Page 5 of The Layover
I settle into my window seat and pull on my headphones, burying myself in my phone. I have some last-minute maid of honour duties to triple-check.
There’s a text waiting on my screen from Kayleigh, from just two minutes ago.
Just checked and looks like your flight is all on time – let’s hope it stays that way with the bad weather coming in! Wish you’d gotten here yesterday, could have done with you this morning to help deal with the caterers lol, ended up late to my massage because of it. Safe trip hon! See you soooon! xxxxx
I bite my tongue, hard, and feel nothing except the rage boiling in my veins.
Oh, sure, like I should’ve been the one running around arguing with people because Kayleigh pitched a fit, when she had much more important things to do – like get a massage.
Kiss kiss!
I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.
But she’s my best friend. She’s all I’ve got. What else am I supposed to do?
I send back an equally trite text, unable to resist a dig about her massage when I couldn’t get the time off work because we’re in the middle of a project rollout, and open the Photos app.
I stare for a long while at the little thumbnail of the video from the hen do. The one I should’ve deleted.
God, won’t it be such a shame when –if,of course,if– it played during my speech, instead of the adorable slideshow I’ve painstakingly put together? What a totally diabolical accident that would be. How totally furious I’d be on her behalf, her staunchest defender, so she could never blame me for being at fault.
God, wouldn’t it feel sogoodto give her a taste of her own medicine?
Just this once.
Chapter Five
Leon
Unfortunately for me and my non-existent speech, the flight to Barcelona is on time. Not cancelled due to poor weather conditions, not even delayed.
I’m sweating and breathless as I get on the plane, so flustered it takes me a couple of minutes to find my seat.
It’salsonot a sign that the space overhead is full, and two air stewards have to come and rearrange other people’s things to make my suitcase fit. It might as well be flashing at me in neon letters:You’re not supposed to be here! The universe is trying to tell you; why won’t you listen!
And, typically enough, I’ve got the window seat, so two people have to get up and shuffle out so I can get in. The strap of my bag snags on something and the lady in the aisle seat yelps.
‘Ow!’
I turn and realise that I’ve caught one of the myriad enamel pins on her denim jacket. It’s too big on her frame, looks more like a man’s coat. Her long brown hair is drawn back in two French braids, then left loose over each shoulder. She’s got huge eyes, framed by long, thick, lashes.
She’s pretty –verypretty – and I’m staring, which makes this whole thing feel a thousand times more awkward.
‘Sorry—’
‘No, no, it’s my fault!’ she says, trying to disentangle us.
‘No, my bad, I wasn’t—’
‘Excuse me,’ huffs the man in the middle seat, currently cramped between us. ‘Can we hurry this along a bit?’
She frees my bag strap, both of us blushing and apologising, and that neon sign over my head screamingYOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!flashes even brighter.
None of this, of course, is an omen.
Except I can’t shake the feeling that itis.
Some great, glaring, cosmic sign from the universe hammering home that this is all wrong and shouldn’t be happening. I can practically hear Nana hollering at me from beyond the grave:Do something already! What are you waiting for?
