Page 15 of The Layover
‘You’re the work wife.’
She blushed, earlier, when Gemma said it. I noticed. But now, she reels back a little, as if the words are a physical blow.
‘We’re friends,’ she reiterates, but even she doesn’t sound very sure about that now.
‘Right. And I’m Leon. The bride’s brother. There – introductions done, we’re off on the right foot. Better?’
The words come out sharper, meaner, than I’m used to hearing myself talk, and she looks a little hurt by it, but that only solidifies something that’s unfurled in my chest. I’ve never been the protective big-brother type when it comes to Kay. Even if I’m older by four years, she always acted like the elder sibling. She was loud and bright and brave, and I … mostly just faded into the background. Coasted along in her shadow.
But God, if Francesca isn’t bringing that out in me now. I think it has more to do with my dislike of Marcus than a protectiveness over Kay, but that’s something to deal with later.
Or, you know, never.
Maybe Francescaisjust his friend. Maybe she really doesn’t see anything wrong with it. Maybe she thinks she’s just here to support a mate and celebrate his wedding, and doesn’t know the impact she’s had, how much Kay sweeps it under the rug.
She swallows, hard. I hear it. She closes her mouth where it’s parted into an ‘O’ of shock, and lifts her chin. I hear the sharpness of her inhale. Her eyes – the ones which were so wide and shining just a second ago, like she was about to cry – turn icy. They’re pale blue, I notice. Almost grey.
Even though she doesn’t say anything else, I get the message loud and clear:Fine, if that’s how you want to be. Fine.
I don’t bother to apologise.
Chapter Nine
Francesca
Quite honestly, I would be perfectly happy to take my cup of tea and hole up somewhere far, far away – or as far away as I can get in a compact airport terminal for nine hours – from Kayleigh’s awful brother and her intimidating best friend, and pass the time until the flight with my Kindle, daydreaming about what I’m going to say to Marcus when I see him, how he’ll react, whathe’llsay …
He calls me his ‘work wife’.
Hetalks about me.
That has to mean something, doesn’t it?
But I can’t just run away – not least because I have the maid of honour’s coffee, and she has all my bags.
So I go back to the table she secured and pop our drinks down.
‘One oat milk flat white, extra vanilla,’ I confirm.
‘Ooh, you are a star!’ Gemma wraps both hands around the paper cup, pulling it towards her and making an appreciative noise as she inhales the sweet-scented steam. She doesn’t mention paying me back for it, and I’m not sure how to ask without sounding rude, but I suppose it was only a couple of quid. It’s alright.
She taps her phone screen, which has a bunch of notifications showing, but apparently not the one she wants to see. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard from Marcus, have you?’
‘No.’
I texted him while we were in the queue for security, letting him know about the change of plans. I was meant to be joining him and the groomsmen and a couple of others for some drinks after dinner, but I definitely won’t make that now. I reassured him that I’d be there soon, though, and wished him a fun night with everybody.
Gemma clicks her tongue. ‘Damn. And Kayleigh’s phone is off. They’ll be doing cocktail hour before dinner, at this point … Oh, well. They’ll find out soon enough, won’t they! Nothing to do about it now.’
I give a little laugh, but it comes out nervous and awkward. Gemma is polite enough to pretend she doesn’t notice and just keeps smiling at me.
I’m not sure what to make of her. She’s constantly plastered all over Kayleigh’s social media – they’ve been friends since they were preteens, all through school, even getting jobs at the same company and living together. They’reinseparable. And they’re always out at bars or cool gigs or hosting glam little dinner parties, living their best lives.
Gemma is as striking in real life as she is online. Coppery-auburn hair in a choppy, chin-length cut and in artful waves – I honestly can’t tell if they’re natural or if they took her two hours with a Dyson Airwrap; glasses with thin, octagonal frames that she make look chic and fashionable, and a glowing complexion. I don’t think she’s even wearing any makeup right now. She’s notpretty, exactly, but she oozes confidence and charisma in a way I only wish I could. This is a woman who knows exactly who she is, and wants to make sure everybody else knows it, too.
But her smile looks sharp. Dangerous, somehow, and maybe a little bit fake. I don’t think those eyes miss a thing, for all the blank, casual expression on her face.
It’s like, for a second, she can see right through me. Like sheknowswhy I’m really here, what I’m planning to do.
