The Longest Holiday

by Paige Toon

  My family and I stayed at Eden House in Key West while I was researching this book, and although no one there knew what I was up to, this gorgeous hotel really brought Laura’s experience to life, so cheers for that.

  Thanks to my parents, Vern and Jen Schuppan, and last but most definitely not least, thank you to my husband Greg, my son Indy and my daughter Idha. I love you all very, very much.

  ‘There’ll be bluebirds over . . .’

  ‘We’re going to Dorset, not Dover, Mum.’ I interrupt as she launches into another rendition of ‘The White Cliffs Of Dover.’

  ‘I know, but I can sing, can’t I?’ She pretends to be wounded.

  ‘It would be better if you stuck to painting,’ I tease.

  She flashes me a grin and I smile back at her from the front passenger seat.

  ‘This is going to be fun!’ she exclaims, reaching for the knob on the car’s radio. She’s about to settle for Heart so I quickly intervene. Dammit, there’s no XFM this far out of London!

  ‘iPod?’ I suggest hopefully.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she concedes. ‘Anything to get you in the holiday mood.’

  ‘I am in the holiday mood,’ I try to convince her as I plug in my brand-new white MP3 player – a present from my parents for my recent birthday. Mum gives me a discerning look before returning her eyes to the road.

  ‘I know you’re disappointed Lizzy can’t come, but you’ll still have a good time. Plus, you’ll be able to get started on all your university reading.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Over’ by Portishead begins to play.

  ‘For goodness sake, Alice, this is making me want to slit my wrists!’ protests Mum after a while. ‘I mean it,’ she continues when I ignore her. ‘Something more upbeat. Please!’

  I sigh, but comply. Madonna’s ‘Holiday’ starts belting out from the speakers.

  ‘This is more like it!’ She starts to sing again.

  ‘Mu-um,’ I moan. ‘Remember your vocation.’

  She laughs. ‘That’s a big word for a teenager. Aah, but you are going to Cambridge University.’

  ‘University in Cambridge, not the University of Cambridge,’ I correct her for what feels like the umpteenth time. I’m actually going to Anglia Ruskin, but she seems to forget the details when relaying this fact to her friends.

  ‘It’s still a big deal,’ she says and I don’t disagree because it’s nice to have proud parents. Then she’s off again: ‘Holiday!’

  And like they say, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, so I do.

  My mum is an artist. She specialises in painting abstract landscapes using oils, and incorporating other materials like metal, sand and stone. She’s struggled for years to make decent money, so although her last collection sold well, my dad is still the main breadwinner. He’s working at his accounting job in London during the week and will be joining us in Dorset at the weekends. It’s the middle of July now and we’ll be here until the end of August. Mum plans on spending these six weeks working on her new collection which, to her delight, is being exhibited at a super-cool East London gallery in September.

  As for me, initially I agreed to this long summer break because my best friend, Lizzy, was going to come too. She’s heading off to university in Edinburgh and we’re both sad at the idea of leaving each other. We’ve spent the last few years living practically in each other’s pockets, so this will be the end of an era. The pair of us envisaged long, lazy summer days sunbathing in the garden or borrowing Mum’s car to go to the beach. But Lizzy’s mum, Susan, recently discovered she had a lump in one of her breasts, which turned out to be malignant. The shock was immense and I still feel absolutely sick at the thought of what my friend and her family are going through. Susan is having an operation this week to remove the lump and then will have to undergo chemotherapy; so, needless to say, Lizzy needs to be with her right now.

  ‘Isn’t this pretty?’ Mum says. I look out of the window at the rolling green hills. ‘Look! Are those wild horses?’ She doesn’t wait for me to answer, not that I’d know. ‘You could have riding lessons while you’re here. And there’s a castle not too far from where we’re staying. You can catch a steam train from Swanage that takes you all the way there.’

  ‘I know, you’ve told me already.’

  ‘Well, that will be fun, won’t it?’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply non-committally. It would have been fun. If Lizzy were here. Oh, I hope her mum is going to be okay . . .

  ‘You might make some new friends,’ Mum suggests hopefully, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

  ‘I’m not eight anymore,’ I reply with a wry smile.

  ‘I know, but you’ll have a good time,’ she says again.

  I think she’s trying to convince herself of that as much as she’s trying to convince me.

  The cottage where we’re staying is off the beaten track. It’s built out of cream stone, and a dry stone wall encloses a small, grassy garden at the back. There’s a bench seat out at the front in full sunshine and I can already picture myself sitting there and tackling some of my English Lit books.

  The place has been recently renovated, and it feels cosy and clean. Mum puts the kettle on and unpacks milk from the cool-box while I sit at the kitchen table and look over the manual left by the owners.

  My mum is tall and slim with shoulder-length blonde hair and green eyes. I take after my dad’s side of the family. I’m shorter at five foot five inches tall and I have long, very-dark-brown-almost-black hair. My eyes, although green like my mother’s, have a slightly Oriental look about them. My paternal grandmother was Chinese, but she died before I was born.

  ‘What does it say about things to do around here?’ Mum asks as she puts a cup of tea down in front of me.

  ‘Pretty much everything you’ve already told me,’ I reply. ‘Apparently there are some nice walks along the cliff if you go up there.’ I point in the opposite direction to the way we came in. ‘There’s also a pub within walking distance if you head that way.’ More pointing.

  ‘That sounds promising. Maybe we could go there for an early dinner and then relax in front of the telly for the night?’

  We drive to the pub because, despite having sat in a car for almost three hours, neither of us has the energy to walk.

  Our nearest village is lovely. Limestone cottages with painted window frames in shades of blue and green line the streets, and the sea is visible across the rolling hills. We walk up the steps to the pub. There are grey stone tables and bench seats outside with views towards the sea and we decide to come out here to sit down, but first we head inside to have a nose around, and to order.

  I see him almost immediately, the guy working behind the bar. He’s tall – about six foot one or two – has chin-length, dead-straight black hair and his right eyebrow is pierced with a silver ring. He’s pulling a pint and looking down, but as he glances up his dark eyes momentarily meet mine. POW! I know how crazy this sounds, but it feels like my heart has just leapt out of my chest and slammed into him.

  Then he’s looking down again, filling the pint glass to the brim and carrying it, somehow without spilling a drop, to a middle-aged man at the other end of the bar. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Mum snaps me out of it.

  ‘He looks to be about your age,’ she says, gleefully nudging me as she nods in the direction of the unsettlingly attractive bartender.

  ‘Shh!’ I warn, inwardly cringing and trying, but failing, to tear my eyes away from him as he takes money from the man and goes to the till. He comes our way and my pulse quickens.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  A big, burly man with short, gelled black hair and enormous tattoos on his arms has materialised in front of us. The disappointment is intense.

  ‘A glass of white wine, please,’ Mum asks pleasantly. ‘Alice?’

  ‘Um . . .’ My eyes dart towards the guy, but he’s already taking another order. ‘Half a cider, please.’ The man gets on with the job witho
ut another word. He’s wearing a white vest and his dark chest hairs are visible beneath the fabric. I wonder if he’s the gorgeous boy’s father. He plonks a half-pint glass full of honey-coloured liquid in front of me. Some of it sloshes over the brim, but he makes no apologies, nor does he smile as he requests money or when he returns Mum’s change. I feel oddly uneasy about him.

  ‘Do you have any menus?’ Mum asks him.

  ‘We don’t do food,’ comes his gruff reply.

  I glance over my shoulder as I follow Mum through the door, and then I’m outside in the late-afternoon sunshine.

  ‘This is nice,’ Mum says when we sit down. ‘He was a bit tasty.’ She nudges me again, once more snapping me out of my reverie.

  ‘Mum, no one says “tasty” anymore.’ I sound unbothered, even though I’m not.

  I try to concentrate while she engages in conversation, but soon the gentle sound of clinking glass from behind us makes me turn around. I realise with a flurry of nerves that he’s there, collecting empties from recently vacated tables.

  ‘Hello!’ my mum calls cheerfully.

  Oh, Christ, Mum, shut up!

  ‘Alright?’ He gives her a vague smile and his eyes flicker towards mine. POW! That feeling again. It’s like I’m made of metal and he’s a powerful magnet. What on earth has got into me?

  ‘We’re on holiday,’ Mum tells him. ‘Can you recommend anything nice to do around here?’

  ‘Um . . .’ He stands upright and thinks for a moment, holding the glasses he’s collected between his fingers. ‘Have you been to Corfe Castle yet?’

  ‘We’ve only just arrived.’ She shrugs and smiles.

  He’s wearing black jeans and a black indie-rock T-shirt. My kind of guy.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he asks, glancing at me. I’m unable to speak so, thankfully, Mum does.

  ‘In a little cottage over those fields. We’re here for six weeks, so if you’ve got any ideas . . .’

  A dog starts to bark and his head shoots around towards the pub. Almost on cue, the big, burly man storms out.

  ‘JOE! Sort it out,’ he shouts angrily.

  Joe . . . The gorgeous boy has a name . . . Well, of course he has a name, Alice.

  ‘Coming,’ Joe shouts back wearily. ‘Gotta take my dog for a walk,’ he says to us as he turns away.

  ‘Do you want some company?’ Mum calls after him hopefully, as the annoying nudging arm comes out to play once more. ‘Alice is desperate to meet people her own age.’

  ‘Mum, no!’ I hiss, mortified.

  He looks at me as my face turns bright red and I would give anything – anything – for the ground to open up and swallow me, or for an enormous Pterodactyl to swoop down from the sky and gobble me up. I really don’t care, I’m not fussy, I just DO NOT want to be here right now.

  ‘JOE!’ the man shouts again, interrupting any reply.

  ‘No, no, it’s okay, you go ahead,’ I manage to splutter.

  ‘Okay. See you around.’ He quickly makes an exit. My face continues to burn as I bury it in my hands.

  ‘That was so embarrassing!’ I screech under my breath.

  ‘Why?’ Mum asks.

  ‘I cannot believe you just did that,’ I moan.

  ‘Goodness sake, Alice, he’s just a boy,’ she replies, sounding all uppity.

  But he’s not. He’s not ‘just a boy’. Do not ask me how I know this, but somewhere, deep inside, my heart has already started to fracture and I know that Joe has everything to do with it.

  Back at the cottage, I found myself lying on my bed and staring up at the ceiling thinking about You Know Who. And then it occurs to me that I might bump into him if he’s walking his dog . . . I hurry downstairs.

  ‘I’m going to go for a walk.’

  Mum tears her eyes away from her sketchpad and looks up at me. ‘We can watch telly together, if you like?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. I need some fresh air.’

  The wind has picked up so I tie my hair into a loose bun and slip on my waterproof and wellies, in case it’s muddy. I turn left onto the track and follow a sign for Priest’s Way. After a while I see another sign for something called Dancing Ledge. That sounds pretty. I carry on walking. There are a few people out and about, and every time I see a dog before its owner I jolt with anticipation. I know I’m being an idiot, but I’m bored; I can daydream.

  I turn right into a grassy field and make my way along a stone track lined with wild flowers. The sea is visible up ahead – shimmering dark blue in the hazy evening sunlight – and I pause for a moment to breathe in the fresh air.

  God, he was gorgeous. I feel nervous at the thought of seeing him again, but I’ll be dragging Mum to that pub tomorrow, whether she likes it or not.

  I remember with sudden mortification how she told Joe I was ‘desperate’ – and how I blushed! He couldn’t escape fast enough. I instantly feel deflated and I almost decide to return to the cottage, but I’ve come so far, I may as well see this Dancing Ledge, whatever that may be. I pass through a gate and then the path narrows and becomes rockier and steeper, leading me downwards between tall gorse hedges. It’s sheltered from the wind here, and then suddenly . . . well, I have never been a nature freak, but the view as I come out of the gorse nearly takes my breath away. In front of me is a grassy slope which seems to roll away to a sudden stop. To my left, more rolling hills jut away at the cliff edge. It’s breathtaking, and slightly scary, but I wander a little way down the slope and sit on the grass. No wonder Mum chose Dorset as a destination – she should come here to paint.

  A big, black, shaggy-haired dog bounds past me, coming from the direction of the gorse walkway. He runs towards the cliff edge and I tense up, but then he turns around and comes my way. I hold out my hand to him and smile – I like dogs – and he rewards me by manically wagging his tail and panting the biggest doggy smile I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Hello!’ I say as I pat him vigorously. Out of curiosity I glance behind to look for his owner and then . . . no way! I must be psychic or something, because there he is! JOE! It’s bloody Joe! My stomach swirls with Amazonian-sized butterflies as he approaches.

  ‘DYSON!’ he shouts with a furious wave of his hand. ‘AWAY!’

  Dyson, who I’m assuming is the dog, starts to bark like a nutcase before chasing his own tail. Joe shakes his head with amusement and then Dyson launches himself at me and knocks me backwards.

  ‘Oh, shit! Sorry!’ Joe exclaims, rushing over and dragging his dog off me. ‘DOWN, BOY!’ he shouts at his dog. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks with concern.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I manage to splutter.

  His face breaks into a grin as he looks at me directly. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Yep, it’s me.’

  My nerves – strangely – have dissipated. Then he collapses down on the grass next to me and I nearly have a heart attack.

  ‘Alice, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m Joe.’

  ‘Hi.’ My face heats up so I look at Dyson. ‘I thought he was going to fall off the cliff.’

  ‘It’s a steep slope all the way down. There’s a fence at the bottom.’

  ‘Aah, okay. Dyson is a funny name for a dog.’ Said dog is now sprawled out in a coma-like position next to him.

  ‘I named him after the vacuum cleaner.’ Joe reaches across and pats him. Dyson’s tail pounds the grass as it wags.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He snaffles up rubbish on the pavement like it’s steak.’

  ‘Yuck!’ I pull a face and laugh.

  ‘He’s one gross dog,’ he says affectionately. ‘So you’re here for six weeks?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I focus on his chunky black boots. I feel tongue-tied. Come on, Alice, talk or he’ll walk! ‘My mum’s a painter,’ I explain quickly.

  ‘Oh, right. That’s cool.’

  ‘Was that your dad working at the pub?’

  He rolls his eyes and pulls up a handful of grass. ‘Yeah.’

&
nbsp; ‘Don’t you get on?’

  He looks across at me. His eyes are so dark. ‘Not particularly,’ he replies.

  And then there’s that feeling again, that magnet, pulling me in. For pity’s sake, I said I was psychic, but at this rate psycho would be more apt.

  ‘Have you lived here for long?’ I ask, trying not to act like a crazy person.

  ‘Only since May.’ He breaks eye contact and I feel an immediate sense of relief. He rests back on his elbows.

  ‘Where were you before?’

  ‘Somerset, then Cornwall. We’ve lived in Dorset before, though. We used to have a pub in Lyme Regis.’

  ‘Wow. You move around a lot.’

  ‘Not by choice,’ he admits, turning the tables before I can press him further. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘North London. East Finchley. Do you know it?’

  ‘No. I don’t know London very well. But I’m going to move there soon.’

  ‘Really?’ My heart leaps and then crashes when I remember I’m off to Cambridge in September. I tell him this.

  ‘Are you? Why?’

  ‘I’m going to university.’ His eyes widen. ‘The former polytechnic,’ I hurriedly explain. ‘I’m not smart enough for the actual university.’

  ‘I’m not smart enough for any university,’ he replies.

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ I feel compelled to say.

  ‘It is.’ He shrugs and stares ahead. ‘But I’m getting out of here, anyway.’ He stands up. ‘I’ve gotta get back. Tomorrow night is Quiz Night,’ he says with derision. ‘And I’ve got to write the questions. Which way are you going?’

  ‘Back up there.’ I scramble to my feet and point to the gorse walkway.

  ‘I’ll walk you.’ Re-sult! ‘You know, seeing as you’re desperate for company, and all that,’ he adds. I blush, but he elbows me jokily.

  ‘Bugger off,’ I reply and his corresponding laugh fills me with warmth.

  He has a grey hoodie tied around his waist and his bare arms are tanned from the rare heatwave we’ve been enjoying this summer. I unzip my waterproof to let some air in – the exercise has warmed me up, too. We walk side by side as we navigate the rocky path.