Faking with Benefits : Chapter 72

As I wait in line at the Heathrow baggage check, I can feel hundreds of eyes on me.

It’s been like this for days now. I barely left my hotel room all week, but whenever I did venture down the street to buy food or tampons, people blatantly stared at me. At first, I thought I was imagining it. But now, as I glance around the queue at the busy airport check-in, I know that I’m not. People really are looking at me. A gum-chewing teenage girl by the coffee shop is squinting at me like she’s trying to work out who I am. A cleaner has been absent-mindedly mopping the same square foot of floor for about five minutes straight as she openly stares at me. I meet her gaze, and she flushes, finally looking back down again.

“Excuse me,” a male voice says behind me. I turn and look into the face of a balding middle-aged man in a green sweater. He studies me. “Are you La—”

“No,” I say, turning back and glancing up at the huge clock hanging on the wall. My flight to New York leaves in thirty-five minutes, and I’ve not even checked my luggage yet. I’m running late. Me. Layla Thompson, the girl who’s usually at every appointment an hour early, is running so late that she might not make her flight.

I don’t even have an excuse. I didn’t get caught up in traffic. My taxi didn’t get lost. There wasn’t an accident on the motorway. Ever since I broke up with the guys, I’ve just been slow. Sluggish. It hurts to move. It hurts to do anything but lie in bed and cry.

The queue moves painfully slowly, but I finally get to the front of the check-in line and heave my big pink suitcase onto the conveyor belt, passing my passport and boarding card to the smiling official. “Hi. Sorry, I’m running a bit late.”

“Let’s see.” She checks my card. “Oh, that’s fine. I’ll send you through the priority line at security. Let’s just get you checked in.” She scans my card and frowns at her computer screen. “Layla Thompson?”

I can feel the guy behind me turn and stare. I stand up straighter. “Yep.”

“Is this your boarding card?” She asks, tapping at her keyboard with her pretty, coral-coloured fake nails.

“Yes,” I say, trying to hide my impatience.

“Hmm.” She scowls at her computer. “Can I have the card you bought this ticket with, please?”

“I didn’t buy it myself. I’m being flown out for a work opportunity.” I glance up at the giant clock on the wall. The second hand ticks down slowly.

“Ah.” The woman clears her throat. “I see.” She folds my boarding pass and hands it back to me. “I’m sorry. It appears whoever purchased your seat cancelled this ticket last night.”

I stare at her. There’s a staticky sound in my ears. “What?”

“I’m afraid the booking is no longer valid. We can’t accept you onto the flight.”

“I—” My head is spinning. What’s happening? “It must be some kind of mistake. Is there anything you can do? Can I buy the seat back myself?”

“The flight is fully booked. If you like, we do have a flight leaving in six hours for LA…?”

“I don’t want to go to LA.” My heart is beating faster now. I’m starting to panic. “I need to be in New York. In, like, twelve hours.”

“Our next New York flight isn’t until tomorrow, I’m afraid.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “If I were you, I’d contact your employer and explain. The ticket may have been cancelled by mistake. If that’s the case, I’m sure they’ll sort out alternative travel for you.” She glances down at my suitcase. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

I blink at her stupidly. My blood pounds in my ears. I feel light-headed. “I… no.” I force out.

She gestures to the side. “In that case, please take your baggage and stand aside, so I can serve the next customer.”

I nod numbly, heaving my suitcase off the conveyer belt and dragging it out of the check-in queue. My hands are sweating and shaking as I head to the nearest bench, flopping down onto the seat and pulling out my phone. I feel sick as I switch it on for the first time in days. I never should have turned it off. I should have just dealt with all the disgusting texts and emails. What if Anna didn’t get my call forwarding request? Maybe she tried to contact me, and it didn’t go through?

God. I’m such an idiot.

My phone screen lights up, playing a soft little chime — and then immediately starts to buzz as notifications roll in. Calls. Texts. Emails. Most of them are from unknown contacts, but I spot a few missed calls from the guys. I swipe all of the notifications away and tap at my email app. Immediately, a slew of awful subject titles blink at me.

My throat tightening, I scroll frantically through the messages until I find one from Anna Bardet Couture. It’s from three days ago.

My stomach sinks like a stone as I read the short message.

I stare at the words until they blur into grey smudges. How the Hell is this happening? Hasn’t the last week been bad enough?

Swallowing hard, I click on the phone number listed in the email signature. My phone rings for a few seconds, then there’s a click on the other end of the line.

“Vivian White, Anna Bardet Couture,” a cheery female voice says. “How can we help you today?”

I clear my throat. “This is Layla Thompson. I was due to fly out to visit your HQ today, but I just got to the airport, and they said that my flight had been cancelled?”

“Ah.” There’s an awkward pause. “Yes, Anna said you might call. I’m surprised you’re just finding out now, didn’t you get our email?”

“No. I’ve been a bit off-the-grid.”

There’s the sound of shuffling papers. “Well, Miss Bardet has decided to go in a direction which doesn’t include collaboration with your brand at this time. Sorry for any inconvenience! We wish you the best of luck with your future business endeavours.”

For a few seconds, I struggle to find words. In the end, I just choke out, “Why?”