Page 6

Chapter Six

Francesca

It’s okay, I tell myself. Breathe . This sort of thing is practically expected on such a momentous occasion. It happens in all the great romances. It was bound to happen to me today. It’s a sign !

I keep telling myself that, even as I try to calm my racing heart and wipe my sweaty palms on my jacket.

The cabin is full of noise, and the crew are doing their best to make their way down the aisle to check seatbelts are fastened and to tell people to put their tray tables up.

The cute guy in the window seat of my row still has his down.

I wonder if he’s a writer, or some kind of artist; he hasn’t looked up once from that little green notebook.

When an air stewardess makes it to our row, I wait for her to tell him to put the tray table up before stealing her attention. Everybody on this flight is currently in the same situation, I know, but – but I have a predicament . This is life or death!

Well. Life or till death do us part …

‘Excuse me,’ I blurt before she can move away, ‘but I have to get to Barcelona tonight . I’m on my way to a wedding. Well, I’m actually …’ The nervous excitement that I’ve been carrying for weeks fizzes over, and a giggle spills out of my lips. ‘See, there’s this guy …’

She gives me a deadpan look. ‘Honey, there’s always a guy.’

‘He’s not just any guy, though, he’s—’

He’s my guy, and he’s marrying the wrong girl!

I’ve never said that out loud before, and I don’t get the chance to now, either.

The stewardess’s smile is tight, but she’s patient as she says, ‘Ma’am, everything will be sorted by the ground crew. Make them aware of your situation when you’re at the terminal; I’m sure they’ll be able to help.’

The window-seat guy whose bag caught on my jacket earlier leans over, then. ‘Wait, I have to get to a wedding too.’

Now, the stewardess loses her composure a bit, and lifts an eyebrow at him, her polite smile all but vanished. ‘I suppose there’s a guy in your story, too?’

His face twists. ‘Sort of, yeah …’

‘Well, whatever you two need to be in Barcelona for, I can only advise that you speak to someone at the terminal. I’m sorry.’

‘Wait, no, I’m serious—’ he exclaims, but she has already moved on, checking seatbelts and armrests and tray tables and trying not to get waylaid by more questions she can’t answer.

I turn to window-seat guy. He’s dragging a hand back and forth through a thick set of sandy-brown curls, muttering to himself and bent with his elbows on his knees.

The middle-aged man between us gives him a withering look he doesn’t notice, then huffs a sigh and puts his headphones back on.

There’s bound to be more than one wedding happening in Barcelona this weekend, but …

I study the guy’s profile, the squat nose and solid, square jaw accentuated by a neatly trimmed beard, scanning through my mental repertoire of people seen through long hours of Instagram stalking.

I can’t place him, though, and I’m still staring – frowning , too, I’m mortified to realise – when he looks up and catches me.

‘What?’ he snaps. ‘Sorry, am I bothering you?’

‘Just a bit, actually,’ the man in the middle seat mutters.

‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’ I’d be a bit peeved if some stranger was frowning at me, too, in all fairness, but I fumble the explanation, not sure where to start. If he is going to the same wedding, I can hardly let him know I’m on my way to confess my love for the groom, can I?

Window-seat tells me defensively, ‘Some of us have bigger problems to deal with than meeting up with some guy , alright? I’ve actually got somewhere I need to be – this is a nightmare. So you don’t have to look at me like that.’

Finally composing myself, I say, ‘A wedding. Yes, I heard you. I was just wondering if I knew you. If we’re going to the same wedding. I thought maybe you looked a bit familiar,’ I add, just a little white lie, to hopefully excuse my weird staring.

He blinks, and stares back at me, eyes tracking over my features in a way that leaves me feeling – exposed.

I can see why he didn’t like it. I sit up a bit straighter.

‘I don’t think so,’ he mutters, and goes back to the little notebook he was scribbling in.

‘You know, there’s no need to be rude ,’ I tell him, leaning around the poor irritated man in the middle seat to scowl at him better. ‘You’re not the only one stressing out right now.’

He looks a little chastened and can’t quite meet my eye. ‘Sorry. Sorry, you’re … you’re right. I’ve just … got a lot on my plate.’

‘With the wedding?’ I ask more softly. The odds are near impossible that he’s stressed for the same reason I am, but I can at least empathise with the wedding-related problems.

‘Yeah. I have to be in Barcelona tonight, too. I have to talk to my sister before her wedding. About …’ He fidgets with his notebook. ‘Some stuff.’

‘Sounds heavy.’

His sister’s wedding, he said. Does Kayleigh have a brother? I don’t remember seeing anything about her family on her socials, and she’s never talked about them whenever I have seen her … He’s certainly standoffish enough to be related to Kayleigh, though.

‘Well, good luck with whatever it is you need to talk to her about.’

‘Thanks,’ he mumbles. ‘Good, uh, good luck with your … guy.’

I beam, though he doesn’t notice. I’m still smiling as I settle back into my seat, fidgeting with the pins on my jacket.

Good luck with your guy .

It’s hardly much of a well-wish, but it’s more than I’ve had so far.

It’s not as if I can admit to my friends what’s really going on with Marcus – which is a bit of a red flag in itself, I know … But they’ll be happy for me when it all works out, and they’d only try to stop me otherwise!

They don’t know him; not like I do.

And my family have no idea the guy from work I have such a crush on is the one whose wedding I’m going to this weekend …

I’m bolstered a little by this total stranger in the window seat.

I just sort of hope he isn’t going to the same wedding as me, after all.

The crush of people clamouring to leave the plane as soon as it lands is immediate.

The doors aren’t even open, and despite the aisle on my left-hand side already being packed with impatient people, both the man in the middle seat and window-seat guy are standing and trying to squish past me to join the fray.

It takes far too long to get off the plane, followed by an even longer queue at customs, before – finally – we’re spat out into the main terminal of Orly Airport, the hubbub of French voices and announcements jarring when I was braced for a trip to Spain.

I’m not panicking. Yet.

There’s still plenty of time to get to the wedding. Maybe I’ll be on my way to Barcelona within the hour! It’s barely five thirty – I might miss dinner, but I could absolutely still make the drinks afterwards.

I let myself envisage it for a moment: arriving at the hotel bar where Marcus has plans with his friends, and the way he’ll look up to see me, a gaze that will make me feel like Cinderella at the ball, how he’ll walk towards me with that megawatt smile, how we’ll slip away to talk – to confess – to kiss …

Really, this diversion is doing me a favour. Otherwise, I would’ve had to sit through dinner waiting for my chance to speak to him, surrounded by people who think they’re there to celebrate him and Kayleigh.

There’s rain lashing down against the windows of the airport entrance, and the wind is positively howling . There are bits of rubbish being whipped about, umbrellas getting turned inside out, people hunkered down as they push forward against the storm to get inside.

I’ll be on my way soon enough; I’m sure it’ll be fine. The weather wasn’t even forecast to be this bad, so it’ll blow over.

Won’t it?

But even if I’m not panicking right now, I am on a mission.

I brace myself as I cut through swathes of people looking for their check-in counter, tracking down the desk we were directed to over the in-flight announcements.

There’s already quite a queue ahead of me, but I think I’ve managed to beat most of the families and couples who were waylaid juggling passports and collecting luggage.

I join the line, knowing I’ll be in for a bit of a wait.

I can only imagine how stressful it must be for the staff to have to coordinate re-routing all those passengers, plus whatever other flight delays and issues they might have to deal with this afternoon.

I’ll just have to be patient. Everything will work itself out.

‘Excuse me, sorry, excuse me …’ A man behind me leans over the rope barrier to the people ahead of us. ‘Sorry, do you mind if I cut in front? It’s just that I’m on a real time crunch, here. I’ve got to get to Barcelona tonight – my sister’s getting married.’

It’s window-seat guy from the plane!

He sees me looking, and when he does a double take, recognising me, too, I realise that I’m gawping at him; I’m just so surprised anyone would try to queue-jump. I try to rearrange my features into something more neutral, but I’m not entirely sure it works.

‘That’s hardly fair,’ I point out. ‘I’m on a time crunch trying to get to a wedding, too.’

‘I’m the bride’s brother,’ he points out.

‘And I’m the groom’s best friend.’ Ha, take that!

He opens his mouth to retort, but there’s already a cascade of sympathetic noises going through the queue ahead of us, and then we’re both being ushered underneath the rope so we can cut in.

I don’t turn it down, even if it does feel cheeky. I look down the line as I thank everyone, but window-seat guy is too busy on his phone to say more than a quick, ‘Cheers, mate.’

We’re standing a bit too close, given the space we’ve both just squashed into wasn’t really a space to begin with, so I can hear the dial tone on his phone as he rings somebody going to voicemail.

‘Shit,’ he mutters, then leaves a message: ‘Kay, hi, it’s me.

The bloody flight’s been re-routed, I’m stuck in Orly.

In France. I know your geography’s shite,’ he adds with a laugh.

‘Anyway, I’ll figure things out and get there as soon as I can.

I might miss all the festivities tonight, but I’ll be there , okay?

And … and let’s find some time before everything kicks off, yeah?

There’s stuff I need to talk to you about. Anyway, um, I’ll let you know. See ya.’

He hangs up, a long breath rushing out of him.

I say, ‘Kay? As in Kayleigh Michaels?’

We’re standing so close that I notice how much taller he is than me. That’s not really difficult – most people are – but I have to tip my head back to make eye contact.

Window-seat guy doesn’t say anything, so I continue, ‘You’re Kayleigh Michaels’s brother? That’s the wedding you’re going to?’

‘You’re …’ It’s obviously an effort for him to remember the brief conversation we had not two minutes ago. ‘Marcus’s friend.’

‘I’m his best friend.’

He laughs. ‘No, you’re not.’

I bristle, my shoulders squaring. I don’t tend to think of myself as someone who’s easily affronted, but this man seems to have a knack for getting my hackles up. ‘ Excuse me? ’

‘I know Marcus’s best man. And it’s not you.’

‘I didn’t say I was his best man .’ I roll my eyes. ‘As if he would’ve wanted me organising the stag weekend! But we’re very close.’

‘Right …’ he says, not sounding the least bit like he believes me – or even really cares.

He eyes me up and down, but it’s more curious than anything else, like he’s trying to place me.

I’m about to introduce myself properly when he says, ‘Listen, whatever boy drama you’ve got going on with one of the groomsmen, or whatever, keep a lid on it, okay?

I don’t need them thinking this is some bid to get on a flight sooner, like that stewardess on the plane did. ’

I flush, if only because he does sort of have a point, but I’m loath to let him have the last word so I say, ‘What’s so important you need to talk to Kayleigh about before the wedding?’

‘What?’

‘You just said, in your voicemail. You mentioned it on the plane, too. What do you need to talk to her about? Must be something really important if it was getting you that worked up.’

He looks at me with a face like thunder, dark enough to match the storm outside. His eyebrows pull low, and his mouth sets into a grim line.

‘Nothing,’ he mutters. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Ooh, a top-secret important something. Colour me intrigued.’

Alright, now I’m being the patronising one, but I can’t help it. It does lighten my mood a little to see that I’ve hit a nerve. I didn’t think I was someone who liked the concept of payback, but this conversation is starting to prove otherwise.

He grits his teeth, jaw working side to side as if he’s contemplating spitting some pointed retort at me to stay out of things that don’t concern me, or maybe to simply tell me to bugger off.

I wonder, when the look softens for a fraction of a second, if he’s debating telling me.

Spilling whatever’s eating at him to some relative stranger, just to ease his mind.

But he obviously thinks better of all those things, because he settles for turning away and ignoring me.

I say, ‘Well, this is going to be a lovely wedding.’