Page 65 of The Layover
I open my mouth, but there’s a child screaming. ‘But Muuuuuum, I want to go back! Alfie got to go on Space Mountain, it’s not fair!’ and an exhausted mum trying to explain, ‘Yes, darling, I know, but you’re not big enough yet, are you? Now just try to have a wee-wee before—DANIEL NO NOT ON THE FLOOR!’
I’d laugh, under other circumstances. Crack a joke to Fran about how I don’t know about her, but I am happy to have a child-free future ahead of me, thank you very much, motherhood is not for me.
But now doesn’t really feel like the time for jokes, and all the thought does is make me think bitterly – sadly – of my own non-existent family, and how alone I am without Kayleigh.
I don’t know if Francesca can sense that, or if she’s grossed out by little Daniel peeing on the bathroom floor in protest, but she clasps my hand, tugging me and my suitcase along.
‘Come on. Let’s find somewhere a bit quieter.’
There’s a constant stream of people disrupting our quiet patch of corridor now, coming and going from the loos ahead of flightsfinallydeparting, and the drone of overhead announcements, the clamour of voices and luggage.
‘Alright?’ Leon asks, with a face on him like he regrets asking because the answer is obviously,No I’m bloody not ‘alright’.Awkwardly, he reaches out to pat my shoulder, then seems to change his mind and sort of just leaves his big, warm hand resting there for a moment before dropping it.
Before Fran can quite say anything, someone smacks her in the side with a rucksack, sending her spilling forwards with an, ‘Ooph!’
Leon catches her in a startling turn of deftness, setting her back upright and asking softly, ‘You alright?’
It’s the lads’ holiday kid off to woo a woman with Victoria’s Secret underwear. He’s at least got a bag of Ladurée macaronssticking out of the top of his rucksack now too, so he’s not a complete shambles when it comes to airport gifts.
‘Shit, sorry, sorry! My bad, I’m so sorry!’
‘It’s alright,’ Fran murmurs, looking like it’s taking all her willpower not to apologise for, you know,standing thereand getting inhisway, even though it was totally his fault. Leon is still holding her arm, glowering over her shoulder hard enough to make the kid cringe and run off sharpish.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I say, and my voice doesn’t sound quite right. It’s a bit hollow, a bit monotonous. I know it’s mine, I know I’m moving my mouth, but I might as well be a puppet operated by the Ghost of Gemmas Past. Taking charge, making a plan. The other two glance at me. ‘There might be a bit more room in the food court, if people are starting to board flights.’
‘Good shout,’ Leon says. The two of them finish packing up our picnic; Leon darts off to get rid of the bag of rubbish, and Fran won’t quite look at me, which checks out.
I told her. I said she wouldn’t think I was such a decent person if she knew. Look at me, being right.
My bottles of duty-free booze clank together as I bag them up. They’re sticky, and it feels like I might as well be ringing the bells of fucking Notre Dame for all they clink and clatter. The shame bell, fromGame of Thrones.
Look at this sad, pathetic loser who can’t cope with her best friend’s success and is drowning her sorrows at two a.m. by the airport toilets, they seem to say.Look at this evil cow plotting to ruin the best day of her best friend’s life, because she can’t cope with the fact that she simplyisn’t good enough. So, so pathetic.
Out in the main concourse, the joint stag do’s obstacle course has been cleared away, and the group are scattered: some playing a quiet card game on the floor, some dozing on chairs, a few slumped talking quietly as they scroll on their phones.
The kids, meanwhile, have found alternative entertainment. There’s a whole cluster of them (a cluster of kids? A rampage of children? A murder of toddlers?) sat in rows while Disney tunes play from a portable speaker. A few dads are stood up in front of them performing, and I snort, because they’re all dressed the same way.
What do you call that? Amanagerie of dads?
One of them show-kicks a bit too wildly in his portrayal of Genie as he belts out (tunelessly, but enthusiastically) ‘Friend Like Me’, and another dad shoves him out the way. A third is shouting, ‘Shut up, Charlie, you’re making their ears bleed.’
‘Like you’re any better,’ jeers another dad.
‘Say thatto my face, you Henley-wearing tosser!’
A set of over-eager jazz-hands sock one dad square in the face, and a pair of Mickey ears go flying as it turns into a full-on brawl, which makes all the kids scream with laughter. One of the mums on the sidelines sighs and pulls out a bottle of wine from underneath a pushchair.
The three of us pause to watch the drama unfold, and exchange long looks.
All I can think is:Glad it’s not just my life imploding right now.
‘Do you think we should …?’ Leon says, and I shake my head. He’s beefier than any of those dads, but Leon’s so non-confrontational, he’ll probably end up with a black eye before he breaks anything up.
Fran just gives my arm a little nudge, moving us away from the scene. ‘They’ll sort themselves out. Come on.’
It turns out the seats in the food court are almost all taken. A couple of kids are stretched out in the booth seats, heads pillowed on a parent’s lap as they snooze. There are empty tables where seats have been dragged away so groups can sit together, and there’s even one guy – full business suit and all – sprawledout across three tables pulled together, his legs hanging off the end, fast asleep.
I spot a shut-up restaurant to our left. There’s a sign up that reads in French:Under renovation – opening soon!
