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Chapter Thirty-four

Gemma

I play the video again, watching Kayleigh snog the silver, nearly naked cowboy, waiting to feel something. Anything . A flicker of resentment. Just a little glimmer of jealousy. A tiny drop of bitterness.

But I don’t feel any of that stuff, and my phone screen flashes up a reminder that my battery is down to ten per cent. I dismiss it and let the video play again.

I can’t even conjure up the sweet, sweet mental image of the carnage it would unleash at the wedding if it played on the screen during my positively saccharine (but frankly hilarious) speech.

There’s just …

Nothing.

There’s just me, in this huge, empty, dark room, in the dead of night, with nothing to lose and … and nothing , period.

Just like I worried would happen if I ever tried to confront Kayleigh, she’s already won our friends over to her side, tarnished my name with what I’m willing to bet are a thousand little white lies.

Oh, Gemma can’t make it to drinks to celebrate my new job! She must be so upset she didn’t get it, poor thing; let’s not mention the fact I didn’t invite her and she still doesn’t know I got the promotion.

Gemma put work above coming to my wedding; poor little pushover Gemma trying so hard to make her best pal happy just to feel a scrap of love; selfish nasty stuck-up Gemma …

I bet I know exactly the story Kayleigh’s been pushing.

Selfish, selfish me.

It’s the story Mum pushed for long enough.

Selfish Gemma, not everything’s about you; selfish Gemma, so demanding and needy – if you were better behaved, if you weren’t so much trouble, if you were quieter and if you weren’t here at all, your dad wouldn’t have left us, would he?

Selfish, selfish Gemma, as if it’s not hard enough to date as a forty-year-old divorcee?

I’ve got you to deal with, too, and what man wants that?

Adult me can recognise that the breakdown of my parents’ relationship was not my fault.

They argued non-stop about money and fought about both wanting to go out and live their lives, but they had this kid to look after instead, and my dad was constantly between jobs and my mum accused him of not being ‘man enough’ to look after his family instead of going to get a job herself.

Adult me knows, quite rationally, that Dad leaving and never showing up for me, even after he got his life together and built a new family, says more about him than it does about me.

And Mum’s constant exasperation and bad attitude preceded me by a country mile; it was never me that was the problem.

Except it always felt that way. Dad dropped us and Mum got saddled with me, and couldn’t wait to wash her hands of me too.

And Brittney was no better, when push came to shove.

She lulled me into this feeling of security – of being loved, and wanted, and teased this lovely little future for the two of us that was so picture-perfect …

Until she got sick of me and walked out, too.

Kayleigh is the only person who hasn’t.

I swipe the video off my screen, suddenly not so sure I have it in me to play it if it means risking our friendship for good. Our toxic, sickening, twisted friendship.

It’s something, though, and isn’t that better than nothing at all?

The door pushes open, and a beam of white light cuts through the darkness.

‘Thank God,’ I call over, relieved for the distraction from my own thoughts. ‘I was starting to worry! Are you two all sorted now?’

A figure takes shape, silhouetted behind the torch. A man. I don’t see Fran anywhere, and I swear to God, if Leon’s left her bawling her eyes out in the loos, I’ll be having very strong words with him. She strikes me as such a fragile soul, and she’s so bloody nice , it’s like kicking a puppy.

I mean, sure, he didn’t say anything that wasn’t factually correct , but still. The girl’s going through it. Cut her some slack, you know?

But before I can tell Leon off, the shadow is barking, ‘ Qu’est que vous faisez ici? Mademoiselle, levez-vous, s’il vous plait .’

‘Oh! Er, sorry.’ I scramble to my feet, holding my hands up in the very picture of innocence with the most polite smile I can muster when I am gradually losing my mind over the course of this layover.

I respond in my very best French, ‘So sorry. The door was unlocked, and my friends and I were looking for somewhere to sit. It’s just so busy out there!

Can’t even hear yourself think, can you? Are we not allowed to be in here?’

The man lowers the torch a bit, and I see him scowling. It’s a security guard with a big, bristly grey moustache. ‘No, mademoiselle, you are not allowed to be in here. Where are your friends?’

‘They went to the toilet. Gosh, I had no idea! So sorry, again. I’ll just get our things and be out of your hair, shall I?’

He glares at me, unconvinced, and the torchlight sweeps over our collection of food, the suitcases, the bottle of whisky next to me. I suddenly panic that maybe I am going to be thrown in a French prison and forced to trade my bra for cigarettes like Bridget Jones. I don’t even smoke .

I blather on about how hectic it is in the terminal and how simply impossible it is to find a seat anywhere, what a nightmare all these delayed flights are for everyone.

I even thank my moustachioed security pal for letting me know this place is out of bounds, how I would hate to cause trouble when they have so much going on.

‘… I mean, gosh, those Disney dads earlier! I saw them fighting. So terrible.’

He softens just a little bit, moustache bristling in a friendlier way this time. ‘It is not the first time we have had a fistfight between Disney parents. The first time it was over who was the better Genie, though.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Did they decide on a winner at least?’

‘They were all equally terrible.’

Laughing, I try to wrangle all the bags and suitcases, but it’s not as easy as Leon made it look earlier, especially now we have all the food, too.

Then I beam at the security guard. ‘Could you help me with the bags, please?’

I’m sat on the floor – again – but at least this time I’m leaning against the end of a row of seats and have my phone plugged in to charge, so, silver linings and all that.

And I’ve got a great view when a woman in a Barbour jacket and heels storms out of the loos muttering, ‘Well, I never! Absolutely deplorable behaviour …!’ and then mere moments later, Leon and Fran walk out looking decidedly rumpled, cheeks flushed, and furtive expressions on their faces.

Fran’s face is bright pink, and she looks all squirmy.

She spots me first, nudging Leon to point me out.

I’m hyper-aware of the fact that I’m pretty sure they should both despise and condemn me right now after I revealed my video ‘mix-up’ plans, but this is too good. How am I supposed to be busy feeling guilty and awful when they’re going to show up, together , looking like this?

‘Don’t tell me that you two were party to some deplorable behaviour in those toilets,’ I say, doing nothing to hide the giant grin on my face.

It’s all the more delightfully scandalous for it being meek Fran and awkward Leon.

I would’ve thought a promenade through the gardens during a ball would be more scandal than either of them could handle – even in this day and age.

Will I get to be the maid of honour at their wedding? I am practically responsible for making this happen, I am sure of it. I mean, I did tell him to go after her.

I’m a total matchmaker. Emma Woodhouse, eat your heart out.

I say, ‘Have you been shagging in the loos? Please say yes. Let me live vicariously through you.’

‘We were not shag—’ Fran cuts off, turning even brighter pink, realising how loud she was just being.

She is doing precisely nothing to help her case, and I am fizzing with second-hand excitement.

Who knew Leon had it in him? She clambers down next to me, cross-legged, and hisses, ‘We were not shagging. We just – talked.’

‘Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?’

I waggle my eyebrows at Leon, who glowers in response, and I hoot with laughter.

‘What happened to your hide-out upstairs?’ Leon asks me.

He joins us on the floor; he starts to sit down next to Fran, then blushes, and moves to plop down on my other side instead.

My, is the sexual tension so great they’ll jump each other’s bones if they’re less than six inches apart?

I almost crack a joke about it, but decide to spare them both.

I’m not entirely sure if I’m forgiven, or if they’re just distracted.

I wave a hand. ‘Got kicked out by security. It’s alright, though. He helped carry all our stuff downstairs, and I am not in a French prison, so I’d say that’s a very good outcome all in all.’

Leon rolls his eyes and gives a soft chuckle, then opens up the last pizza box. My stomach growls, a booze-induced hunger hitting me at the smell of greasy cheese. I snatch up a slice, shoving it almost whole into my mouth.

Meanwhile, Leon waits for Fran to take a slice before getting one for himself. Oh my God, precious, they’re like teenagers at the cinema too shy to let their hands touch as they grab for the popcorn.

It’d be perfect, if she weren’t hopelessly in love with that douchebag Marcus.

As we chow down the pizza and dip into some crisps, too, the three of us sit in what I might call, dare I say it, companionable silence .

We’re all just tired, really, I think. We’ve been drinking and it’s been a hell of a day and we’re all dealing with a lot.

So it’s not that I’m forgiven, only that they don’t have the energy to go on the attack and berate me. And it’s not that they’re choosing to stick with me; it’s just that they don’t really have anywhere else to go.

Another flight gets called to its boarding gate, and when I look around, distractedly people-watching, I realise the airport is getting pretty empty.

The hubbub dies down, leaving it near-silent.

Someone is snoring – great, big, rattling sounds that drift down from the food-court balcony.

A kid is watching Bluey on an iPad, the volume low, and two women in the seats behind bop along to the title music, giggling quietly to themselves.

The maybe-siblings/maybe-married ginger pair are sat side by side still; her head is on his shoulder as she snoozes, but that doesn’t really prove anything either way …

So annoying. I need to know. Is it rude to ask them outright?

The messy gym-bro kid with the macarons and thong to woo his gal is sat on the stairs, rucksack hugged to him and fast asleep, a line of drool at the edge of his mouth.

I eye the Ladurée bag poking out the top of his rucksack, then root around our things for the three boxes I got at a steep end-of-day discount that we never got around to eating earlier.

As Fran opens her box to peruse, Leon only holds his in his lap and looks at me with an unnerving focus that makes my skin itch. He takes a deep breath before he speaks, and my spine goes stiff, my lungs squeezing tight.

‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to play the video, Gem.’

I snort. ‘You would say that. I’ll cut the bit about your family, don’t worry, but—’

‘No, I mean it. Nobody’s going to believe it was an accident, and it’s going to make you look just as bad as Kay – worse, maybe. I’m not saying you shouldn’t show it to Marcus, maybe he deserves to know, but—’

‘So what if it makes me look bad? Who cares?’ I should laugh, and roll my eyes, but I can’t quite bring myself to do anything except pick a few flakes of blue off the Marie-Antoinette tea macaron in my box.

I can’t even look in Leon’s direction, even as his gaze bores into my skull.

‘You saw those messages, what she says about me. It’s not like I’ve got anything left to lose. And Kayleigh …’

She’s got so much to lose.

So much I want to take from her , like she’s done to me over the years.

That thought swells in my chest, but it’s not with the anger I’m used to. It’s something heavy and wet and painful.

I close the box, my treasured French desserts suddenly losing all their appeal. I mutter something about being tired, and huddle down over my suitcase, arms folded under my head, where I can pretend to go to sleep, and they don’t have to see me cry.