Chapter Twelve
Jake
One second, we’re basking in the warm glow of the sun, and the next, we’re standing under stark white sterile lights.
There’s a bookshop to the right of us and the unmistakable smell of reheated fast food.
I dodge backwards to avoid my toes getting rolled over by the wheeled case of a suited-and-booted twat who’s barrelling past like he’s late for a divorce hearing.
A screaming kid lies across hard plastic chairs in the distance, and I watch, grimacing, while two exhausted-looking parents try to ply them with crackers from a resealable sandwich bag.
‘I hear Ibiza airport is lovely this time of year,’ I say, side-stepping a hen do in matching pink trackies.
The bride-to-be wears a white feather boa around her neck and a very orange belly button decorated with a butterfly charm peeks out from her crop top.
The maid of honour and mother of the bride, in their sashes, look like they’ve had a falling-out. Either that or they’re very hungover.
Belle gives me a withering look, rolling her eyes before scanning the crowd again.
‘We’re in arrivals, Jake. Use your brain. We’re not going back to the start of a holiday romance; we’re going to the end.’
‘Right. Obviously, I knew that.’
‘You didn’t.’ She’s doing that thing with her eyes, the one that means she’s mentally adding this to the list of reasons why I’m insufferable.
‘Absolutely did.’
Where is young Belle, then? I scan the crowd properly this time. To my left a rammed coffee shop. Outside it, a tearful reunion – elderly parents greeting backpacking teens like they’ve returned from war rather than a week in Europe.
Nearby, a man drops down on one knee before a very attractive, leggy blonde in denim shorts.
For a horrifying second, I think I’m about to witness a proposal at Stansted arrivals.
Then he reaches for his shoelace. False alarm.
I glance at Belle. She’s already looking at me with that one brow raised.
‘Thought we were about to get a show?’ she says.
‘Imagine proposing at Stansted. In front of Greggs.’
‘So romantic.’
‘Will you marry me? Also, do you fancy a sausage roll?’
Belle snorts, like properly snorts. An ugly, involuntary pig noise I haven’t heard in years. Who knew I’d miss the sound of a pig snorting? She’s surprised; her hands fly to her mouth, but it’s too late.
I grin. ‘Did you just—?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Belle, that was a pig noise. An actual pig,’ I tease. But that sound of her laughing … Why do I want to crack another joke? Make her laugh again? I open my mouth to try something else, but Belle cuts in. I shut my mouth and swallow instead.
‘Oh … there!’ she points over to the big double doors leading into the arrivals lounge.
Finally, in comes 2018 Belle, flanked by the girls.
They’re strutting like it’s a catwalk. Supermodels, but with a hangover.
Hangover’s Next Top Model. Hangover’s Got Talent.
Hangover’s Angels. They have sunglasses on, hair bunched at the top of their heads, baggy hoodies and skintight leggings.
Behind them swagger Nat and his ‘boyz’. One looks almost green with queasiness; the others jeer but keep their distance.
Nat is walking much faster than his crew, trying to keep up with young Belle and the girls. Belle and I follow them to the exit.
As the girls leave the airport through the double doors, Nat grabs Belle and spins her around, recycling the same move from the beach club. I roll my eyes. Get a new move, mate.
‘Am I gonna get your number, then, or what?’ Nat says. He looks smitten. Proper head over heels. Did I look that stupid too, when Belle and I first started dating?
Young Belle laughs. ‘And what would you do with that?’
‘Uh …’ Nat laughs nervously. ‘Call you? Text you?’
‘And what would we talk about?’ Belle is still smiling, not in jest, but kindly. There’s something different about the look behind her eyes.
‘I dunno … stuff?’
‘Look, Nat, I think you’re gorgeous, and this was fun. This was what I needed, but I think we both know it was just a holiday thing, yeah?’ Nat looks devastated. ‘Honestly, I wish you the best, but it’s best that we leave this here!’
I raise my eyebrows. That was actually good.
Not a disaster. In fact, it was the opposite of a disaster – she didn’t cry, didn’t raise her voice, didn’t throw anything; no sugar-coating, no ‘let’s stay friends’ bullshit, no ‘it’s not you, it’s me’.
I cough, thinking of all the times I used that one.
This Belle said the thing, and she meant it.
And Nat is taking it! Reluctantly, but he’s nodding. He’s not even arguing back.
When did Belle learn to do that?
I look at her, how her shoulders are back, chin up, not even flinching as Nat’s face crumbles – she’s holding eye contact, for God’s sake! The girl I knew would have cried, apologised for crying, then apologised for apologising. This one stands her ground and says it how it is. I’m impressed.
‘That was … actually handled well!’
Belle spins around to look at me, surprised. ‘Was that a compliment?’
‘Don’t get used to it. You’ve still got questionable taste in men. Present company excluded, obviously.’
‘You’re dead, Jake. Technically, not company. You’re haunting me, remember?’ Fair point.
Belle turns back to the scene. Nat is standing there, backpack strap sliding off one shoulder. He readjusts, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Yeah. Yeah, it was worth a shot, though, right?’ He flashes that smile of his.
‘Always.’ Belle grins up at him. She squeezes his arm and walks off to join the girls.
‘This was the first time I’d felt properly in control of my own life … like, ever. And especially in control of my own love life.’ Her voice beside me is almost shaky – with pride maybe, or relief, I can’t quite tell which.
I nod, watching Nat run to catch up with his lads, and I can tell he’s not thrilled, but at least he’s not making a scene. Still, I wouldn’t have given up that easily.
Belle’s gals are waiting just outside the sliding doors, hands on hips; soon, Rachael starts pointing like she’s witnessed something historic and Daniela is somewhere behind her, talking at the same time.
‘This is good. A-star for past Belle,’ she says beside me, proudly.
‘You go, Glen Coco.’ I raise my hand for a high five.
She stares at me. ‘Did you just quote Mean Girls?’
‘I’ve watched a lot of films. Don’t make it weird.’
She returns the high five and exhales, long and deliberate, then she does something with her shoulders – a shimmy, like she’s physically shaking something off – before straightening up completely.
‘What a relief! Right. Rehearsal dinner. Shall we?’
‘After you.’ I bow.
‘Oh, one more thing. Don’t go to my room without me there. You’ve lost room privileges. Lie low in a cupboard or something,’ she adds.
‘Gotcha,’ I reply and take her hands in mine.