Page 60 of The Layover
She’s animated as she talks, smiling wide and chattering away like she doesn’t really care what I think about them or if it sounds a bit nerdy or weird or anything.
Her head’s doing that thing where it ticks to the side. Like she’s going to tuck her cheek into her shoulder if she smiles too big.
It’s definitely cute, I decide. Very cute.
She only stops because ‘Lady Marmalade’ starts blaring out of a phone somewhere down the corridor, and we both look over to see Gemma’s head poking around the corner.
‘Are you guys ready?’ she yells.
‘Ready!’ Francesca bellows back. The pair of them are noisy enough to draw in a couple of our new friends from the joint stag do who’ve gotten bored of prosecco pong, and now pile in around us to see what’s going on.
As Christina Aguilera starts singing the hook, Gemma hurls herself out into the centre of the hallway in a blur of turquoise. She grabs the skirt in each hand, swishing it as she struts and rolling her shoulders not quite in time to the music. I don’t know if I’m drunk enough to see double, or if there really are that many ruffles on the dress.
Gemma’s face is deadly serious, lips in a pout, and she swings one leg deliberately in front of the other in an exaggerated catwalk that makes Francesca shriek. She throws her arms in the air, crying, ‘Yes, Gem! Go! Slay, queen!’
‘Whooo,’ I say, ‘go Gemma.’
The bridesmaids and groomsmen are fully on board with the impromptu fashion show, cheering wildly and singing along to Gemma’s phone loudly. They cry out, ‘Pop off, bish! Yas! No crumbs! She’s serving c—’
Francesca squeaks loud enough to smother that particular swear, which sounds weirdly affectionate coming from this total stranger in a top hat fascinator, but Gemma is beaming under the attention, the life and soul, looking happier than …
Well, happier than she has most of the night.Definitelyhappier than she did in any of the photos from Kayleigh’s hen do.
She’s about two feet away from us now, and throws her weight to her left, arms launching out to vogue like Madonna – and she collides with a man in a suit, who stumbles back whileGemma lets out a squawk at having almost punched him right on the nose. She nearly drops her phone as she pauses the music.
‘Excuse me,’ the suited man hisses, and skirts around her.
Gemma looks at us all with wide eyes, mouth hanging open, arms frozen outstretched, all trace of her very serious model walk abandoned now – and with no chance of recovery as a mum around my age comes out of the loos behind her with a toddler on her hip and a five-year-old held by the hand. She gives Gemma a bit of a weird look, and then notices her audience and the little bar set up around our feet, and rolls her eyes.
‘Mummy,’ the little boy says, ‘is that a princess? I thought you said Cinderellalivedin Disneyland.’
‘Even Cinders needs a holiday sometimes,’ Gemma calls after them, very serious once more, and the little boy tucks his head into his mum’s side, shy. The mum throws Gemma a smile, though. There’s a shout from within the concourse – the ‘short king’ groom, I recognise – and the stag do peel away to go see what’s happening, now Gemma’s catwalk is over. I peer after them, noticing he’s stood on a chair and giving some loud, impassioned speech that makes his fiancé blub happy tears.
I think it might be Taylor Swift lyrics.
Once the corridor is clear, Gemma finally strikes us a pose. This one is more refined, just a hand on her hip. ‘So? Isn’t she stunning?’
‘Thatcannotbe your bridesmaid’s dress,’ Francesca says, appalled. ‘Kayleigh usually has such great taste! What is this? What is …?’ She clambers to her feet, stumbling only a little, and gestures at the layers and layers of ruffles arranged around the dress. They’re on the sleeves, the skirt, the bodice. When Francesca turns Gemma around, I see the back is dipped low, and there’s even a ruffle lining that, too.
‘It’sdesigner!’ Gemma says, with a smile that’s too toothy, and sort of manic around the eyes. ‘It’ssoooon trend,sooochic.She can’t have us wearing justanything. It needs to be standout. Especially for her maid of honour.’
Francesca takes another long study of the dress and cringes. ‘Um. Well, it’s … certainly not forgettable. It looks like something out of27 Dresses.’
‘Ohmigod, yes!Thank you!’ Gemma throws her hands in the air. ‘That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking this whole time! She’s out to punish me, right? This is not something you make your best friend wear because you like them. Tell me.’
Now, Gemma pins me with a fierce look, and I clear my throat. ‘I’m not much of a fashion expert, Gem …’
‘Leon, look me in the eye and tell me your darling sister wouldn’t make me wear this if she didn’t want me to suffer.’
‘Suffer’ is a bit strong – it’s just a dress, after all.
But I can only hold my hands up in surrender and shake my head with a breath of laughter, before reaching once more for my drink. It’s almost empty; I pour myself another. In for a penny …
‘You ever doubt what your sister’s really like,’ Gemma tells me, ‘remember this dress. And justlookat what she said about it in the group chat …’
She comes over, bringing her phone up from her side to swipe through it.
‘It was all, “Oh, girls, I know Gemma’s got something a bit extra special, but I hope you all understand …” As if she was doing me a favour! As if I didn’t have to pay for the bloody thing myself!’
