They search me thoroughly. I have to take off my shoes and a woman pats me down, checks my waistband, hairline and around my bra.
Coupled with the heat and the crowds, the overpowering stench of perfume from the duty-free mall that we’re forced to walk through makes me want to heave. Imagine working in that every day – the glare of the lights, the lack of pure air, the chemical smells.
‘We’ve an hour,’ Tom says. ‘I’ll use the Wi-Fi.’ He points to the desks.
‘I’ll meet you at the gates,’ I say. ‘I’m going to get a bite to eat.’
Around me, as I unwrap my sandwich, there are groups of holiday-makers, families and couples, some business types in suits with laptop bags, and a stag party in matching football shirts with rude names on the backs: Twat, Dickhead, Arsehole. Hilarious.
I chew slowly, hoping to settle my stomach, and take small sips of tea.
Two girls come in, backpackers by the look of them, clothes in clashing prints, bracelets, piercings and tattoos. I wonder where they’re headed, have a stupid urge to go and make conversation, tell them to be sure to keep in touch with people back home, to pass on the numbers of new friends or lovers, to take care and stick together.
‘Look at the state of that,’ one of the stag party says. ‘You’d have to be desperate.’ The girls hear, we all hear, and one of them turns bright red, like she’s been scalded. A surge of anger and something like shame flames hot inside me and I turn around and raise my voice to the man, ‘Keep your nasty little comments to yourself, you sexist shit.’
This wins me a chorus of boos and jeers and foul language. No one else in earshot says a thing, though they’re all aware of the scene playing out: glances fly between groups, people move in their seats or bow to whisper to their neighbours.
I imagine the bride-to-be: what must she be like to accept a proposal from Fuckwit or Knobhead? I conjure up some girl teetering on high heels with a startling spray tan, false eyelashes and a dress the size of a handkerchief, all feminine incompetence. And then I despise myself for thinking that – isn’t the whole point that women should be able to be whoever they want to be, to dress however they like, without any censure?
With my own cheeks burning, I doggedly finish my tea, then find a seat in the concourse and wait until the gate is flagged up on the screens. I text Nick, Love you, about to board xxx and he replies,
