When Angelica stepped onto the plane the cabin fell completely silent. Then people began to cough and rustle their newspapers to cover up the fact that they’d all been staring, open-mouthed.
Muttering apologies to the flight attendants, Angelica slid into a seat just across the aisle and slightly in front of us, explaining to the passenger next to her that she had a terribly upset stomach.
“She must have got caught short,” I whispered to Graham.
“I suppose so,” he whispered back. “If you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. Bit embarrassing for her, though.”
I glanced at Angelica. She was sitting bolt upright, her back not quite touching the seat, arms clasped tightly across her chest as if she was literally holding herself together. Her whole face was screwed up with intense concentration and her lips were moving, as if in prayer.
“Do you think she might be scared of flying?”
“It’s a common phobia,” Graham replied. “And it might explain the stomach upset. When it comes to fear, I believe that kind of physical reaction isn’t unusual.”
I kept a close eye on Bill’s ex-wife over the top of my magazine. When we’d taken off and the seatbelt lights went out, everyone in the cabin visibly relaxed, unbuckling straps and reclining seats, making themselves comfortable for the journey. Everyone but Angelica, that is. She remained in the same position, as still as a statue. Only her lips moved. I couldn’t hear the words, but she was muttering something to herself, over and over again, which I thought could mean one of two things. She was either (a) really frightened about flying (in which case, why had she got on a plane in the first place?), or (b) up to something.
Once we’d reached the right altitude the cabin crew brought out a trolley and started wheeling it down the aisle. When it stopped beside Angelica, the flight attendant put a hand on her arm to attract her attention. Angelica looked up and there was a flash of something desperate in her eyes that made the attendant take a step back. She refused every freebie on offer with a miniscule shake of her head, then closed her eyes again and carried on muttering, arms even more tightly wrapped around herself. It was as if she was concentrating all her energies on something important and couldn’t be distracted for even one second. It was kind of spooky and reminded me of the English homework we’d been working on when Tessa’s call had come through. As I watched I began to think Angelica looked less and less like a terrified traveller and more and more like a witch. Maybe she wasn’t praying; maybe she was putting a curse on something. Or someone. Goosebumps popped up all over my arms.
“What on earth is she doing here?” I muttered to Graham. “Do you reckon she’s going to the wedding?”
“No! Can’t be…” Graham pulled a face. “It says in Hi! that the divorce was amicable – at least on Bill’s part – but surely it can’t have been that amicable. Can you imagine anyone wanting their ex-wife at their wedding?”
“No… It’s a bit of a weird coincidence, though, isn’t it? Angelica being on the same flight as us?”
“It is,” said Graham thoughtfully. “And it’s the kind of coincidence that’s inclined to make me feel apprehensive.”
“Me too.”
Things got a whole lot more awkward when we landed in Athens. For a few minutes we lost sight of Angelica – she nipped to the Ladies as soon as we got off the plane – and then we couldn’t see her in all the crush and confusion of going through passport control.
The minute we entered the arrivals lounge I noticed a huge moustached man lurking by the barrier. An impressively deep tan highlighted the contours of his razor-sharp cheekbones, and even though the sun had gone down long ago he was wearing very dark glasses. He was holding a large square of cardboard with “Sally Marshall” scrawled hastily across it in marker pen.
“Oh!” exclaimed Graham’s mum, stepping towards him nervously. “That’s me. Are you…?”
“Gregor Ravavich,” he replied smoothly, removing his sunglasses for a moment and throwing a cheesy wink at Sally. “Come.” He jerked his head towards the exit. “You are with me now.”
We fell into single file, trooping obediently along behind him, but we’d barely walked three metres when we heard someone calling out his name.
“Gregor! Gregor!” The voice wasn’t particularly commanding but it made him stop in his tracks. He turned. We all did. And there was Angelica Strummer, walking carefully towards us as if the linoleum floor was an ice rink.
“Holy Mother!” whispered Gregor, aghast. “What is she doing here?” The blood drained from his face, leaving his suntan looking like a bad paint job. Then he flushed so violently he went almost purple.
Angelica held her hands out towards him and there was nothing he could do but take them and graciously accept the air kisses she bestowed on both cheeks.
“Thanks for coming. Shall we get going?”
Gregor didn’t say a thing. He just stood there, looking horrified, as Angelica linked her arm through his. She gave a small, insistent tug and we all moved off again. The super-suntanned man seemed powerless to resist. As for us – well, Angelica hadn’t even glanced at Sally, let alone me or Graham. It was weird, but it didn’t seem to me that she was being deliberately rude. It was more that we were invisible to her. Somehow she’d got it into her head that Gregor had come to collect her, and he was way too polite to put her straight.
I’ve noticed that when grown-ups are really embarrassed, they do one of two things: either they try to wriggle out of the situation or they pretend it isn’t happening. Gregor had apparently decided on the second option. With a determined shrug of the shoulders that said “Not my problem” as clearly as if he’d shouted the words out loud, he allowed Angelica to come along.
Sally, on the other hand, attempted to take evasive action. Surreptitiously pulling her mobile from her bag, she tapped in a number and started whispering frantically into it. I could only hear her half of the conversation, but it went like this:
“Tessa! It’s me. Sally. Sally Marshall. The chef! Yes. No. It was fine. Yes. Bit late but we’re on our way. Listen, Angelica’s here. Angelica… You know. Thought I should warn you.”
“No idea. I haven’t talked to her. But she seems to be coming with us.”
“Well, Gregor’s letting her. Yes, I’m sure Josie will go mad, but what do you expect him to do? Rugby-tackle her?”
“No, I can’t!”
“No, I won’t. I’m not about to start fighting a total stranger. You’ll just have to deal with her when we get there.”
Sally switched her phone off, huffed indignantly and then said to no one in particular, “This is going to be hideous! I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t come.”
“We’d have been far better off staying at home,” Graham said gloomily.
I couldn’t agree: this was riveting stuff!
It wasn’t long before we were climbing into a helicopter. Sally, Graham and I crammed ourselves into the back while Angelica took her place in the front as if it was rightfully hers.
We took off – not a particularly pleasant experience – and soared into the night, the lights of Athens twinkling below us then gradually getting further away until they disappeared altogether and we were being carried over the empty blackness of the Mediterranean.
As we flew, Angelica’s lips kept moving as they had done on the plane. And this time I was close enough to hear what she was saying, over and over, chanting in time to the whirring helicopter blades like a witch’s incantation: “She has to go. I’ll make her go. She has to go. I’ll make her go. She has to go. I’ll make her go.”
The prospect of Josie’s wedding day being the happiest of her life suddenly seemed very remote indeed.