Page 8

Chapter Eight

Leon

‘You have got to be kidding me,’ I mutter, more to myself than to either of the girls.

They flank me – Gemma with her arms crossed and hip cocked out to the side like she can glare the flight information board into submission, Francesca nervously dithering with her bags and phone, biting her lip.

I knead a knuckle to my forehead, closing my eyes and shifting away from the glare of the board, and the flight that’s now nine hours away.

Is this an omen? Stuck halfway to Barcelona until the morning, caught in a storm. It’s got to be.

But an omen against what? The wedding? Or the talk I suddenly planned to have with my sister?

I look at the board again like it holds all the answers, but it just says the same thing.

DELAYED.

It’s not good news, obviously, but it could be worse. Like, not getting there in time for the ceremony at all.

I must say it out loud, because Gemma snorts. ‘I told her it was a bad idea to have the ceremony at ten thirty in the morning, but she was adamant. She just had to have so much time scheduled for photographs …’

‘Oh,’ Francesca says, ‘that explains it. I did wonder about it being quite so early.’

I’m hardly listening to either of them, though, trying to mentally calculate ahead. It’s almost two hours from here to Barcelona, it’ll take – what, thirty minutes? An hour? – to get through passport control, then it’s at least an hour’s drive to the venue …

It’s cutting it close for me to find time to talk to Kay before she starts getting ready for the wedding. To sit her down and ask if she’s really sure about this, really sure about him.

It’s a fine line to walk – voicing concern enough to give her an out if she wants to take it, without making her feel like we’ll all judge her if she chooses Marcus – but now, at least, I’ve got time to think about it. Really hone what I want to say. What we all should have said a long time ago.

It won’t give her much time to think about it, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. Nothing I can do about any of this, except wait.

Obviously, Gemma’s freaking out. She’s the maid of honour. She’s got a role to play, things to do. Kay’s running a tight ship with this wedding, and Gemma’s been involved in all of it.

I’m not saying Gemma took over as if it was her own wedding. Or at least, I’m not saying that to her face .

So, she’s probably got tasks to complete, people to oversee. She’s probably mad she’s missing out and can’t swoop in and take over, too, but I won’t dare voice that either.

I don’t know why Francesca’s all worked up, though. She looks ready to cry, or hyperventilate – so much so that I have this weird urge to reassure her. I push that aside, though. She’s not my friend; she’s definitely not Kayleigh’s friend.

It’s just a mate’s wedding , I want to tell her, calm down already. You’ll make it.

Unless …

She mentioned ‘a guy’ to the air stewardess on the flight.

She can’t mean Marcus, can she? Alarm bells start ringing in my head – I remember Kayleigh calling her an interfering harpy, her voice a little too shrill to let us believe it’s some silly little joke.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Francesca didn’t make it?

Kay would probably prefer it if Marcus’s work wife wasn’t, you know, there with his actual wife.

She doesn’t look like much of a harpy. But she must be, or else why would Kay be so bothered – so threatened – by her?

Is Marcus actually oblivious, or just choosing to be?

Is Francesca? Doesn’t she know what she’s doing? Some ‘best friend’ of the groom she is, when the only time she’s ever mentioned is when Marcus is cracking a joke about his work wife and Kay’s eye twitches as she tries to laugh along.

I look at Francesca as if the answers will be written all over her face. Like there’ll be the word ‘HOMEWRECKER’ in scarlet lipstick across her forehead.

Which there isn’t, of course, and she glances over like she can feel my gaze on her, and jolts a little at whatever expression is on my face. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s writing on my face that says ‘I DON’T TRUST YOU’, at this point.

She frowns back at me, big eyes narrowing.

‘How,’ Gemma demands, stealing both our attention, ‘has our flight been delayed already , in the time it took for us to get through security? This is actual madness. This is not happening. What are we supposed to do here for the next nine hours!’ she cries.

And she’s looking at me. More specifically, between me and Francesca, as if we’re all buddies now, all in this together. The only reason we’ve not parted ways yet is because she’s still holding onto all the boarding passes and food vouchers.

The need to be in control is something she and Kayleigh share. It’s not hard to see why they’re such good friends. They’re alike in a lot of ways.

I don’t know why she’s looking at me – us – like we’ve got the answers.

The sheaf of papers is still pinched between her thumb and forefinger, hanging at her side where her arms are folded, and I reach out to take them, divvying the pile into three and handing them out.

I say, ‘I don’t know about you guys, but I figure I’ll set myself up with a cup of tea and find a seat somewhere. We’re going to be in for a long wait, and that’s if we’re not delayed any more than we already are.’

‘A cup of tea does sound good right about now,’ Francesca murmurs.

Gemma is nodding along fiercely. ‘Yes! Perfect. Definitely what the doctor ordered. Come on, let’s go find some seats before the whole terminal is full. Set up camp!’

She strides off towards the escalator to our right, where there are big signs pointing to the food court, and Francesca is already following.

‘It wasn’t an invitation,’ I say, even though neither of them hears me.

I trudge after them; it’s not like I’ve got much choice.

Upstairs is busy. The seating area is clustered in the centre of the space, essentially on a wide balcony overlooking the main concourse.

The booths are an orangey leather and there are stools upholstered in pale green velvet, and some of the tables have entire trees growing up through the middle of them.

It’s actually a lot less pathetic-looking than I’d expect for an airport food court.

It’s still a far cry from the white-and-gold glamour of Kayleigh’s wedding venue.

Most of the tables and seats are taken; everybody who’s already here has clearly had the same idea as us, but Gemma makes a beeline for the centre, weaving deftly between the crowded tables and finding an empty one for us.

It’s small, only intended for two, but she snags an empty chair from nearby and whirls it into place for us before throwing her coat over it, marking our territory.

Francesca and I are a lot less nimble on our way to join her. I hear her muttering, ‘Sorry, sorry, excuse me,’ behind me, and my suitcase keeps catching on the legs of people’s chairs. I make sure to keep my satchel tucked in close, where it won’t catch on Francesca’s jacket again.

We all arrange our suitcases on the empty side of the table, Gemma collecting them neatly together before beaming up at us both from where she’s tucked into the booth.

‘I’ll have a flat white, oat milk – and two shots of vanilla syrup, if they have it.’

Oh, great, so I suppose one of us is buying her drink, then.

‘And if they don’t?’ Francesca says, but Gemma only laughs. Francesca heads over to the counter in the corner where they’re selling sandwiches and coffees, and I’m once again left with no choice but to follow. It’s not as if I’m going to expect her to buy my drink, too.

Francesca pauses to browse the case of pastries near the tills. A middle-aged man who’s just paid turns, attention fully on his phone, and walks straight into her. He must stand on her foot – hard – because she jumps away with a pained expression.

‘Oi,’ he barks. ‘Watch where you’re going.’

I scowl; what a douchebag.

But Francesca only mumbles, ‘I’m so sorry, I was just—’

‘Not bloody paying attention!’ He tsks , noisily, and marches off to wait at the end of the counter for his drink – immediately burying his nose back in his phone.

I almost say something myself when, instead of calling the hypocrite out, Francesca just bows her head and takes it, scurrying to the back of the queue.

I’m not sure what I thought was going to happen. I’ve got Kayleigh’s voice in my head calling her manipulative, a harpy. Did I think she was … what, going to seduce him into apologising?

Obviously not, but … That meek wallflower behaviour doesn’t exactly scream ‘man-stealing harlot’.

Even as I join the queue right behind her, I try to hang back.

I look at the sandwiches in the open-front fridge (none of which look hugely appealing) trying to look busy, but Francesca is staring hard at me.

It’s like a physical thing , laser beams driving into my skull that are impossible to ignore for too long.

So, eventually, I give up, and ask her, ‘What?’

‘I think we got off on the wrong foot.’

‘ What? ’

She clasps her hands in front of her, her purse and phone held between them.

The purse is battered, old, a faded navy leather.

Her phone case is the clear plastic kind with pressed flowers in.

Actually, her whole look is … eclectically mismatched.

I can see the enamel badges crowded on her denim jacket in more detail now – one that’s a pink and white stack of books, one saying something I can’t read in swirly writing, an astrological sign, a yellow tulip, a video-game character, a red and white mushroom with a cutesy face, a Taylor Swift one.

I wonder if she’s collected them lovingly over the years, gifts from friends, or if it’s all just to look ‘quirky’, in that way female characters do sometimes in movies.

Try-hard, fake, alluring for being so off-beat and ‘not like other girls’.

That would check, knowing what I do about her.

‘I think we got off on the wrong foot,’ she repeats.

‘On the plane. Or in the queue downstairs. Maybe both?’ Her voice goes up more than it should with the inflection of the question – nerves, I think.

She bites her lip, then stops, then tries to smile.

Her head cocks slightly to the side as she does so, which some distant corner of my brain registers as cute. Or annoying. That’s yet to be seen.

She goes to say something else, but I cut her off.

‘You’re Marcus’s friend from work. Francesca.’

‘Actually, we’re very good friends outside of the office, we’re—’

‘You’re the work wife.’

She blushed, earlier, when Gemma said it. I noticed. But now, she reels back a little, as if the words are a physical blow.

‘We’re friends,’ she reiterates, but even she doesn’t sound very sure about that now.

‘Right. And I’m Leon. The bride’s brother. There – introductions done, we’re off on the right foot. Better?’

The words come out sharper, meaner, than I’m used to hearing myself talk, and she looks a little hurt by it, but that only solidifies something that’s unfurled in my chest. I’ve never been the protective big-brother type when it comes to Kay.

Even if I’m older by four years, she always acted like the elder sibling.

She was loud and bright and brave, and I …

mostly just faded into the background. Coasted along in her shadow.

But God, if Francesca isn’t bringing that out in me now. I think it has more to do with my dislike of Marcus than a protectiveness over Kay, but that’s something to deal with later.

Or, you know, never.

Maybe Francesca is just his friend. Maybe she really doesn’t see anything wrong with it. Maybe she thinks she’s just here to support a mate and celebrate his wedding, and doesn’t know the impact she’s had, how much Kay sweeps it under the rug.

She swallows, hard. I hear it. She closes her mouth where it’s parted into an ‘O’ of shock, and lifts her chin. I hear the sharpness of her inhale. Her eyes – the ones which were so wide and shining just a second ago, like she was about to cry – turn icy. They’re pale blue, I notice. Almost grey.

Even though she doesn’t say anything else, I get the message loud and clear: Fine, if that’s how you want to be. Fine.

I don’t bother to apologise.