Page 24

Chapter Twenty-three

Leon

Some of the duty-free staff come over to pick up the products I just knocked all over the floor, and as I’m apologising and trying to help, my satchel smacks into a plastic sign and sends that flying, too.

‘Please, monsieur, we have got this,’ one says with a crisp smile.

Message received loud and clear. I wrestle with the three suitcases and get out of their way before I destroy anything else.

The girls are giggling – most likely, at my expense, the pair of them standing shoulder to shoulder in a chummy way that has me doing a double take.

You’d never know they were strangers until a few short hours ago.

Are they bonding over a mutual hatred of Kayleigh?

Or maybe my humiliating path of destruction?

I wince, feeling eyes from all around scrutinising me.

One half of the unhappy honeymooners with ginger hair is not far off and mutters – loud enough that I can hear – about drunkards in the airport.

I duck my head, as if she can smell the single beer on my breath from all the way over there.

Francesca’s holding a few things, so as I approach, I nod at the bundle in her hands and say, in desperate hopes of a distraction, ‘Looks like you two have been busy. What’ve you got?’

Pink colours her cheeks while Gemma says, ‘Lingerie! And some lippy. Look, is this knockout or what?’

She plucks the fabric from Francesca’s limp hands, and I regret every decision I have made in the last half-hour that led to this moment. I knew I should’ve just stood in one spot and waited for them to come find me.

Because now, Francesca’s standing there with her eyes widening in horror and looking too awkward to say anything, and Gemma’s holding up a set of pure white underwear in front of her.

The bra is covered in lace. The knickers are made of the stuff, to the point they must be more see-through than actually covering anything up.

My whole face feels like it’s burning, and my pulse is roaring in my ears, and I am trying to do anything but picture Francesca in that underwear. Hiding it underneath that loose blouse and casual jeans, white lace hugging the curve of tanned hips, my hands—

‘Seriously,’ Gemma is saying, and I don’t know if she’s doing this to taunt me or if she’s completely oblivious to the path my thoughts just turned down. Please, God, let it be the latter. ‘Tell me this isn’t the kind of woman you’d leave your fiancée at the altar for.’

Francesca finally masters herself and pushes Gemma’s hands gently away, but she looks infinitely more awkward with the underwear gone, and Gemma’s words ringing in the air.

‘Um.’ I scrub a hand through my hair, trying to think straight. ‘I’m not sure there’s a very good answer to that question.’

Gemma clicks her tongue. ‘Spoilsport.’

She hands the set back to Francesca, who thanks her and hugs it close.

Is this really what they’ve been doing? Finding the best underwear to seduce Marcus?

There’s a weird buzzing in my head at the thought.

‘So what’s the plan – you’re going to strut down the aisle wearing that and he’ll suddenly decide to leave Kay for you?’ The mental image is so cartoonish – if only for the idea of Francesca strutting – that I snort a laugh.

She is the exact opposite of every nasty remark Kayleigh ever made at her expense.

‘Um, excuse you,’ Gemma says, and takes a playful swipe at my arm. ‘She can strut if she wants to. Although,’ she adds to Francesca, ‘I do think I’m, like, legally obligated as maid of honour to throw red wine on you if you wear white to the wedding.’

Francesca, at least, is laughing as well. ‘Believe me, if I wore this to a wedding, that’s the very least I’d hope you’d do. Throw a blanket over me too, while you’re at it.’

‘You’d have a lot more than just Marcus wanting to shoot their shot with you,’ I say.

But that sounds not quite right, and they’re both looking at me, so I try to explain: ‘I mean if that’s, like, the goal.

I just mean that you’re, you know, objectively attractive.

Not that I’m trying to objectify you or anything, and everyone knows conventional beauty standards are …

And I’m sure even if you were in a blanket you would look … I just mean— ’

‘Yes, Leon, tell us.’ Gemma is grinning at me. ‘What do you mean?’

I grumble a half-hearted, ‘Oh, sod off.’

But Francesca catches my eye and blushes before she looks away.

Her lips curve into a smile, and her head does that thing where it ticks slightly to one side.

I clear my throat. Gemma watches the whole exchange – if you can even call it that – with bright eyes.

I’m sure she’s seeing something I’m not, like with Marcus and Francesca’s text thread.

I think I have some idea what it might be, but feel so ridiculous I don’t even entertain it.

She is objectively very pretty, that’s all. And who wouldn’t turn heads, walking into a wedding in their underwear?

I grit my teeth, feeling like an idiot. Far more than the clumsy oaf who knocked over half of duty free.

Speaking of clumsy oafs, though, we all turn to look at the sound of someone falling over.

It’s some kid, a beefy guy in his very early twenties, who just went careening right over the staff crouched on the floor picking up my mess.

He’s in a rumpled T-shirt and his hair is stuck on end with a shiny silver streak in it, like he’s been to a rave.

A box of perfume and a necklace and a sparkly thing with a Victoria’s Secret label hanging off it all goes spilling out of his hands.

‘Found the target market for that thong,’ Gemma is joking to Francesca behind me. ‘Twenty-one-year-old boys trying to impress the girl they’re seeing.’

‘That poor girl,’ Francesca deadpans.

‘Attention shoppers,’ comes a voice above, and thank God, I’m saved by the Tannoy before they start talking about lingerie again. ‘Duty free will be closing soon. Please complete your purchases and proceed to the terminal. Thank you.’

It repeats in French, but Francesca gasps out loud, alarmed.

‘Girl, chill,’ Gemma says, checking her phone. ‘We’ve got time. Did you want to go back to look at the shampoo?’

‘No, it’s not that, I just … We haven’t got any food! What if everywhere closes?’

‘Damn, that’s a good point,’ I say. ‘I missed dinner in all the chaos … You guys must’ve, too. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’ll be getting a good night’s sleep on the airport floor to wait it out until morning. We should at least get some snacks, a couple of drinks.’

‘Oh, and we’ve got those vouchers they gave us!

The compensation for the delay …’ Francesca pulls a sheet of paper out of her bag.

One that each of us have – twenty-five euros to spend in the terminal.

‘I didn’t want to use it on the coffees in case they took it away and we lost the leftover money on it.

We can use those! There was that pizza place upstairs, we could get some of that, maybe, to all share?

You can’t go wrong with cold pizza, can you? ’

Gemma claps her hands, swivelling to box the three of us in together like we’re in a scrum, and she’s our coach.

‘Alright, gang, here’s the plan. We’re T-minus …

’ A quick time-check. ‘Eight hours until our flight. If we all chuck in an extra twenty-five euros or so, we should be set through till breakfast. Fran, you’re on snack duty.

Leon, you’re on sustenance and soft drinks. I will take drinks and desserts.’

‘I thought you just said I was getting the drinks?’

Gemma gives me a deadpan look over the top of her glasses, and pushes them up her nose.

‘Sweetie, if you think I’m staying in this godforsaken place all night and not getting at least a bit buzzed, you’re sadly mistaken.

And I know you’re on board, because I can smell that beer on your breath.

Fran, hon, are you in? No pressure. You can be our sober lookout to make sure we don’t miss the flight, otherwise. ’

Francesca clutches her Victoria’s Secret haul even closer to her chest. ‘A little liquid courage can’t hurt, can it?’

Gemma beams. ‘That’s the spirit! Literally , lol. Alright, go team! Meet you out by the escalators in thirty minutes.’

With that, she strides off, and Francesca and I both watch as she heads directly for the alcohol section a few feet away, snatching up a litre bottle of Malibu and a litre of vodka without even pausing.

‘Looks like we’re going to be in for quite a night,’ I say.

Francesca laughs. ‘I’ll drink to that!’