Page 76 of The Layover
But … would she have wanted me to kiss her? The way her breath caught, the way she looked at me …
I try to shove the image away, because it’s not like it’s going to happen anyway. All it’s doing is making my head feel like the bloody Gordian Knot, except I don’t have a sword to hack it apart with and try to make sense of.
Is this how Francesca feels about Marcus? A few looks, a kiss, a handful of flirty moments, and it’s tangled her up into this great big mess where the only way through it is one drastic, unthinkable thing, like confessing her feelings before he makes it to the altar? If this is only an inkling of how she’s feeling, I suddenly don’t blame her for coming up with such an outrageous plan.
Francesca pulls away from Gemma to sit cross-legged, the green Ladurée box open on her lap as she browses the macarons. I don’t think she’s looked me in the eye once since our pseudo-walk of shame out of the toilets; but then again, I’m not so sure I haven’t avoided meeting her gaze, too.
It was … a weird moment, back there.
Maybe fuelled by booze or proximity or that way she ticks her head to the side when she smiles. Probably nothing I should be dwelling on.
There’s a little card inside the box listing the different flavours. I pick out a passionfruit one, offering it to Francesca.
‘Want to trade?’
‘Sorry?’
‘For the pistachio one. You said earlier you don’t like them.’
She jerks, blinking rapidly, and searches my face for a moment before accepting the orangey-yellow dessert and swapping it for a pale green one, and smiles brightly at me. ‘Thanks.’
‘Sure.’
She takes a bite of it, and I’m a beat too late in looking away, my eyes snagging on the way her teeth sink delicately into the biscuit, the drag of her lips wrapping around it.
Definitely the booze, and the fact we’ve been stuck here for hours. Maybe a bit of wedding fever, even, and my own lacklustre dating life.
DefinitelynotFrancesca.
For a few minutes we sit quietly eating the macarons. She takes a tiny bite out of several, sampling them, and I watch her pull faces as she reacts to the tastes – the scrunch of her nose over the rose one, the appreciative way her eyes widen and she nods to herself at the matcha.
It’s very different to how I pop the entire raspberry one into my mouth.
Francesca’s been watching me too, though, because as soon as I bite into it I blurt, ‘Oh myGod,’ and she laughs.
‘It’s like eating a whole berry, isn’t it?’
I nod, savouring the taste now – which is so zingy and fresh, it’s less like eating a biscuit and more … well, like she said, a whole raspberry. I’ve never known anything like it.
‘The lemon one’s good, too, if you liked that. The Marie Antoinette one’s sort of … earthy? Like an Earl Grey.’
I follow her lead, taking a smaller bite of the blue macaron next. ‘Huh, you’re right. It is earthy.’ It’s not really my taste, and I regret not saving the raspberry one now. Francesca must read that on my face, because she laughs again, and snaps a bit off her raspberry macaron to hand me the half without a bite taken out of it.
I do the same with the Marie Antoinette one, and we make another trade.
‘I’ve never been to France,’ she murmurs. ‘But I think this is mostly what I thought it’d be like. Sitting around eating macarons and being a bit liberal with alcohol and having deep conversations about life and love.’
‘With almost twelve hours to kill, maybe we should’ve tried to get a train into Paris.’
I don’t know what makes me say it, but suddenly I’m imagining the Eiffel Tower sparkling against a night sky, and a small, warm hand in mine at a little bistro by the Seine, and a smile so big her cheek is tucked all the way into her shoulder.
Francesca says, ‘Oh, please, I don’t think you even really wanted us to join you for a cup of tea after we sorted out the flight! There is no way you would’ve gone exploring Paris with me.’
I hum, conceding the point, but tell her, ‘I’m sorry, for the record, if I … came across badly. I’m not usually so … confrontational.’ I twist a macaron around between my fingers, cringing at my earlier attitude. ‘I know it’s not an excuse for being rude, but – I mean, it’s not like I have a very high opinion of Marcus, and I was kind of wound up about talking to Kay before the wedding and worrying I wouldn’t make it in time, and then … You know, you show up, all sunshine and with those big eyes, and all I knew about you was that you trail around after Marcus, you flirt with him and act too cosy and familiar, and that even if he laughs about it, it obviously bothers Kay a bit. I didn’t know if this was all just an act, or …’
‘Wait, ifwhatwas an act? My – my friendship with Marcus?’
‘No, the …’ I wave a hand at her in an all-encompassing gesture, but she pulls a quizzical face. ‘You know,you. Being nice. Not … I dunno, I guess I was expecting someone more like …’ I glance at Gemma. ‘More … assertive?’
