Page 74 of The Layover
Selfish, selfish me.
It’s the story Mum pushed for long enough.Selfish Gemma, not everything’s about you; selfish Gemma, so demanding and needy – if you were better behaved, if you weren’t so much trouble, if you were quieter and if you weren’t here at all, your dad wouldn’t have left us, would he? Selfish, selfish Gemma, as if it’s not hard enough to date as a forty-year-old divorcee? I’ve got you to deal with, too, and what man wants that?
Adult me can recognise that the breakdown of my parents’ relationship was not my fault. They argued non-stop about money and fought about both wanting to go out and live their lives, but they had this kid to look after instead, and my dad was constantly between jobs and my mum accused him of not being ‘man enough’ to look after his family instead of going to get a job herself.
Adult me knows, quite rationally, that Dad leaving and never showing up for me, even after he got his life together and built a new family, says more about him than it does about me. And Mum’s constant exasperation and bad attitude preceded me by a country mile; it was never me that was the problem.
Except it always felt that way. Dad dropped us and Mum got saddled with me, and couldn’t wait to wash her hands of me too. And Brittney was no better, when push came to shove. She lulled me into this feeling of security – of being loved, and wanted, and teased this lovely little future for the two of us that was so picture-perfect …
Until she got sick of me and walked out, too.
Kayleigh is theonlyperson who hasn’t.
I swipe the video off my screen, suddenly not so sure I have it in me to play it if it means risking our friendship for good. Our toxic, sickening, twisted friendship.
It’s something, though, and isn’t that better than nothing at all?
The door pushes open, and a beam of white light cuts through the darkness.
‘Thank God,’ I call over, relieved for the distraction from my own thoughts. ‘I was starting to worry! Are you two all sorted now?’
A figure takes shape, silhouetted behind the torch. A man. I don’t see Fran anywhere, and I swear to God, if Leon’s left her bawling her eyes out in the loos, I’ll be havingverystrong words with him. She strikes me as such a fragile soul, and she’s so bloodynice, it’s like kicking a puppy.
I mean, sure, he didn’t say anything that wasn’tfactually correct, but still. The girl’s going through it. Cut her some slack, you know?
But before I can tell Leon off, the shadow is barking, ‘Qu’est que vous faisez ici? Mademoiselle, levez-vous, s’il vous plait.’
‘Oh! Er, sorry.’ I scramble to my feet, holding my hands up in the very picture of innocence with the most polite smile I can muster when I am gradually losing my mind over the course of this layover. I respond in my very best French, ‘So sorry. The door was unlocked, and my friends and I were looking for somewhere to sit. It’s justsobusy out there! Can’t even hear yourself think, can you? Are we not allowed to be in here?’
The man lowers the torch a bit, and I see him scowling. It’s a security guard with a big, bristly grey moustache. ‘No, mademoiselle, you are not allowed to be in here. Where are your friends?’
‘They went to the toilet. Gosh, I hadnoidea! So sorry, again. I’ll just get our things and be out of your hair, shall I?’
He glares at me, unconvinced, and the torchlight sweeps over our collection of food, the suitcases, the bottle of whisky next to me. I suddenly panic that maybe Iamgoing to be thrown in a French prison and forced to trade my bra for cigarettes like Bridget Jones. I don’t evensmoke.
I blather on about how hectic it is in the terminal and how simplyimpossibleit is to find a seat anywhere, what a nightmare all these delayed flights are for everyone. I even thank my moustachioed security pal for letting me know this place is out of bounds, how I wouldhateto cause trouble when they have so much going on.
‘… I mean, gosh, those Disney dads earlier! I saw them fighting.Soterrible.’
He softens just a little bit, moustache bristling in a friendlier way this time. ‘It is not the first time we have had a fistfight between Disney parents. The first time it was over who was the better Genie, though.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Did they decide on a winner at least?’
‘They were all equally terrible.’
Laughing, I try to wrangle all the bags and suitcases, but it’s not as easy as Leon made it look earlier, especially now we have all the food, too.
Then I beam at the security guard. ‘Could you help me with the bags, please?’
I’m sat on the floor – again – but at least this time I’m leaning against the end of a row of seats and have my phone plugged in to charge, so, silver linings and all that. And I’ve got a great view when a woman in a Barbour jacket and heels storms out of the loos muttering, ‘Well, I never! Absolutely deplorable behaviour …!’ and then mere moments later, Leon and Fran walk out looking decidedly rumpled, cheeks flushed, and furtiveexpressions on their faces. Fran’s face is bright pink, and she looks all squirmy.
She spots me first, nudging Leon to point me out.
I’m hyper-aware of the fact that I’m pretty sure they should both despise and condemn me right now after I revealed my video ‘mix-up’ plans, but this is too good. How am I supposed to be busy feeling guilty and awful when they’re going to show up,together, looking like this?
‘Don’t tell me that you two were party to somedeplorable behaviourin those toilets,’ I say, doing nothing to hide the giant grin on my face. It’s all the more delightfully scandalous for it being meek Fran and awkward Leon. I would’ve thought a promenade through the gardens during a ball would be more scandal than either of them could handle – even in this day and age.
Will I get to be the maid of honour at their wedding? Iampractically responsible for making this happen, I am sure of it. I mean, I did tell him to go after her.
