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Chapter Thirty-one

Gemma

I have visions of Francesca pointing at me and screaming ‘ Bitch! ’ like some Salem witchfinder of yore, and running to Leon who has somehow already found the video even though it’s on my other phone, not the one I left him with, and the lights dimming except for eerie spotlights on the pair of them as they shame me and tell me what a heinous, horrible human being I am and then dramatically turn their backs and then I’m ousted from the wedding by security I know Kayleigh doesn’t have as everybody stands to watch my downfall …

Except this is real life, not a movie, so none of that happens.

What actually happens is that Francesca’s face furrows in confusion and she looks at me for a long moment before saying, ‘What do you mean? I thought you said … Earlier when I asked you—’

‘Yeah, I’m not trying to call it off because I’m in love with one of them, or anything. I don’t want to call it off . I said I was planning to ruin it .’

‘But … I don’t understand,’ Fran says. She’s still peering at me like she’s searching for answers, but she also doesn’t bother to ask why, because I think I’ve made that pretty clear by now with everything I’ve offloaded about my bestie. ‘How? What were you going to do, Gemma?’

I open my mouth, but there’s a child screaming.

‘ But Muuuuuum, I want to go back! Alfie got to go on Space Mountain, it’s not fair!

’ and an exhausted mum trying to explain, ‘Yes, darling, I know, but you’re not big enough yet, are you?

Now just try to have a wee-wee before— DANIEL NO NOT ON THE FLOOR! ’

I’d laugh, under other circumstances. Crack a joke to Fran about how I don’t know about her, but I am happy to have a child-free future ahead of me, thank you very much, motherhood is not for me.

But now doesn’t really feel like the time for jokes, and all the thought does is make me think bitterly – sadly – of my own non-existent family, and how alone I am without Kayleigh.

I don’t know if Francesca can sense that, or if she’s grossed out by little Daniel peeing on the bathroom floor in protest, but she clasps my hand, tugging me and my suitcase along.

‘Come on. Let’s find somewhere a bit quieter.’

There’s a constant stream of people disrupting our quiet patch of corridor now, coming and going from the loos ahead of flights finally departing, and the drone of overhead announcements, the clamour of voices and luggage.

‘Alright?’ Leon asks, with a face on him like he regrets asking because the answer is obviously, No I’m bloody not ‘alright’. Awkwardly, he reaches out to pat my shoulder, then seems to change his mind and sort of just leaves his big, warm hand resting there for a moment before dropping it.

Before Fran can quite say anything, someone smacks her in the side with a rucksack, sending her spilling forwards with an, ‘Ooph!’

Leon catches her in a startling turn of deftness, setting her back upright and asking softly, ‘You alright?’

It’s the lads’ holiday kid off to woo a woman with Victoria’s Secret underwear. He’s at least got a bag of Ladurée macarons sticking out of the top of his rucksack now too, so he’s not a complete shambles when it comes to airport gifts.

‘Shit, sorry, sorry! My bad, I’m so sorry!’

‘It’s alright,’ Fran murmurs, looking like it’s taking all her willpower not to apologise for, you know, standing there and getting in his way, even though it was totally his fault. Leon is still holding her arm, glowering over her shoulder hard enough to make the kid cringe and run off sharpish.

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I say, and my voice doesn’t sound quite right.

It’s a bit hollow, a bit monotonous. I know it’s mine, I know I’m moving my mouth, but I might as well be a puppet operated by the Ghost of Gemmas Past. Taking charge, making a plan.

The other two glance at me. ‘There might be a bit more room in the food court, if people are starting to board flights.’

‘Good shout,’ Leon says. The two of them finish packing up our picnic; Leon darts off to get rid of the bag of rubbish, and Fran won’t quite look at me, which checks out.

I told her. I said she wouldn’t think I was such a decent person if she knew. Look at me, being right.

My bottles of duty-free booze clank together as I bag them up. They’re sticky, and it feels like I might as well be ringing the bells of fucking Notre Dame for all they clink and clatter. The shame bell, from Game of Thrones .

Look at this sad, pathetic loser who can’t cope with her best friend’s success and is drowning her sorrows at two a.m. by the airport toilets , they seem to say.

Look at this evil cow plotting to ruin the best day of her best friend’s life, because she can’t cope with the fact that she simply isn’t good enough . So, so pathetic.

Out in the main concourse, the joint stag do’s obstacle course has been cleared away, and the group are scattered: some playing a quiet card game on the floor, some dozing on chairs, a few slumped talking quietly as they scroll on their phones.

The kids, meanwhile, have found alternative entertainment.

There’s a whole cluster of them (a cluster of kids?

A rampage of children? A murder of toddlers?) sat in rows while Disney tunes play from a portable speaker.

A few dads are stood up in front of them performing, and I snort, because they’re all dressed the same way.

What do you call that? A man agerie of dads?

One of them show-kicks a bit too wildly in his portrayal of Genie as he belts out (tunelessly, but enthusiastically) ‘Friend Like Me’, and another dad shoves him out the way. A third is shouting, ‘Shut up, Charlie, you’re making their ears bleed.’

‘Like you’re any better,’ jeers another dad.

‘Say that to my face , you Henley-wearing tosser!’

A set of over-eager jazz-hands sock one dad square in the face, and a pair of Mickey ears go flying as it turns into a full-on brawl, which makes all the kids scream with laughter. One of the mums on the sidelines sighs and pulls out a bottle of wine from underneath a pushchair.

The three of us pause to watch the drama unfold, and exchange long looks.

All I can think is: Glad it’s not just my life imploding right now.

‘Do you think we should …?’ Leon says, and I shake my head. He’s beefier than any of those dads, but Leon’s so non-confrontational, he’ll probably end up with a black eye before he breaks anything up.

Fran just gives my arm a little nudge, moving us away from the scene. ‘They’ll sort themselves out. Come on.’

It turns out the seats in the food court are almost all taken.

A couple of kids are stretched out in the booth seats, heads pillowed on a parent’s lap as they snooze.

There are empty tables where seats have been dragged away so groups can sit together, and there’s even one guy – full business suit and all – sprawled out across three tables pulled together, his legs hanging off the end, fast asleep.

I spot a shut-up restaurant to our left. There’s a sign up that reads in French: Under renovation – opening soon!

I go over and try the door.

It’s not locked.

‘Gemma, what are you doing!’ Fran hisses, face suddenly pale with alarm. ‘You can’t go in there!’

‘Why not? It’s open.’

‘It’s – well, it isn’t … You can’t go in there!’

‘Yeah, I’m with Francesca on this one,’ Leon says gruffly, and I almost roll my eyes because no surprises there. ‘We can’t, Gem.’

‘What if someone sees?’

I shrug. So what if they do?

What’s the worst that can happen? This isn’t Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason ; I’m not about to end up in some foreign prison swapping my bra for cigarettes just because some idiot forgot to lock the door of a restaurant .

More likely, some French police officer sends me packing back to the UK with a stern warning and a good story.

Not that it looks like I’ll have anybody to tell that story to, at this rate, I think, remembering that WhatsApp chat I’m not supposed to be part of anymore.

But fuck it. I didn’t get the promotion, I’m not getting the wedding, I didn’t get the flat, I haven’t got the partner, and I definitely don’t have the friends. Very literally, what have I got to lose?

Out loud I say, ‘Please, if security are worried about anyone right now, it’s the dad-battle going on downstairs.’

So I push the door the rest of the way open and go on inside.

My eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the shadows that cloak the room.

It’s a sit-down restaurant and rows of bottles glint on shelves behind a bar in the lights that twinkle in from the terminal.

Chairs are stacked upside down on tables, but I find a big round booth over in the far corner and throw myself in, groaning at the plush cushioned seat I land on – it’s a welcome relief after all that sitting on the floor.

Maybe I could just stay here? Hide forever in this dark corner of Orly Airport, all alone with my sad little life, and let myself disappear and decay and never have to face Kayleigh and her perfect fucking wedding?

But there’s a clatter – Leon bumping into something and barely catching some chairs that he almost just sent spilling to the floor, and Fran saying, ‘Oh, gosh, careful! Are you okay?’ as she flashes her phone torch around so he can see better, and it is clear that I will not be left alone to wallow and despair.

But hey, a girl can dream.

I groan again as I pull myself up into more of a sitting position, and say, ‘Over here,’ so they can find me more easily in the dark. Fran swings her torch my way and I wince, momentarily blinded.

It’s really the least I deserve, under the circumstances. I can only imagine what they’ll say, what they’ll do, when they learn the truth.

And like, sure, do I have to tell them? Of course I don’t.

I could tell them both to piss off and mind their own business, laugh in Fran’s face and say, ‘God, learn to take a joke , why don’t you!

’ I could pretend like I was just chatting shit, and brush off any pestering, and if Leon tries to tell Kayleigh that I’ve got a sinister plot in mind, who’s she really going to believe?

The brother who wants her to call off the wedding or the ‘pushover’ maid of honour who helped plan it all?

I don’t have to tell them anything.

But it’s eating at me, and I want to.

I’m so tired. I’m so fed up.

I’m so lonely .

And Fran – sweet, lovely, shy Fran – standing there and trying to be so nice to me and telling me she’d be my friend … It’s laughable. She doesn’t know me.

She shouldn’t be giving me false hope for things like that.

She should at least know who I really am, first.

The pair of them settle into the booth with me, Fran in the middle and tucking herself in small. I reach for the bag of booze I put down on the floor, fishing out a fresh paper cup and pouring myself a little whisky. It burns on its way down, enough to make my eyes water.

Or maybe that’s something else.

Leon puts my work phone on the table for me, and I take it – but only to shove it into the depths of my handbag.

I find my own phone wedged between a book and my purse, and turn it back on.

The battery’s still low; I should find somewhere to charge it, soon.

Maybe Fran has a portable charger? She seems like someone who would carry one of those everywhere.

When the phone loads, there’s a notification on the screen waiting for me. Kayleigh has added me to a new group chat called ‘THE WEDDING!’

Hey, ladies! Couldn’t stick all the notifications and stuff in the other chat so deleted it and making this new one for the wedding weekend.

Updates only please, no gossip or silliness!

@Gemma , let us know when you land and are on the way to the hotel, keeping EVERYTHING crossed you make it in time!

Looking forward to sharing my big day with you all tomorrow, best bridesmaids ever! Xxxxx

I snort. And I thought I could be two-faced …

Of course, when I look, the old group chat for all the wedding planning stuff with us and the bridesmaids has vanished without a trace. I wonder how long it’ll take them to notice they left my other number in, that I might’ve seen.

I swipe out of WhatsApp and call up my photo album.

‘What’s going on, Gem?’ Leon is asking. ‘If this is about the group chat … what Kay said …’

‘This is about way more than that,’ I tell him. I find the video and lay my phone down for them. And I click ‘play’.