Page 20 of The Layover
The only common ground we have is Marcus, and I’mreallynot interested in talking about him right now. Especially not with someone who, I’d be willing to bet, thinks the sun shines out of his arse.
I don’t even know why she’s coming to the wedding. Marcus invited a few of his mates from work to the wedding, so maybe he genuinely felt like hehadto include her, but …
The whole thing just feelsoff.
I get my notebook out, pretend to focus on it, but the words swim on the page. It’s three sides of scrawl about what a prat Marcus is, how Kay deserves better, a very muchnon-exhaustive list of occasions he’s been rude to the family or affects Kay’s behaviour and she seems not so much like her usual bubbly self …
Kay’s always been well liked. People flock to her – and to Gemma, too. They both have that kind of charisma that draws people in. But while Gemma can be a bit blunt and snarky, Kay’s got that softer, sweeter edge. She’s always been like it; and then Marcus came on the scene and suddenly it was all about him, and their life in London, and her social circle, and her Instagram, and getting therightthrow pillows and therightgin glasses; and things like that were more important than making time to come home to see her family.
And when she did, she’d be the Kay we all knew and loved, but there would be these flickers of someone else. Some stranger who turned her nose up at Mum’s coat or ignored Dad when he tried to talk to her about a new album he’d been listening to, who sat down to a lamb roast and waxed lyrical instead about the fancy lamb shank at a posh restaurant they’d been to recently, and didn’t clear her plate when she used to ask for a slice of bread to mop up every last drop of gravy.
She calls, sure. She checks in. Even remembers, sometimes, to ask how Dad’s doing. She makes vague plans to visit, promises she’ll be home soon, swaps links to clothes and beauty products with our little sister Myleene … But she never bothered to visit Nana, all that time she was ill. Her plans would always fall through at the last minute, laden with apologies and excuses, and it’dsoundlike Kay, except we all knew it didn’t, not really.
Being with Marcus … It’s not good for her. It’s turned her into someone else. Someone none of us recognise.
Nana’s voice rings loud and clear in my memory. It’s so vivid, I can almost feel her frail hand gripping mine, hard enough to hurt.
‘It’s up to you to look after them, you realise that, don’t you? I won’t be around forever. Your mother’s an avoider and Kay is too flighty, and Myleene’s too young. And your poor dad … You’re going to have to step up, Leon. You’re going to have to take care of this family.’
Nana wouldn’t have let it get this far. She would’ve stepped in, done something, tried to piece this family back together before it fractured for good.
I thumb through the pages. Can I really say all this to Kayleigh?
And the fact this doesn’t even skim the surface …
‘Is that your speech?’ Francesca asks, her tone pleasant and friendly in a way that she has no right to be. She’s smiling, doing that thing where her head is tipped slightly to one side. I get the sense she’s trying to offer an olive branch.
I close the notebook before she can see, keep my palm on top of it. ‘No.’
‘Oh. I just thought … I mean, Marcus mentioned you’d be giving a speech instead of Kayleigh’s dad, because he didn’t want to—’
‘He gets stage fright. And he’s not well. It’s not that he doesn’t want to.’
‘Oh! Well, that’s …’ She fumbles, falters, tries again. I grit my teeth, wishing she’d shut up. Wereallydon’t have to pretend to be polite, here. We just have to … coexist. In silence, preferably. ‘That’s very generous of you to step in.’
‘Kay asked me to.’
Her smile strains around the edges, muscles quivering in her cheeks with the effort to keep it in place. ‘So have you got yourspeech sorted? If that’s not it, I mean. How are you feeling about it?’
‘Fine.’ I still have to write the damn thing, hopefully won’t even need it at all, but … ‘It’s fine.’
She nods, looking a bit put out, but unfortunately for me, not entirely deterred. Then she points at my bag and says, ‘You must travel a lot.’
‘Huh? Oh …’ I see what she’s noticed: all the patches sewn into the bag, covering the front, the strap. It’s not so different to the pins all over her denim jacket, except – ‘It’s my dad’s. They’re his. He used to travel a lot. It’s … This is his bag.’
She smiles, a little brighter this time. Her head ticks sideways towards her shoulder. God, I wish I didn’t find that so endearing. ‘Do you have the travel bug too?’
‘Um … I don’t really get to go anywhere these days. This is probably the first time I’ve been abroad since …’ Since the early days of Dad’s diagnosis. Since my parents’ holiday budget had got redirected into adapting the house for him, or the occasional burst of private medical care. I clear my throat. ‘Not for a long while.’
‘A bit of a homebody?’ she guesses, and it’s grating, howinterestedshe sounds, howgenuineit feels.
‘Not really. Well, sort of.’ I’ve got nothing against travel, but it’s hard to commit to going away when I’m constantly worried that I might be needed at home – that something will happen, and I won’t be there to help, to make it easier for the rest of them. Francesca, watching me with a patient smile and wide eyes, looks so engaged with the conversation that I almost want to blurt it all out. I swallow the urge and settle for saying, ‘I’ve got too much keeping me here.’
‘Oh! Oh, do you have a partner? Children?’
‘No.’ I scowl; I don’t have a girlfriend for the same reason I don’t travel, when it comes down to it.
I must be curt enough that she finally gives up on her attempts to make small talk, and we lapse into a silence I’m grateful for. My skin is prickling, the discomfort of that subject like a physical itch.
