Page 78 of The Layover
We’re sat on the airport floor, an almost-empty pizza box and half-eaten tube of Pringles in front of us. Leon is leaning against me, snoring quietly in gentle little snuffling sounds, and I’ve been resting against him. On his other side, just across from me, Gemma has startled herself awake – she’s the one who made that sound in her sleep, and blinks as she looks around.
It’s only when she squints at me and pats the top of her head that I remember Leon took her glasses off for her. I hand them over, trying not to jostle too much so I don’t wake him up.
‘Thanks,’ Gemma mumbles, voice thick and slow, and she smacks her lips before yawning widely. It sets me off, too. She looks up at the board and groans. ‘How is it barely even four o’clock? We’ve still gotagestill our flight leaves!’
‘Oh, I don’t know, an hour and a half is nothing when we’ve been here for ten already.’
And, God, do Ifeellike I’ve spent ten hours in an airport. My whole body is stiff and aching, there’s a disgusting taste in my mouth – I can’t have brushed my teeth since breakfast-time yesterday – and there’s a slightly fuzzy, disconnected feelingbetween my brain and body that hints at either still being a little bit drunk or else the beginnings of a hangover.
I’d give anything to have a hot bath and then burrow down into a big, soft, lovely bed, wrapped up in a terrycloth robe.
The wedding is in a little over six hours.
In six hours, I will know whether Marcus has chosen me or not.
Will I know if I want him to choose me, by then?
Gemma is pulling faces, running her tongue over her teeth, massaging a crick in her neck, and lifting up an arm to shamelessly sniff her armpit.
‘Reckon they’ve got any showers around here?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ I say.
But she gets up anyway, groaning as she stretches. ‘There’s got to be a lounge or something around here somewhere …’ She looks down at me. ‘You coming? I’ve got some under-eye masks if you want to borrow them.’
Which, presumably, means I could do with using them. My facedoesfeel puffy; I can only imagine the state I must be in. Even if I weren’t planning a romantic confession to Marcus, I can hardly show up at the wedding smelling of stale booze and looking a mess.
I consider letting Gemma go to look and report back. I don’t want to be caught snooping around the wrong part of an airport, where they’re so tight on security. Although after the carnage of this overnight stay – the obstacle-course games, the fist-fighting dads, sneaking into a shut-up restaurant …
What the hell?
‘What about Leon?’ I ask.
‘Oh, he’s a big boy, he’ll be fine.’
But Gemma helps me manoeuvre him gently around so that instead of leaning on me, he’s curled up on his suitcase much like she just was. We pillow his head with his satchel – I’m notsure how comfy it is, but at least if someone tries to steal it, it will wake him up – and take our own bags into the bathroom. The food and drinks we leave behind with Leon.
‘Minesweeping is a bold move at the best of times, but in anairport?’ Gemma says, and sucks her teeth before saying, ‘Oof, wouldn’t want to chance it. Might be anything in those bottles. Could be some kind of chemical explosive.’
‘Gemma!’ I hiss, horrified, looking around as if a SWAT team is already sprinting our way to tackle us. ‘You can’t say things like that in an airport!’
She rolls her eyes, and I smother a giggle into my hand.
The two of us scout out the nooks and crannies of the airport terminal, searching down corridors between closed-for-the-night shops, trying doors just in case.
A slightly rumpled man in a suit walks past us, carrying a briefcase, and Gemma’s face lights up. ‘The diplomats! Duh! They’reboundto have better facilities where all the staff and ambassadors cut through, right?’
‘Um …’
But as she chases off down the path where the man just came from, we come face to face with a burly, grey-haired security guard with a thick moustache. He’s the very opposite of an Inspector Clouseau type: I’m intimidated enough to try to hide behind Gemma a little bit. But then he quirks an eyebrow at Gemma, as if not surprised to see her in the least, and she says something in rapid French. I only catch the word ‘douche’, and the security guard laughs.
He replies, and although Gemma tries again, she obviously fails because she turns back to me with a sigh.
‘Apparently I’ve used up my “free pass to sneak into prohibited areas” already. Whoops. Oh well, pit wash in the sink it is.’
When we get to the loos, it’s instantly clear that while Gemma merely looks worn out and rumpled, I am an absolutewreck. There’s mascara smeared all around my eyes and my hair is somehow equal parts matted and frizzy. There are huge, dark shadows under my eyes – which arealsored and puffy, and that’s quite the feat, even if it is also a bit of a disaster.
Just as well we won’t board for at least another hour! It might take me the better part of a week to put myself back to rights.
