Page 7 of The Layover
I’m not aware of the turbulence until the plane jolts so hard that my pen scrawls a rogue line all the way across the page in the middle of a word, and I look up in time to see the seatbelt signs ping on.
There’s a slight crackle as the PA system comes on, and a sinking feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the turbulence.
‘Hi, everybody, this is your captain speaking. Unfortunately, the weather conditions have worsened and we’re going to have to make an unscheduled stop for safety reasons. We’ll be landing shortly at Orly Airport, and ground crew will be waiting to assist you on your onward journeys. We apologise for this change in circumstances.’
The PA turns off, and leaves a ringing in my ears.
I can just hear Nana cackling in my ears.What was that you were saying about no such thing as bad omens, boy? How’s this for a sign?
Really, I can’t argue with that.
Chapter Six
Francesca
It’s okay, I tell myself.Breathe. This sort of thing is practically expected on such a momentous occasion. It happens in all the great romances. It was bound to happen to me today. It’s asign!
I keep telling myself that, even as I try to calm my racing heart and wipe my sweaty palms on my jacket. The cabin is full of noise, and the crew are doing their best to make their way down the aisle to check seatbelts are fastened and to tell people to put their tray tables up. The cute guy in the window seat of my row still has his down. I wonder if he’s a writer, or some kind of artist; he hasn’t looked up once from that little green notebook.
When an air stewardess makes it to our row, I wait for her to tell him to put the tray table up before stealing her attention. Everybody on this flight is currently in the same situation, I know, but – but I have apredicament. This is life or death!
Well. Life or till death do us part …
‘Excuse me,’ I blurt before she can move away, ‘but I have to get to Barcelonatonight. I’m on my way to a wedding. Well, I’m actually …’ The nervous excitement that I’ve been carrying for weeks fizzes over, and a giggle spills out of my lips. ‘See, there’s this guy …’
She gives me a deadpan look. ‘Honey, there’salwaysa guy.’
‘He’s not just any guy, though, he’s—’
He’s my guy, and he’s marrying the wrong girl!
I’ve never said that out loud before, and I don’t get the chance to now, either.
The stewardess’s smile is tight, but she’s patient as she says, ‘Ma’am, everything will be sorted by the ground crew. Make them aware of your situation when you’re at the terminal; I’m sure they’ll be able to help.’
The window-seat guy whose bag caught on my jacket earlier leans over, then. ‘Wait, I have to get to a wedding too.’
Now, the stewardess loses her composure a bit, and lifts an eyebrow at him, her polite smile all but vanished. ‘I suppose there’sa guyin your story, too?’
His face twists. ‘Sort of, yeah …’
‘Well, whatever you two need to be in Barcelona for, I can only advise that you speak to someone at the terminal. I’m sorry.’
‘Wait, no, I’m serious—’ he exclaims, but she has already moved on, checking seatbelts and armrests and tray tables and trying not to get waylaid by more questions she can’t answer. I turn to window-seat guy. He’s dragging a hand back and forth through a thick set of sandy-brown curls, muttering to himself and bent with his elbows on his knees. The middle-aged man between us gives him a withering look he doesn’t notice, then huffs a sigh and puts his headphones back on.
There’s bound to be more thanonewedding happening in Barcelona this weekend, but …
I study the guy’s profile, the squat nose and solid, square jaw accentuated by a neatly trimmed beard, scanning through my mental repertoire of people seen through long hours of Instagram stalking.
I can’t place him, though, and I’m still staring –frowning, too, I’m mortified to realise – when he looks up and catches me.
‘What?’ he snaps. ‘Sorry, am I bothering you?’
‘Just a bit, actually,’ the man in the middle seat mutters.
‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’ I’d be a bit peeved if some stranger was frowning at me, too, in all fairness, but I fumble the explanation, not sure where to start. If heisgoing to the same wedding, I can hardly let him know I’m on my way to confess my love for the groom, can I?
Window-seat tells me defensively, ‘Some of us have bigger problems to deal with than meeting up with someguy, alright? I’ve actually got somewhere Ineedto be – this is a nightmare. So you don’t have to look at me like that.’
