Page 45 of The Layover

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I wonder how itactuallyplayed out. How much is in her head that she’s romanticised, and how much Marcus actuallywasinvested in her until that point. I don’t suppose it matters anyway. Knowing him as I do – and from what I’ve seen of Fran – they’re hardly a match. He’d walk all over her, and she’d let him, happily.

Kind of like someone else I know, with her bestie.

I get the sudden urge to grab Fran by the shoulders, to shake her, to shout in her face,Can’t you see he’s playing you? Don’t you know what a fool you’re making of yourself? He doesn’t love you, he never will; he’ll use you and take and take and take and you’ll kill yourself trying to live up to some impossible expectation and count yourself lucky he even looks twice at you. Don’t you know you’re worth more than that? Don’t you want to be worth more than that?

But I don’t say any of that, obviously.

I’m not sure if it’d be directed more at Francesca or at me, and neither of us wants to hear it right now.

So instead, I reach inside Marcus’s horrible jacket she’s decorated with her adorable, dorky collection of pins, and pinch her blouse so it fits tighter to her body, and then start having a proper look for something for her to wear. A cute babydoll, maybe. Definitely a hot bikini. I bet she’s packed a one-piece she found in the Tesco sporty section years ago, or something.

Fran trails after me, lets me paw through pieces and suggest them for her, and it’s only once I’m holding up a matching set and a really cute nightie that she blanches and recoils.

‘Oh, Gemma, it’s really nice of you to try to help me out, but I’m not actually buying anything, remember? I don’t need … Imean, I’m not going to … Boys don’t evennoticehalf the time, do they? Is that really the sort of thing Marcus would like?’

With that last comment, she reaches out to touch the butter-soft silk of the nightie, and I roll my eyes.

‘Fran, this isn’t for Marcus. It’s not about whathelikes. It’s not for anyman. The whole point of this kind of stuff is to makeyoufeel good. Soyoufeel sexy and confident. Not sohethinks you are.’

‘I guess I’ve … never really thought about it that way.’

‘Sure you haven’t,’ I say, and when she frowns quizzically up at me I add, ‘You stick to your comfort zone. Probably a raging people pleaser, too.’

She cringes, but manages a laugh in spite of herself. ‘Guilty as charged.’

I toss the clothes onto the top of a display of pyjama sets to grab Fran lightly by the shoulders. And I do give her a little shake, but just a gentle one.

‘Girl, I don’t know what your deal is, but you’vegotto start putting yourself at the centre of your story. Stop being some sidekick in the background of someone else’s. For God’s sake, you’re on your way to Barcelona to break up the wedding of the man you love! If you’re going to act like the main character of a romance movie, you should start believing it about yourself.’

Fran’s eyebrows bunch and her lips purse, but not like she’s going to argue.

Like she’s heard me, is internalising it, letting it take root.

‘I do always try to fade into the background and just … go with the flow,’ she murmurs, then gives me an accusatory squint which she softens with another laugh. ‘You’re very good at reading people, Gemma, d’you know that?’

‘Yes, I do.’

I’m just not very good at listening to my own advice is all.

Trying to lighten the mood a little – and because I’m kind of curious – I ask her, ‘Was Marcus really that good in bed you spent the best part oftwo yearspining after him? I mean, Kayleigh obviously thinks he’s great, but personally, I have my doubts. Doesn’t strike me as a guy who makes sureyoufinish too, you know what I mean?’

Fran sputters, blushing again, and I wonder if it’s because we’re talking about Marcus or talking about sex in general. Is this a confidence thing, or, like, a Catholic guilt thing? Although saying that, I’m pretty sure I remember hearing that she grew up with Buddhist parents …

She mumbles something, so quiet I don’t have a hope in hell of hearing it even if duty free were dead silent instead of pumping Ariana Grande through the speakers. There’s a redhead girl nearby looking at some bras, and some people in gimmicky stag/hen do T-shirts loitering by the sunglasses. Fran looks around, as if scared they can all hear our conversation.

‘Say again?’

But all I get is another incoherent mutter.

‘Fran, I swear to God, if you—’

‘I said we never actually had sex!’ she yells, and my tongue makes a loudpopagainst the roof of my mouth as my jaw drops. She’s beet red andeverybodyis staring, but she squares her shoulders. The redhead raises her eyebrows and turns away, but I think she’s probably eavesdropping like hell. At a more conversational level, Fran tells me, ‘We kissed, and he stayed the night, but we didn’t do anything except kiss and cuddle and talk. That’s what I mean when I say it wasn’t some one-night stand. It was so muchmorethan that. I’ve never had that sort of thing with anybody before. It was so romantic and intimate in a way I’ve never known sex be. Does that make sense?’

It does, and my heart goes out to her – but in that same way as when Leon admitted why he’d take on the responsibility ofconfronting Kayleigh, to spare the rest of his family losing her. It makes sense, but it’s not something I can truly relate to.

I’ve … never had that.

I think, if I had, I’d want to fight for it, too.