Page 31 of The Ghost of Exes Past

Nat spins me around, kisses me intensely, and I feel the balcony shift around them – not slow motion, exactly, more like the volume dropping and everything else fading in the background, the girls screaming at the edge of it all. The whole thing narrows down to the two of them in the middle of it.

‘Rebound holiday shag. Classic. I get it.’ I slap him lightly on the arm, and he laughs, nudging me back. ‘So, apart from him being a walking advert for protein powder, why was this so significant? An Ibiza one-night stand was important to you, was it?’

I get goosebumps. Not from the question, but from knowing the full answer.

‘You’ll find out.’ I smirk. ‘To the end?’

Jake exhales in the humid heat. ‘To the end.’

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?’