Page 48 of The Layover
‘Yes,alright.’
He laughs, a low rumbling sound from behind closed lips as he carries on walking into the shop. At least he seems in a better mood compared to earlier. I’m not sure he’s truly on board with the idea of Marcus leaving Kayleigh for me; he must be at least a bit relieved that he won’t have to have that awful confrontation with his sister now though?
We don’t have long until the shops close, and most of the shelves have been thoroughly pillaged already; it’s no surprise, when there must be hundreds of stranded travellers waiting around. A couple of flights have been called as far as the gate since Gemma and I set off to roam around duty free, but they’ve yet to board and actually depart. It doesn’t bode very well for us, but the man at the front deskdidsay it would be a few hours before the storm cleared.
I’m sure it’ll be fine.
I have to believe it will be. I have to channel the same confidence that drove me to buy some underwear I’d never normally even consider, and that bold lipstick.That’sthe sort of girl who gets her flight in the nick of time to stop the man she loves from marrying the wrong person.
While Leon heads over to the fridges to see what they have left, I gather some Milka biscuits, a tube of Pringles, and a handful of oat bars; we might be glad of them come six a.m. when we’re all exhausted and waiting at passport control in Barcelona, wishing we had time for breakfast before the wedding.
I’m in the queue at the till behind several frazzled and tired-looking people who are stocking up on some last-minute supplies like we are. It’s mostly men. Dads, it looks like. There’s five of them all in a row, shoulders slumped and phones out and arms full of packets of food and precariously balanced drinks, in skinny jeans and wearing AirPods. It’s such a ‘glitch in the Matrix’ moment I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. My shoulders shake with the effort, and I wish my hands weren’t so full, so I could grab a photo.
‘Hey, um, I forgot to ask you …’
Leon comes up beside me, but trails off immediately, looking at the queue in front.
He leans sideways into me, bending to mumble near my ear, ‘Do you think they all know they’re being real “Dad at the airport” stereotypes right now? I kind of want to make them line up and sing that Backstreet Boys song like inBrooklyn Nine-Nine.’
The laughter finally bursts out of me, and I’m so busy trying to keep hold of the Pringles tube, knowing they’ll smash to bits otherwise, that I drop all of the oat bars. Leon’s laughing, too, and bends to pick them up for me.
There’s a camaraderie in the moment that I’m grateful for. I’m not very sure it’ll last, not very sure who the real Leon is – the surly one who was so snappy with me or the one Gemma said was a softie – but this is a nice change.
He piles the items carefully back into my arms, and I smile up at him in thanks.
He steps back and rubs the back of his neck, reserved once more, and gestures over at the fridge section. ‘I, uh, I forgot to ask if you’re a vegetarian, or have any allergies, or anything. Before I go buy a bunch of chicken Caesar wraps.’
‘Oh! No, no allergies or dietary restrictions here. Well, I mean, I don’t like mushrooms, and Ireallydon’t like pistachios, but other than that …’ I cringe, because he’s staring again, looking so very serious, and I’m rambling. ‘N-no. I’m alright with anything.’
‘Except mushrooms and pistachios,’ he says. ‘Got it.’
He leaves, and I turn back to the queue, but instead of giggling at the row of dads again, all I can think about is that time we went to a new bar after work, and there were little bowls of bar snacks. It was fancy, and there were pistachios, and Marcus just couldnotstop eating them.
‘Leave some for everybody else, why don’t you?’ I teased him. We were sat next to each other, just like always, in a semicircular booth. His arm was slung across the back of the seat and I couldfeel the heat of his skin radiating to the back of my neck. Even though I had my legs tucked in close to me, he was sat wide, and his knee pressed into mine. It was all I could do not to lean in closer, forcing myself to remember the boundariesI’dset when I’d as good as told him our night together meant nothing. He had a girlfriend, now. They were moving in together.
Marcus tossed another pistachio into his mouth and grinned at me, wide and toothy, his eyes glittering in the low lighting as he looked at me. He picked the bowl up and offered them over.
‘Go on, then. Just ’cause it’s you.’ He winked, smiling wider, and my whole body felt like it was a split second away from either bursting into flames or melting in a puddle on the floor.
And I ate the pistachios, even though I was sure I’d told him a few weeks ago I hated them, because he was offering them to me,to me, but nobody else, and that felt special, and maybe it was just an acquired taste that I’d get used to anyway, and didn’t I want to be sophisticated and cool like everybody else?
Ihatepistachios.
I don’t know why I did that. Why I didn’t just decline the offer.
It feels so silly to think about now.
Gemma’s words nag at the back of my mind, and I push them away before they start to tarnish any more memories of me and Marcus together.
That duty-free bag begins to weigh a little heavy on my arm.
Something about the time crunch starts to really trigger my adrenalin, so after making my purchases at Relay and blindly grabbing up packets of crisps and crackers at the sparse, Whole Foods-esque Monop’daily store, I dash back into duty free and go for gold. There’s a sort of gourmet section in between all the confectionery and the alcohol. I grab pâté, cheese, olives, even a jar of marmalade. I’m not sure why I think we’re about tosit about an airport at almost nine o’clock in the evening and make an entire charcuterie board, but I also think Gemma would absolutely do something like that, and it certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing to happen today.
In my final minutes before everywhere shuts, I manage to nab the last few pastries from one of the restaurants in the food court upstairs.
Nine o’clock arrives with no great fanfare. Shop shutters begin to draw down a little, patrons are ushered out into the terminal as much as they try to linger … I was almost expecting an airhorn to sound off and someone to yell, ‘TIME!’ and a burst of confetti at achieving my little mission – or maybe that Stephen Mulhern would pop up with a giant cheque and camera crew.
Actually, standing at the edge of the food court, holding my bags bursting with not merely snacks but rather an entire feast, I feel quite silly.
