Page 47 of The Layover
‘Yes, Leon, tell us.’ Gemma is grinning at me. ‘Whatdoyou mean?’
I grumble a half-hearted, ‘Oh, sod off.’
But Francesca catches my eye and blushes before she looks away. Her lips curve into a smile, and her head does that thing where it ticks slightly to one side. I clear my throat. Gemma watches the whole exchange – if you can even call it that – with bright eyes. I’m sure she’s seeing something I’m not, like with Marcus and Francesca’s text thread. I think I have some idea what it might be, but feel so ridiculous I don’t even entertain it.
Sheisobjectively very pretty, that’s all. And who wouldn’t turn heads, walking into a wedding in their underwear?
I grit my teeth, feeling like an idiot. Far more than the clumsy oaf who knocked over half of duty free.
Speaking of clumsy oafs, though, we all turn to look at the sound of someone falling over. It’s some kid, a beefy guy in his very early twenties, who just went careening right over the staff crouched on the floor picking upmymess. He’s in a rumpled T-shirt and his hair is stuck on end with a shiny silver streak in it, like he’s been to a rave. A box of perfume and a necklace and a sparkly thing with a Victoria’s Secret label hanging off it all goes spilling out of his hands.
‘Found the target market for that thong,’ Gemma is joking to Francesca behind me. ‘Twenty-one-year-old boys trying to impress the girl they’re seeing.’
‘That poor girl,’ Francesca deadpans.
‘Attention shoppers,’ comes a voice above, and thank God, I’m saved by the Tannoy before they start talking about lingerie again. ‘Duty free will be closing soon. Please complete your purchases and proceed to the terminal. Thank you.’
It repeats in French, but Francesca gasps out loud, alarmed.
‘Girl, chill,’ Gemma says, checking her phone. ‘We’ve got time. Did you want to go back to look at the shampoo?’
‘No, it’s not that, I just … We haven’t got any food! What ifeverywherecloses?’
‘Damn, that’s a good point,’ I say. ‘I missed dinner in all the chaos … You guys must’ve, too. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’ll be getting a good night’s sleep on the airport floor to wait it out until morning. We should at least get some snacks, a couple of drinks.’
‘Oh, and we’ve got those vouchers they gave us! The compensation for the delay …’ Francesca pulls a sheet of paper out of her bag. One that each of us have – twenty-five euros tospend in the terminal. ‘I didn’t want to use it on the coffees in case they took it away and we lost the leftover money on it. We can use those! There was that pizza place upstairs, we could get some of that, maybe, to all share? You can’t go wrong with cold pizza, can you?’
Gemma claps her hands, swivelling to box the three of us in together like we’re in a scrum, and she’s our coach.
‘Alright, gang, here’s the plan. We’re T-minus …’ A quick time-check. ‘Eight hours until our flight. If we all chuck in an extra twenty-five euros or so, we should be set through till breakfast. Fran, you’re on snack duty. Leon, you’re on sustenance and soft drinks. I will take drinks and desserts.’
‘I thought you just said I was getting the drinks?’
Gemma gives me a deadpan look over the top of her glasses, and pushes them up her nose. ‘Sweetie, if you think I’m staying in this godforsaken place all night and not getting at least a bit buzzed, you’re sadly mistaken. And Iknowyou’re on board, because I can smell that beer on your breath. Fran, hon, are you in? No pressure. You can be our sober lookout to make sure we don’t miss the flight, otherwise.’
Francesca clutches her Victoria’s Secret haul even closer to her chest. ‘A little liquid courage can’t hurt, can it?’
Gemma beams. ‘That’s the spirit!Literally, lol. Alright, go team! Meet you out by the escalators in thirty minutes.’
With that, she strides off, and Francesca and I both watch as she heads directly for the alcohol section a few feet away, snatching up a litre bottle of Malibu and a litre of vodka without even pausing.
‘Looks like we’re going to be in for quite a night,’ I say.
Francesca laughs. ‘I’ll drink to that!’
Chapter Twenty-four
Francesca
Leon and I both end up in the Relay, which seems to be the European equivalent of a WHSmith – there are stacks of books and rows of magazines, plenty of snack foods and meal deals, and all sorts of paraphernalia. Most of it is emblazoned with the French flag.
I pick up a toothbrush. The entire handle is the Eiffel Tower. ‘Do people actually buy this stuff?’
‘What, you mean you don’t have a collection of popular tourist monuments from across the world in the form of a toothbrush? The Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Statue of Liberty, Big Ben?’
I set it back on the shelf. ‘You’d have to be a very dedicated collector for that.’
Leon casts a pointed look at the pins covering my coat, and I roll my eyes.
