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Chapter Thirty-eight

Leon

I get the aisle seat this time, able to stretch out a little more.

Gemma spends most of the flight with her nose pressed to the window watching the sunrise and looking deep in thought, and Francesca is tucked into the middle seat between us, reading on her Kindle.

Every so often she throws a hand over her mouth or gives a quiet squeal of delight over something the characters do, which is more endearing than I’d like to admit.

Given that she’s on her way to tell another man she’s in love with him, and all.

The unhappy redheaded honeymooners are in the row in front, and by unspoken agreement, we take turns sneaking a glance between the seats at them to try and settle our debate. I’m sure I see her kiss him on the cheek at one point.

This time on the flight to Barcelona, I pull down my tray table and open my notebook, pressing the pages flat.

I flip past all my irate scribbles from earlier about what a prat Marcus is and start writing.

I’m sure when she wakes up, Myleene is going to be frantic with the realisation that I never sent her my speech in case I don’t make it in time, but she’ll get over it.

I’ll be there.

And, if I need it, if the wedding goes ahead … I’ll have a speech.

The first time we met Marcus, we weren’t sure he’d stick around.

After all – meeting the family on Christmas Day?

That could be make-or-break for most relationships.

A far cry from a cup of tea and some polite small talk, everything hinged on whether he liked sprouts or if he complained about the turkey being too dry, and if he was willing to endure the Doctor Who special.

Just imagine, if he beat Nana at charades – that would’ve been the end of it …

I write my speech, still not sure if I’ll need it, and by the time the plane is coming into land around eight a.m., the whole thing feels totally surreal. Almost like I never actually expected to get here at all.

And, despite all the time I had to think about it in Orly Airport Terminal 3, after everything Gemma said about Kay, the stomach-churning WhatsApp group chat reveal, the damning video from the hen do …

Even after all that, I still don’t feel like I know what to do any better now than I did on the flight out yesterday.

Is it worth telling Kay we don’t think Marcus is good for her?

Is it going to make any difference? Should I tell her that she’ll lose us all if she carries on like this, and is that really what she wants?

Will I live in regret if I keep my mouth shut – like Francesca was scared of doing?

It’s driven her to pretty drastic measures. Maybe I should do the same?

It’s easy for Francesca to say I’m not responsible for how Kay treats our family, and it’s easy for me to acknowledge that she’s right – but accepting it, feeling like I don’t have that duty to our family … That’s a different thing altogether.

Come on, Nana, send me a sign .

The moment the plane lands and the seatbelt signs are off, it’s like someone flips a switch in all three of us – because we snatch up our things, leap to our feet, scramble to be the first ones off the plane.

‘T-minus two hours, thirty minutes till the ceremony,’ I tell the girls, but they’re both so distracted I’m not sure they hear.

Gemma’s turning her phone on and whispering curses, tugging at her hair and chewing her lip, frantically sending messages about the flowers and the caterers and the photographers to the ‘new’ group chat, trying to corral some sense of order to problems they’re already haranguing her about.

Francesca, meanwhile, turns into a bundle of nervous energy – or maybe it’s excitable, I can’t quite tell.

She bounces on the balls of her feet, her whole body practically vibrating as she clutches her passport and Kindle to her chest and fidgets with one of the pins on her jacket.

She stares ahead, hardly seeing, and I wonder if she’s daydreaming about the movie-perfect scene in which she declares her love to Marcus and he scoops her up in his arms and …

It’s like an episode of Love Island . How long will they actually last, out there in the real world?

I glance over at Gemma, who’s sending a too-chipper voice note saying, ‘Joss, babe, the seafood paella is for this evening , can you just ask the hotel to make sure it’s signposted?

They did confirm with me three days ago the calligrapher sent all the labels over, I did tell you guys this, haha!

There’s a vegan risotto alternative and they’re serving family-style anyway, so it’s totally no big, we thought this might happen.

But like, hilarious, who needs to flag their dietary restrictions on the RSVP like they’re supposed to?

Soooo typical. Also, Andi, hon, the hairdresser does speak English, she’s an ex-pat, so you do not need to find a translator for Kayleigh to make sure it’s all “bueno” … ’

When she finishes, Francesca says to her, ‘You even sound like a different person when you talk to them, Gemma.’

Gemma flinches, but she and Francesca share a weighted look, and her smile is small and sorry for herself when she shrugs it off.

There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach, the ghost of a thought circling the edges of my sleep-deprived and hungover brain, a conversation I should’ve had with Gemma that’s only just occurring to me and that we never got around to having.

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 a real time 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. ‘But we have 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, you need 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 even smell fresh, 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 into an 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 is not my 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 was so fun 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 that dress , 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 tells us, ‘Don’t worry, I kept the limoncello. We definitely earned it, however this fucking wedding goes.’

Near the doors, we skirt past the unhappy honeymooners, and the girl throws her arms in the air. ‘I told you Mum wasn’t coming to pick us up! What do you mean you didn’t book a taxi? I swear to God, I got all the brains and all 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.

At the taxi rank, Gemma strides right past the queue, saying loudly, ‘Sorry, everyone, sorry, it’s an emergency – my best friend’s wedding, I’m not going to make it in time!

Have a heart! This is desperate times! Maid of honour reporting for duty!

Brother of the bride and groom’s best friend in tow! Make way!’

I don’t know what magic she has in her veins, or maybe it’s just that she can be a little bit scary when she wants to be, but nobody seems to object when the three of us cut to the front of the queue.

A guy steps forward and opens the back door of a cab, and Gemma slides on in. Francesca follows, scooting by with a yelped, ‘I’m so sorry! It really is a bit of an emergency!’

‘What the hell!’ the guy shouts.

I grab their abandoned suitcases from the kerb and the driver and I hurl them into the boot, along with my own bags.

Gemma is shouting, ‘It’s my best friend’s wedding! She will literally kill me if I miss it!’

‘You don’t understand,’ the guy yells, ‘I have to get to—’

I nudge past him too, prising his hand off the top of the door so I can pull it closed behind me as I squeeze in beside the girls.

‘Sorry, mate.’

It’s only after I pull the door closed and Gemma all but screams at our driver to vámonos , giving him the address of the hotel and saying we’ll pay extra if he can get us there quickly, that I realise the guy whose taxi we just stole is the kid with silver hair.

He’s got a sad-looking bouquet of tulips in hand, now.

Francesca notices too, and pulls a sympathetic face.

‘Oh, I hope his girlfriend isn’t annoyed he’s late.’

‘She’ll be more annoyed at the absolute state of him,’ Gemma says. ‘At least we bothered to scrub up well. Now hold my phone up for the camera – I need to do my eyeshadow.’