Page 83 of The Layover
Now’s not the time, but I make a mental note that later, I’ll catch her, and we’ll get around to it.
My own phone is pinging like mad with messages from my family – Dad’s gone on his flight-tracker app and seen I’ve landed, he’s checked the traffic and it’s very busy getting out of Barcelona right now – there’s been an accident on the main road. Myleene, predictably, has sent me an all-caps demand for my speech, and several memes, and a selfie of her throwing up a peace sign I think is ironic, with half a pain au chocolat shoved into her gob. There are texts from Mum, a few from some of the cousins, aunties and uncles in a wider group chat, and …
Nothing from Kay.
I mean, she’s probably busy. She’s getting married in a couple of hours. She’ll be with the girls getting her hair and makeup done, getting ready, having a glass of bubbly. Of course she’s not on her phone wondering if I’ve landed and will get there in time.
She’s busy, and what bride is spending the morning attached to her phone anyway?
But I remember how she sounded in those texts about Gemma, and in that video, and I have to wonder just how much she cares.
Whether Kayleigh cares or not, though, I have to get there – we all do, and we’re on arealtime crunch now we’ve got wheels down and feet on the ground. The three of us leg it to passport control, past the luggage carousels, and into yet another airport terminal.
It’s big and bright with sunlight, and there’s a humidity in the air we didn’t experience in Paris. I’m bolting towards the nearest‘SALIDA’ sign when the girls shout my name to call me back, and I realise they haven’t followed.
‘We have to go,’ I tell them, ‘we’ve only got—’
‘Two hours and three minutes until the ceremony,yes, I know,’ Gemma cuts me off. ‘Butwehave to get changed. I’m the maid of honour, I can’t show up in this, and I have zero plans to flash a taxi driver while I get changed in the back of a cab.’
‘Why didn’t you do that earlier?’
‘Are you shitting me? As if I was going to risk getting my oh-so-stunning bridesmaid dress dirty and creased, or smearing lipstick all over my face if we hit turbulence? Not worth it. Besides,youneed to change, too – and brush your teeth and comb your hair, while you’re at it.’
‘Oh. Right.’ She does have a point. The three of us look pretty travel-worn – although the girls seem reasonably fresh, all things considered. You’d never know they’d spent a fair chunk of time last night drinking heavily or crying. They evensmellfresh, which is more than can be said for me …
Yeah, Gemma’s got a very good point.
‘Alright. Back here in ten minutes, okay?’
We all dash off, on a mission. A spray of deodorant and cologne, a quick tidy-up of my beard; I wet my hair a bit in the sink and dry it under a hand-dryer before doing my best to style my curls into something a bit tidier and tamer, then it’s into a cubicle to put on my suit. I try not to hurry that bit, worried that I might accidentally drop a trouser leg in the toilet bowl or something.
Francesca would laugh if I did.
She has a really nice laugh.
I hope Marcus knows what he’s throwing away – or else treasures what he gets with her.
I’m ready within ten minutes, and the girls emerge only a couple of minutes later. Francesca’s hair has been piled up intoan updo with a few loose bits framing her face and neck and – God, I really need to stop thinking about that moment we had, or how soft her skin is, because it isnotmy place to reach out and brush some of that hair away, or think about touching the soft skin of her neck again and the way she leant into me.
Her dress is floaty and dainty, a pale green floral number that makes her look like she stepped out of a fairy tale, paired with strappy brown sandals and gold jewellery that makes her skin look a deeper shade of brown. Her eyes are smudged with kohl and her lips are painted a deep, bold shade of red that I must stare at for a beat too long, because it makes her blush.
‘You look …’ I clear my throat, a bit stunned at being left speechless. I didn’t think that actually happened to people in real life. I flounder for a word that would do her justice, but eventually settle on, ‘You’re a knockout.’
She blushes deeper, but beams at me.
Gemma throws an arm around her shoulder. ‘Like someone you’d leave your fiancée at the altar for, right? Come on! No time to waste!Allons-y!Oops, no, wrong country. ¡Vámonos!’
She sets off at a quick march towards the exit, heels clacking and that monstrosity of a turquoise dress billowing out behind her in a series of ruffles. Francesca giggles, but glances at me with a quick smile before hurrying after her, leaving me to keep up.
We pass by the joint stag do that we played games with. They’re waiting with a holiday rep for a bus to their hotel, and we get waylaid by a hasty round of goodbyes: ‘It wassofun to meet you! Have a brilliant time celebrating! Enjoy the wedding! Enjoy the stag! Yeah, God, never want to have a layover like that again, haha! And thatdress, OMG, it’s even worse than I remember! The bride must hate you, lol! Kidding, babe, you’re killing it.’
Gemma gives them the bag with our leftover booze, which they take with a rousing chorus of cheers. As we walk off she tellsus, ‘Don’t worry, I kept the limoncello. Wedefinitelyearned it, however this fucking wedding goes.’
Near the doors, we skirt past the unhappy honeymooners, and the girl throws her arms in the air. ‘Itoldyou Mum wasn’t coming to pick us up! What do youmeanyou didn’t book a taxi? I swear to God, I got all the brainsandall the good looks in that womb—’
Francesca cries out and jumps at me, looping her arm through mine just as Gemma bursts into laughter. ‘Called it!’
‘You did. Guess I lose,’ I say, grinning, not feeling like much of a loser.
