. It’s impossible not to like them. This morning we hired bright red bicycles and rode along the sidewalk adjacent to the beach. That was sort of fun, even if I did feel like I was riding a shiny tomato. And I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of people on the Segways, standing upright like wallies as they whizzed around everywhere on two wheels. No wonder Leo laughed at the thought of me on one.

  I can’t stop thinking about him. And Key West. I wish I were back there . . .

  That night we go to the Delano, a white, four-winged art deco tower which, when it was built in the late 1940s, was the tallest building in Miami. Philip Stark designed the recent renovations, and it’s stunning. The long back garden runs all the way down to the beach and houses a cool swimming pool and a bar crammed with white sofas. Bridget called ahead earlier and told the concierge that she’s writing a travel feature, so we’re being well looked after in a roped-off VIP area. The sun is just starting to go down behind the building and the light, if you look at it, is blinding. It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in Miami. This has got to be my favourite place of all. A wily brown bird hops onto the table in front of us.

  ‘Do you want to go to see the Wynwood Walls tomorrow morning?’ I ask Bridget and Marty.

  ‘What’s that?’ Marty asks.

  ‘It’s like an outdoor art gallery, apparently – graffiti artists have painted the walls of all the buildings. It sounds amazing. Leo told me about it.’

  Marty looks sceptical.

  ‘Well, I really want to do some shopping,’ Bridget replies.

  Marty looks torn. ‘I still haven’t checked out Banana Republic.’

  ‘There’s a Banana Republic in London!’ I exclaim. ‘And a Gap, Mac, Guess and everything else.’

  She glances at Bridget.

  ‘Make up your mind in the morning,’ I say sullenly. I suppose I could go on my own, but I really don’t want to.

  Later we go clubbing in South Beach. The street comes to life at night: rope lights wind around banisters, plants glitter with fairy lights, candles flicker on tables under interesting designer lampshades, beers come in glasses the size and shape of jugs, colourful cocktails in cups the size of bowls, and neon signs light up the art deco buildings.

  We enter a club where a DJ plays music loudly enough to pierce eardrums and order three mojitos from a bartender with a Spanish accent. The majority of people in Miami speak Spanish. I try to remember what I learned from a module I took at university, but feel ashamed when I come up with nothing.

  We polish off our drinks and head onto the dance floor. Music pounds in my head and fills up my chest, consuming me like a giant heartbeat. Imagine if Jorge were here. He’s in Miami, but where? Imagine if Leo changed his mind and came with him? Imagine if I saw him here, now? I’ve had too much to drink, but I allow my imagination to carry me from the dance floor all the way to his bedroom, and I feel hot and shivery. And then I imagine going through life without ever seeing Leo again. The pain is intense! I can’t do that. There’s no way I can live with that. Maybe I could ring the dive resort and ask for his contact details. We could keep in touch – and if things don’t work out for Matthew and me . . .

  Stop! I may as well cheat on him while I’m at it! That would make me just as bad as Matthew. No, I know I have to let Leo go.

  A lump swells in my throat and I fight the freakishly strong urge to burst into tears. I flash Marty a look and head off the dance floor. She quickly follows me, with Bridget in close pursuit.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asks.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Bridget looks concerned as she reaches us.

  ‘What do you think Matthew would do if I didn’t go home?’ I blurt out.

  Marty gives me a sharp look. ‘We are talking theoretically, aren’t we?’

  ‘I . . . I . . . Yes,’ I reply warily.

  ‘He’d be absolutely devastated,’ Marty barks.

  ‘He’d deserve it,’ Bridget adds flippantly and Marty gives her a warning look. ‘What? It’s true,’ she says defensively. ‘I wouldn’t go back to any man who did that to me.’

  ‘Bridget!’ Marty exclaims.

  ‘I wouldn’t!’ she exclaims back. ‘Fuck him! And on that note, fuck Leo! Literally.’

  ‘What?’ I misunderstand her. Leo hasn’t done anything awful to me.

  ‘You should have shagged him,’ she says, shaking her head at me with regret, and my face heats up.

  ‘Bridget!’ Marty exclaims once again, with outrage.

  ‘What? She should have! She would have felt a whole lot better about what Matthew did, if she had.’

  ‘That is just not true,’ Marty says firmly. ‘She would have felt just as shit about Matthew and then would have had to add guilt to the mixture. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’

  Bridget looks at me. ‘You wish you’d shagged him, don’t you?’

  Marty regards me with shocked horror.

  ‘I think I’ve had too much to drink,’ I say, trying to brush them off. ‘I’m feeling all emotional.’

  Marty’s expression changes to one of dismay. ‘Have I messed up, asking you to come on this holiday with us?’

  ‘No!’ I cry.

  ‘It’s just that . . . I don’t know, you seem even more confused now than when we left.’

  ‘I just don’t feel like I’ve had enough time, to be honest.’

  ‘She still wants to shag Leo,’ Bridget chips in.

  ‘Shut up!’ Marty snaps at her. Bridget shrugs, unfazed. ‘I don’t know, Laura,’ Marty says. ‘Maybe you can come back—’

  ‘Maybe I just shouldn’t go home,’ I interrupt.

  ‘We’re not eighteen anymore,’ Marty says.

  Bridget laughs sardonically and Marty glares at her.

 
‘I’m sorry, but I’m with Laura on this,’ Bridget says, and I like her more in that moment than I ever have.

  ‘I’m with Laura, too,’ Marty says in a tone that is bordering on angry. ‘I want the best for her, I always have.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, putting my hand on her arm. ‘Look, I think I should go back to the hotel and get some sleep. Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Marty mutters. She turns to lead the way out, but I freeze when I see a curly-haired man near the bar. Bridget bumps into me.

  ‘Sorry!’ she says, then follows my gaze as I stare at the man. ‘It’s not Jorge,’ she says gently in my ear. A moment later the man turns to the side and I can see that she was right. And then her arm is around my shoulders and she hugs me tightly. ‘Whatever you do, you have my support,’ she says fervently. ‘But I wouldn’t go back to that bastard if he was the last man on earth.’

  As we drive away from the glittering city of Miami towards the airport, the roads become wider and the cars faster. We pass one McDonald’s after another, zoom past vast soulless-looking shopping centres, and multiple 7-Eleven grocery stores and Walmarts. I feel like I’m living in an American TV show – everything is different, yet familiar. Overhead, planes fly through the blue, blue sky and I pray that ours will be delayed so I don’t have to face going home yet.

  I’m in a daze as we check in our luggage. There’s a knot of anxiety in my stomach and the feeling of freedom I’ve had periodically in the last couple of weeks has well and truly vanished.

  ‘It’s going to be okay,’ Marty tells me as we step into the queue to go through security, but I can’t respond to her. Bridget squeezes my arm and gives me a sympathetic look. I feel half dead as we shuffle forward.

  My mobile phone starts to buzz from inside my bag and I pull it out. It’s Matthew calling me, I see with a frown. I press answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Laura, it’s me.’ He sounds breathless, worried. ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘I’m about to go through security.’

  ‘It’s—’ I hear him take a deep breath.