Page 3 of The Moment I Met You
Next past is the one family group on the trip. There’s a tired-looking mum and dad, a young boy who constantly asks questions, and the teenaged daughter who looks professionally bored as she slouches along behind them. She has bright red hair and pale skin and is clutching a fancy phone. There is no signal here, but she still clutches it, like an empty oxygen tank that might have one last puff of air left inside it. She’s been like this for the whole journey, and every time I look at her I have to bite my lips so I don’t laugh out loud. If I laughed out loud, she might stab me.
I remember that phase – that deeply rooted conviction that the world sucks, and that nobody will ever understand you. It’s funny in hindsight – but deadly serious at the time.
The elderly couple goes past next. I don’t like to ponder the intimate details of other couples’ lives, but they must be in their eighties and I saw them snogging on the back seat yesterday. Life goals. He – I think his name is Donald – goes first, then holds up his hand to help his wife down the steps.
Next there’s a much younger couple, maybe in their thirties, who are at the other end of the relationship spectrum, at least from the outside looking in. They’ve been bickering for the whole trip and, from the look on her face, I wouldn’t bet on a romantic dinner for two. She pushes past him to get out of the coach first, jumping down onto the gravelled concrete instead of using the steps. She hits the ground so hard dust flies up, her face angry and resentful behind it as she strides off.
Others pass, everyone bright and happy, making their way into the next stage of our adventure.
Last off, after politely offering to let us go first and me equally politely declining is the Mystery Man. The Man in Black. He of the Big Boots and Backpack.
Of all the stories, of all the people-watching inspired fictions, his is possibly the most interesting. Even Harry – who has a strict policy of only ever reading sports autobiographies – has joined in.
All we actually know is that he is travelling alone, that he is European, and that he takes a lot of photographs. He doesn’t talk much to any of us, and because of this seems extremely fascinating. Harry’s theories thus far are that he is either an eccentric tech billionaire looking for anonymity, or a serial killer who has several women locked in his basement.
Mine have included him being on the run from a drugs cartel; on the run from an ex-wife; or on the run from theFBI. He’s definitely, somehow, on the run – but not from any of the above, I suspect. He is distant but courteous, silent but not rude, and carries with him an air of deep-frosted melancholy that makes me think he is on the run from something altogether less interesting, and altogether more sad.
He’s not very chatty though, so we’ll probably never find out. He will remain as the Mystery Man forever, I think, as I watch him set off into the distance, alone as usual.
‘Okay. Can we actually leave the coach now?’ Harry asks, not unreasonably.
I laugh, and nod, and he climbs out of the cushioned seat and stretches, his T-shirt riding up to expose a scattering of dark hair pluming a gym-toned stomach.
I wonder, as Jorge nods at me, smiling, what people make of us? What stories do they make up to match us? People-watching, I know, goes both ways.
On the surface we must look perfectly normal, perfectly happy – a young couple off on a dream holiday together. Harry is handsome and athletic-looking; I am adequate if not at all extraordinary. He has a well-paid job and all the trappings. I work as a teacher and love it. We have been together for eight years, having met and fallen in love in our first week at university.
We are edging towards the age when people start to ask about wedding bells ringing, where parents start to make small comments about grandchildren, where friends are throwing engagement parties or looking to move from the city and into a bigger house in the suburbs.
We are at the age where people see us as solid, united, committed. As the kind of couple who will take the next steps expected of them.
I wish we were that kind of couple. I wish I was that kind of woman. In all honesty, I’m not sure what I want any more. There’s been something simmering inside me this year; a tiny seed of discontent that is making me question this well-trodden path. Whether it’s the right one for me.
Whether, truth be told, Harry is the right one for me. I came on this holiday in the hope that it would heal us. That I would feel that magical spark again – that I would look at Harry and feel more than affection; that we would be bound together by more than history. That a different future – one I’m more than half considering – would be the wrong choice.
He jumps down the steps and immediately launches himself into an impromptu game of football with the little boys who were running alongside the coach. One of them kicks up a high ball, and Harry heads it so far away they all chase after it. Harry himself throws his arms up in the air and does a victory dance, like he’s just scored the winning penalty in the World Cup.
I smile, and follow him out into the sultry air of Santa Maria de Alto.
It’s hard not to like Harry. But is that enough?
Chapter 2
The village is small but perfectly formed. It is pretty, all soft yellows and golds as the setting sun casts its last rays across the red rooftops and mellow stone. Birds and insects loop and swoop through the sky, and my feet kick up little clouds of red earth as we walk. The air is still deliciously warm and, even as the light fades, I feel like I am being bathed in gentle heat. This is, I have learned, my favourite time of day in Mexico.
I look around at the small central plaza, dominated by a fountain that is lined with blue tiles. The square is edged by small homes, by a taverna that has set up tables and chairs outside, and by a strangely ornate church that casts a welcome shadow. The building seems far too grand for the village, a hint of a long-gone and more imposing past.
Today, the locals have organised a whole cottage industry to make the most of our visit. There are makeshift stalls set up selling leather bags and glazed pottery and jewellery that glints in the sun. There’s a tequila stand, lined up with glasses of liquor and rompope, and a large fridge stocked with soft drinks being manned by two teenaged boys.
A young woman with a baby beside her in a pushchair has a stall selling everything from touristy fans, cigarette lighters and fridge magnets to teddy bears and giant sombreros, as well as bowls of fresh fruit, pomegranates and strawberries glistening.
A group of women have set up a large open-air grill, and the smell is incredible. I didn’t even realise I was hungry until it hits me: garlic and spices and roasting meats. My mouth waters in response, and I wonder how long it is until dinner. Music is playing, and it feels like a good time is about to be had by all.
Harry takes my hand, the action so natural we don’t even think about it, and together we wander the streets of the village. There’s not much to it really – several small and winding passages that lead off from the square, pretty but lived in, with washing hanging from lines and air-conditioning units and terracotta pots full of plants and herbs.
I enjoy the shade and the quiet as we stroll, listening to Harry’s commentary as we go. Never knowingly caught without an opinion, Harry – but even he only has favourable ones so far. I can tell he’s enjoying it more than he expected.
‘Why does everyone in Mexico seem to support Chelsea?’ he asks, peering through a window and pointing out a club banner.
