Page 13 of The Layover
Isthis an omen? Stuck halfway to Barcelona until the morning, caught in a storm. It’s got to be.
But an omen against what? The wedding? Or the talk I suddenly planned to have with my sister?
I look at the board again like it holds all the answers, but it just says the same thing.
DELAYED.
It’s not good news, obviously, but it could be worse. Like, not getting there in time for the ceremony at all.
I must say it out loud, because Gemma snorts. ‘I told her it was a bad idea to have the ceremony at ten thirty in themorning, but she was adamant. She justhadto have so much time scheduled for photographs …’
‘Oh,’ Francesca says, ‘that explains it. I did wonder about it being quite so early.’
I’m hardly listening to either of them, though, trying to mentally calculate ahead. It’s almost two hours from here to Barcelona, it’ll take – what, thirty minutes? An hour? – to get through passport control, then it’s atleastan hour’s drive to the venue …
It’s cutting it close for me to find time to talk to Kay before she starts getting ready for the wedding. To sit her down and ask if she’sreallysure about this,reallysure about him.
It’s a fine line to walk – voicing concern enough to give her an out if she wants to take it, without making her feel like we’ll all judge her if she chooses Marcus – but now, at least, I’ve got time to think about it. Really hone what I want to say. What weallshould have said a long time ago.
It won’t givehermuch time to think about it, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. Nothing I can do about any of this, except wait.
Obviously, Gemma’s freaking out. She’s the maid of honour. She’s got aroleto play, things to do. Kay’s running a tight ship with this wedding, and Gemma’s been involved inallof it.
I’m not saying Gemma took over as if it was her own wedding. Or at least, I’m not saying thatto her face.
So, she’s probably got tasks to complete, people to oversee. She’s probably mad she’s missing out and can’t swoop in and take over, too, but I won’t dare voice that either.
I don’t know why Francesca’s all worked up, though. She looks ready to cry, or hyperventilate – so much so that I have this weird urge to reassure her. I push that aside, though. She’s not my friend; she’sdefinitelynot Kayleigh’s friend.
It’s just a mate’s wedding, I want to tell her,calm down already. You’ll make it.
Unless …
She mentioned ‘a guy’ to the air stewardess on the flight. She can’t mean Marcus, can she? Alarm bells start ringing in my head – I remember Kayleigh calling her an interfering harpy, her voice a little too shrill to let us believe it’s some silly little joke. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Francescadidn’tmake it? Kay would probably prefer it if Marcus’s work wife wasn’t, you know, there with hisactualwife.
She doesn’t look like much of a harpy. But she must be, or else why would Kay be so bothered – sothreatened– by her?
Is Marcus actually oblivious, or just choosing to be?
Is Francesca? Doesn’t sheknowwhat she’s doing? Some ‘best friend’ of the groom she is, when the only time she’s ever mentioned is when Marcus is cracking a joke about his work wife and Kay’s eye twitches as she tries to laugh along.
I look at Francesca as if the answers will be written all over her face. Like there’ll be the word ‘HOMEWRECKER’ in scarlet lipstick across her forehead.
Which there isn’t, of course, and she glances over like she can feel my gaze on her, and jolts a little at whatever expression is on my face. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s writing onmyface that says ‘I DON’T TRUST YOU’, at this point.
She frowns back at me, big eyes narrowing.
‘How,’ Gemma demands, stealing both our attention, ‘has our flight been delayedalready, in the time it took for us to get through security? This is actual madness. This is not happening. What are we supposed todohere for the next nine hours!’ she cries.
And she’s looking at me. More specifically, between me and Francesca, as if we’re all buddies now, all in this together. Theonly reason we’ve not parted ways yet is because she’s still holding onto all the boarding passes and food vouchers.
The need to be in control is something she and Kayleigh share. It’s not hard to see why they’re such good friends. They’re alike in a lot of ways.
I don’t know why she’s looking at me – us – like we’ve got the answers.
The sheaf of papers is still pinched between her thumb and forefinger, hanging at her side where her arms are folded, and I reach out to take them, divvying the pile into three and handing them out.
I say, ‘I don’t know about you guys, but I figure I’ll set myself up with a cup of tea and find a seat somewhere. We’re going to be in for a long wait, and that’s if we’re not delayed any more than we already are.’
