Page 19

Chapter Eighteen

Francesca

Leon falls quiet, and Gemma’s tirade is over – for now. She looks like she has a lot more to say, but she also looks exhausted. Ashen and limp, worn out by her own explosion.

I can’t blame her; I feel pretty wrung out, too.

This confrontation has been so emotionally draining, such a rollercoaster of revelations, I think we need this beat of quiet to take a breather and digest it all.

The airport around us is noisy, chock-full of people waiting miserably and impatiently for flights.

There’s a clatter a short way off, and I glance over to notice a tall, broad young man tripping over a barstool, spilling half of his beer as he does so.

He must be on a lads’ holiday or something.

There’s a streak of silver glitter in his gelled hair.

Elsewhere, there’s a group of people in gimmicky T-shirts, obviously on some sort of stag or hen do, laughing too loudly; at the table across from us a ginger man and woman sit close, ignoring each other in favour of their phones.

They look so alike, right down to their mannerisms as they swipe and type, they have to be related.

Gemma has slumped in the booth, legs and arms splayed out, frowning at a spot on the table, eyes tracking slightly back and forth as she thinks over something.

Between us, Leon sits rigid and awkward in his seat, mouth slack, apparently contending with the fact that his sister isn’t the person he thought she was – and that maybe Marcus isn’t the villain he believed him to be, too.

My body tingles with that pins-and-needles numbness. It makes me feel both detached and grounded, all at once; not quite myself, but too sharp to ignore.

And my mind is spinning so fast I’m not even sure what I’m thinking.

This is the first time I’ve properly been able to tell anybody what’s going on with me and Marcus, all the complicated dynamics and nuances at play.

The gang from uni would probably have staged an intervention long ago if they thought I was seriously pursuing a man who was engaged, and I suddenly suspect they might accuse him of ‘breadcrumbing’ and whatever else, like Gemma did.

And my family … Gosh, I don’t think they would ever look at me the same way if they knew the truth.

There’s just … there’s a lot of layers. There’s so much to it they could never really understand.

At the very least, it’s a relief to finally get it off my chest.

It’s certainly a bit reassuring to learn that Kayleigh really isn’t such a good person. I know it doesn’t excuse my own behaviour with Marcus, but at least it confirms my belief that he can’t truly be happy with her and I’m doing the right thing.

But then …

Am I really? What if they’re right? What if I’m no better than Leon seeing Kayleigh through rose-tinted glasses, refusing to see all those bad traits? What if it’s not because he’s unhappy with Kayleigh, and Marcus really is that person, too?

And worse – what if he’s been showing me who he really is all along, stringing me along with the bare minimum like Gemma said? Have I been misreading everything this entire time, seeing only what I want to?

But that kiss. That night we spent together.

That wasn’t a lie. That was real, and it mattered; it isn’t some collection of tactfully distant text messages that could be misconstrued.

Maybe it sounded to Gemma like what Marcus and I have isn’t anything worth fighting for, but I know how he makes me feel.

I know how different it is to all the other guys I’ve dated.

I know those butterflies that erupt in my stomach whenever his name pops up on my phone, the giddiness when he smiles at me when he sees me, the way my skin tingles when he touches me or hugs me.

That’s what matters.

And it’s worth risking it all for.

It has to be.

I don’t stop to ponder what kind of man Marcus must be if he chose Kayleigh, knowing that she’s the kind of person capable of all those heartless, selfish things Gemma told us about. Stealing promotions and screwing her over with accommodation and cutting her own grandmother off.

I have to have faith. I have to see this through.

I have to know .

I’ve already spent the last few years wondering what if; don’t I owe this to myself , at the very least?

‘Are you …?’ The words leave my mouth before I can check them. They’re raspy, and I wet my lips, trying again when both Gemma and Leon glance over. I ask Leon, ‘Are you still going to talk to Kayleigh before the wedding?’

He opens his mouth, but has no answer.

I feel so awful for him. He’s stuck in such an impossible situation, jeopardising his own relationship with Kayleigh for his family’s sake and to try and salvage it for all of them, and worse, now he’s faced with the idea that it might not be worth it at all.

I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I think I misjudged him badly.

Nobody who would do something like that can be so terrible at their core, not really. And the pressure he must’ve been under in the build-up to such a conversation, it’s no wonder he was a bit short-tempered with me. Or with anybody, really.

Gemma lets out a dry bark of laughter. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re still going to try to break them up, aren’t you? You still think Marcus is going to pick you .’

I bristle. So maybe I don’t have designer coats and cashmere jumpers, and my idea of a weekend splurge is to order some takeaway and open a bottle of wine, maybe visit my family for a board-game night or have a group video chat with the gang from uni, and maybe I don’t get my nails done unless it’s a special occasion, and I’m a bit on the short side – so what?

I don’t own my flat and I can’t drive and no matter how many TikToks I watch I’ll never figure out what my colour palette is to make the most of my wardrobe, but so what ?

I know how he held me when he kissed me. I know how he smiles at me, how he hugs me, how I’m on his mind so often he texts me about all these little nothings, just to share them with me.

My lips purse tight and my shoulders bunch. ‘So what if I am?’

And when neither of them says anything, I add, ‘You’ve both made it quite clear that you don’t like Marcus – or even Kayleigh, really, if I had to hazard a guess – and I don’t imagine either of you would be too sorry to see the wedding called off.

What does it matter to you if I am still going to talk to him? ’

Gemma’s face is lined with disdain, and I realise how much she must have been masking her emotions earlier. She drags a hand through her hair, shaking it out, and regards me shamelessly.

She says, ‘I didn’t say I was going to stop you.’

Gemma looks at Leon, then, and I automatically follow suit.

He looks a bit startled, but shrugs. ‘Yeah, go … go for it. Not like it’ll make things worse, is it? Shit. Shit , what am I going to do? My parents are going to be wrecked.’

I reach to give his arm a little squeeze, but stop myself like I did earlier. We aren’t friends; he still probably doesn’t like me, let alone want my comfort or reassurance.

He buries his face in his hands. ‘How much longer have we got?’

Gemma checks her phone. ‘Well, I hate to break it to you, but the flight’s delayed again , so now we’re not taking off until nearly four o’clock. Which gives us, oh … nine hours, thirteen minutes. I think we’re actually worse off than the last time we checked.’

Leon groans in distress, but I almost get the impression he hopes it would be longer.

Gemma must think the same, because she jokes, ‘Do you need more time to get your head around all this? I can probably make that happen. I already almost lost my bridesmaid’s dress – which is another reason your sister is totally heinous, for the record, it’s hideous – and accidentally sort of manifested not making it to the wedding at all.

I’ll just point my finger and make it happen, say the word. ’

She points, wielding her index finger like a weapon, and pulling a theatrical grimace.

I laugh. ‘How very Nesta Archeron of you.’

Gemma blinks, dropping the finger and expression both, but before I can explain it’s a reference to a book, she grins.

‘I knew I was going to like you, Fran. Dubious taste in men, fabulous taste in book boyfriends. Right!’ She slaps the table and pushes herself to her feet.

‘I don’t know about you two, but I don’t think I can stand to stay here much longer wallowing in …

whatever this whole mess is. If I’m going to be stuck at an airport, I might as well try eighteen different perfumes in duty free. I’m going shopping. Are you coming?’

Leon grumbles incoherently, but manages to shake his head behind his hands. I nod, although I’m still trying to contend with the whiplash of Gemma saying ‘someone like you ’ and then declaring she likes me because I made a reference to a romantasy novel.

She’s right, though. I’d rather mooch around some shops for a while instead of sitting here in our strange, sad, angry little trio, hashing over a wedding none of us are very happy about.

‘Are you sure?’ I ask Leon gently.

‘Yeah. Yeah, you guys go ahead. I’ll … hold the fort here, or whatever. I just need to think about this a little, that’s all.’

‘Take your time,’ I say, but I wonder if part of him would rather avoid me for the next several hours until the wedding.

Maybe he’s hoping that because I’ll talk to Marcus, he can blame everything on the two of us, and it’ll soften the blow of such a confrontation with Kayleigh for him. I wouldn’t blame him.

Gemma grabs her handbag and I pick up my tote, slinging it over my shoulder. She gives Leon’s shoulders a fond squeeze as she scoots past him.

‘Here if you need more Kayleigh slander to uproot your worldview, buddy.’

‘Is that meant to be reassuring?’ he mutters. ‘Because it really isn’t.’

Gemma laughs, though, like it’s all a great joke, and I murmur a goodbye to Leon as I follow her out of the food court, the two of us stepping onto the escalator down.

Below us, the airport opens up. It’s not a very big terminal and the shops are all in a round.

The few rows of seats are packed to bursting with impatient, tired travellers waiting out the storm.

People are even camped out on the floor, clustered around plug points to charge their phones.

The change in scenery offers some breathing space, and helps my head feel a little bit clearer.

At the bottom of the stairs, Gemma steps off first then waits for me, and winds her arm through mine, linking us at the elbows like schoolgirls.

‘Come on, Fran,’ she says brightly, and seems perfectly sincere. ‘Let’s go shopping!’