Page 35 of The Layover
Which makes no sense, but she carries on in a gentle voice, ‘I thought maybe it was all in my head. Or – I suppose, maybe, part of me realised that my friendship with Marcus was obviously a bit more than that, and she saw it and was jealous and quite right to be standoffish and annoyed. But she’s never struck me as a …verywarmperson. She’s certainly never talked much about her family to make me think you were all particularly close. Marcus says she’s quite … exacting,’ she says, in that way that’s obviously more diplomatic than whatever he actually said. ‘And she can be a bit difficult and abrasive.’
Gemma has sunk back into her seat now, and grabs her coffee. ‘What else has he said about her?’
Francesca shrugs. ‘It’s just been a few remarks here and there. I’ve probably read too much into them.’
‘Likewhat?’ I demand.
‘Stuff like …’ Her eyes track to one side as she thinks. ‘If he’s working late, he’ll joke about how he’s got a girlfriend with expensive taste he’s got to look after, or if we all go for a drink after work sometimes he says heshouldget on home, but needs a break from her. It’s …’
Francesca frowns, squirming in her chair, then says quickly, ‘Actually, it’s all very nasty and misogynistic, and they all join in about it, but I’ve always told myself it’s just that he’s settled for her and it’d be different if he was with someone he really cared about.’
‘A fixer-upper,’ Gemma says, nodding, then spits, ‘Pig.’
I grunt in agreement, not quite trusting myself to form a coherent word. Francesca’s comments about Marcus are hardly a revelation. The problem wasn’t that he acted like Kay needed to be some stay-at-home wife with no life of her own, it was that she was suddenly doing things like hiring cleaners that she did nothing but complain about for ‘not doing their job well enough’, then scrunching up her nose when we’d ask why she and Marcus didn’t just tackle the housework themselves if it was causing such an issue.
That Kayleigh sounds more like the one Gemma’s been talking about.
The one that, apparently, Francesca has witnessed too.
I press my fingertips to my eyes, rubbing them hard. There’s a headache throbbing at the front of my skull and suddenly the clamour of the airport comes pouring in. Scraping trays and squeaky wheels and chaotic footfalls, dinging phones and beeping tills and voices placing orders and chattering blithely and complaining about delays.
How can the rest of the world be carrying on like normal, when everything has changed?
I drag my head back up, and my eyes go straight out to the concourse and high ceiling and billboards beyond the edge of the balcony where the food court is. A mirrored tower rotates slowly there. And somewhere past all of that, outside, there’s a storm raging on, keeping us all stuck here.
Fifteen hours until the ceremony suddenly doesn’t feel long enough.
Chapter Eighteen
Francesca
Leon falls quiet, and Gemma’s tirade is over – for now. She looks like she has a lot more to say, but she also looks exhausted. Ashen and limp, worn out by her own explosion.
I can’t blame her; I feel pretty wrung out, too.
This confrontation has been so emotionally draining, such a rollercoaster of revelations, I think we need this beat of quiet to take a breather and digest it all.
The airport around us is noisy, chock-full of people waiting miserably and impatiently for flights. There’s a clatter a short way off, and I glance over to notice a tall, broad young man tripping over a barstool, spilling half of his beer as he does so. He must be on a lads’ holiday or something. There’s a streak of silver glitter in his gelled hair. Elsewhere, there’s a group of people in gimmicky T-shirts, obviously on some sort of stag or hen do, laughing too loudly; at the table across from us a ginger man and woman sit close, ignoring each other in favour of their phones. They look so alike, right down to their mannerisms as they swipe and type, theyhaveto be related.
Gemma has slumped in the booth, legs and arms splayed out, frowning at a spot on the table, eyes tracking slightly back and forth as she thinks over something. Between us, Leon sits rigid and awkward in his seat, mouth slack, apparently contending with the fact that his sister isn’t the person he thought she was– and that maybe Marcus isn’t the villain he believed him to be, too.
My body tingles with that pins-and-needles numbness. It makes me feel both detached and grounded, all at once; not quite myself, but too sharp to ignore.
And my mind is spinning so fast I’m not even surewhatI’m thinking.
This is the first time I’ve properly been able totellanybody what’s going on with me and Marcus, all the complicated dynamics and nuances at play. The gang from uni would probably have staged an intervention long ago if they thought I was seriously pursuing a man who was engaged, and I suddenly suspect they might accuse him of ‘breadcrumbing’ and whatever else, like Gemma did. And my family … Gosh, I don’t think they would ever look at me the same way if they knew the truth.
There’s just … there’s a lot of layers. There’s so much to it they could never really understand.
At the very least, it’s a relief to finally get it off my chest.
It’s certainly a bit reassuring to learn that Kayleigh reallyisn’tsuch a good person. I know it doesn’t excuse my own behaviour with Marcus, but at least it confirms my belief that he can’t truly be happy with her and I’m doing the right thing.
But then …
Am I really? What ifthey’reright? What ifI’mno better than Leon seeing Kayleigh through rose-tinted glasses, refusing to see all those bad traits? What if it’s not because he’s unhappy with Kayleigh, and Marcus really is that person, too?
And worse – what if he’s been showing me who he really is all along, stringing me along with the bare minimum like Gemma said? Have I been misreading everything this entire time, seeing only what I want to?
