Page 14 of The Layover
‘A cup of tea does sound good right about now,’ Francesca murmurs.
Gemma is nodding along fiercely. ‘Yes! Perfect. Definitely what the doctor ordered. Come on, let’s go find some seats before the whole terminal is full. Set up camp!’
She strides off towards the escalator to our right, where there are big signs pointing to the food court, and Francesca is already following.
‘It wasn’t an invitation,’ I say, even though neither of them hears me.
I trudge after them; it’s not like I’ve got much choice.
Upstairs is busy. The seating area is clustered in the centre of the space, essentially on a wide balcony overlooking the main concourse. The booths are an orangey leather and there are stools upholstered in pale green velvet, and some of the tables have entire trees growing up through the middle of them. It’s actually a lot less pathetic-looking than I’d expect for an airport food court.
It’s still a far cry from the white-and-gold glamour of Kayleigh’s wedding venue.
Most of the tables and seats are taken; everybody who’s already here has clearly had the same idea as us, but Gemma makes a beeline for the centre, weaving deftly between the crowded tables and finding an empty one for us. It’s small, only intended for two, but she snags an empty chair from nearby and whirls it into place for us before throwing her coat over it, marking our territory.
Francesca and I are a lot less nimble on our way to join her. I hear her muttering, ‘Sorry, sorry, excuse me,’ behind me, and my suitcase keeps catching on the legs of people’s chairs. I make sure to keep my satchel tucked in close, where it won’t catch on Francesca’s jacket again.
We all arrange our suitcases on the empty side of the table, Gemma collecting them neatly together before beaming up at us both from where she’s tucked into the booth.
‘I’ll have a flat white, oat milk – and two shots of vanilla syrup, if they have it.’
Oh, great, so I suppose one of us is buying her drink, then.
‘And if they don’t?’ Francesca says, but Gemma only laughs. Francesca heads over to the counter in the corner where they’re selling sandwiches and coffees, and I’m once again left with no choice but to follow. It’s not as if I’m going to expect her to buy my drink, too.
Francesca pauses to browse the case of pastries near the tills. A middle-aged man who’s just paid turns, attention fully on his phone, and walks straight into her. He must stand on her foot – hard – because she jumps away with a pained expression.
‘Oi,’ he barks. ‘Watch where you’re going.’
I scowl; what a douchebag.
But Francesca only mumbles, ‘I’m so sorry, I was just—’
‘Not bloody paying attention!’ Hetsks, noisily, and marches off to wait at the end of the counter for his drink – immediately burying his nose back in his phone. I almost say something myself when, instead of calling the hypocrite out, Francesca just bows her head and takes it, scurrying to the back of the queue.
I’m not sure what I thought was going to happen. I’ve got Kayleigh’s voice in my head calling her manipulative, a harpy. Did I think she was … what, going toseducehim into apologising?
Obviously not, but … That meek wallflower behaviour doesn’t exactly scream ‘man-stealing harlot’.
Even as I join the queue right behind her, I try to hang back. I look at the sandwiches in the open-front fridge (none of which look hugely appealing) trying to look busy, but Francesca is staring hard at me. It’s like a physicalthing, laser beams driving into my skull that are impossible to ignore for too long.
So, eventually, I give up, and ask her, ‘What?’
‘I think we got off on the wrong foot.’
‘What?’
She clasps her hands in front of her, her purse and phone held between them. The purse is battered, old, a faded navy leather. Her phone case is the clear plastic kind with pressed flowers in. Actually, her whole look is … eclectically mismatched. I can see the enamel badges crowded on her denim jacket in more detail now – one that’s a pink and white stack of books, one saying something I can’t read in swirly writing, an astrological sign, a yellow tulip, a video-game character, a red and white mushroom with a cutesy face, a Taylor Swift one. I wonder if she’s collected them lovingly over the years, gifts from friends, or if it’s all just tolook‘quirky’, in that way female characters do sometimes in movies. Try-hard, fake, alluring for being so off-beat and ‘not like other girls’.
That would check, knowing what I do about her.
‘I think we got off on the wrong foot,’ she repeats. ‘On the plane. Or in the queue downstairs. Maybe both?’ Her voice goes up more than it should with the inflection of the question – nerves, I think. She bites her lip, then stops, then tries to smile. Her head cocks slightly to the side as she does so, which some distant corner of my brain registers as cute. Or annoying. That’s yet to be seen.
She goes to say something else, but I cut her off.
‘You’re Marcus’s friend from work. Francesca.’
‘Actually, we’re very good friends outside of the office, we’re—’
