Page 37 of The Layover
I laugh. ‘How very Nesta Archeron of you.’
Gemma blinks, dropping the finger and expression both, but before I can explain it’s a reference to a book, she grins. ‘I knew I was going to like you, Fran. Dubious taste in men, fabulous taste in book boyfriends. Right!’ She slaps the table and pushes herself to her feet. ‘I don’t know about you two, but I don’t think I can stand to stay here much longer wallowing in … whatever this whole mess is. If I’m going to be stuck at an airport, I mightas well try eighteen different perfumes in duty free. I’m going shopping. Are you coming?’
Leon grumbles incoherently, but manages to shake his head behind his hands. I nod, although I’m still trying to contend with the whiplash of Gemma saying ‘someone likeyou’ and then declaring she likes me because I made a reference to a romantasy novel.
She’s right, though. I’d rather mooch around some shops for a while instead of sitting here in our strange, sad, angry little trio, hashing over a wedding none of us are very happy about.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask Leon gently.
‘Yeah. Yeah, you guys go ahead. I’ll … hold the fort here, or whatever. I just need to think about this a little, that’s all.’
‘Take your time,’ I say, but I wonder if part of him would rather avoid me for the next several hours until the wedding. Maybe he’s hoping that because I’ll talk to Marcus, he can blame everything on the two of us, and it’ll soften the blow of such a confrontation with Kayleigh for him. I wouldn’t blame him.
Gemma grabs her handbag and I pick up my tote, slinging it over my shoulder. She gives Leon’s shoulders a fond squeeze as she scoots past him.
‘Here if you need more Kayleigh slander to uproot your worldview, buddy.’
‘Is that meant to be reassuring?’ he mutters. ‘Because it really isn’t.’
Gemma laughs, though, like it’s all a great joke, and I murmur a goodbye to Leon as I follow her out of the food court, the two of us stepping onto the escalator down. Below us, the airport opens up. It’s not a very big terminal and the shops are all in a round. The few rows of seats are packed to bursting with impatient, tired travellers waiting out the storm. People are even camped out on the floor, clustered around plug points to charge their phones.
The change in scenery offers some breathing space, and helps my head feel a little bit clearer.
At the bottom of the stairs, Gemma steps off first then waits for me, and winds her arm through mine, linking us at the elbows like schoolgirls.
‘Come on, Fran,’ she says brightly, and seems perfectly sincere. ‘Let’s go shopping!’
Time until ‘I Do’
15 hours
Chapter Nineteen
Gemma
We were all in such a daze earlier from our unscheduled layover that we rushed through duty free, and I hardly got a look at anything. It’s the best part of the airport experience, if you ask me. All these lovely products and perfumes waiting to be admired and sampled, a white-lit haven of decadence and extravagance just begging you to slow down and browse andindulge. It’s a really lovely juxtaposition when you’re racing to grab a coffee before they close the gate for your flight.
Although now I think about it, that rush to the plane is probablybecauseI linger too long in duty free.
We pass straight through the overpriced chocolates and the little foodie section, past the bizarrely placed vintage cherry-red Mini beneath a display of red, white and blue umbrellas hanging open from the ceiling and with a cursive neon ‘Ohlala’on the roof, and past the booze which is, for some mind-boggling reason, always near the sunglasses.
I point that out aloud, and Fran says, ‘I think it goes well together. Buy a litre of vodka dirt-cheap, and a pair of sunglasses to hide your hangover the next day.’
I laugh. She’s not nearly as boring as I thought she was going to be. Then again,nobodywho’s scheming to steal someone else’s man while looking as innocent as she does can ever betrulydull, I suppose.
Once we’re back at the beginning, near signs informing us in very loud, large letters, NO ENTRY PAST THIS POINT as it’ll lead back to the security check, I pause and turn, and taking a deep, centring breath.
The brands spread out before us, and there’s something delightfully French and sophisticated about the whole thing that I’m only just getting to appreciate. I mean, there arechandeliershanging from the ceiling! How very Versailles. There’s the usual Kiehl’s, Clinique, Dior, Jo Malone – but there’s also a neat little Cartier stand, a collection of Diptyque candles I cannotwaitto get my nose into, a whole section dedicated to travel minis that are a cut aboveanythingBoots would be selling in their holiday section, and even—
‘Is that …’ Fran pauses, squinting, as if she can’t quite believe it either. ‘A Victoria’s Secret? In anairport?’
‘When in France,’ I say, and add it to my mental list of things to peruse, then set off. Fran follows. She’s got a real puppy-dog energy about her, trailing around with those big eyes, a bit skittish and a bit over-eager. I don’t hate it. I’m sure I remember hearing at some point that she’s a couple of years older than me and Kayleigh, but I bet this is what it’s like having a little sister.
The two of us work our way methodically around the cosmetics and beauty stands, not really talking as we rub tiny blobs of face cream onto the backs of our hands or read the details on bottles of toner. There’s some pop music playing through the speakers, and I hum along.
I love shopping.
Well – I love the browsing part. I lovewindow shopping. The whole ritual of curating a wish list in my mind of what I’m going to spend my money on, what’s worth it that I’ll feel reallygoodabout.
