Люси Фоли - The Guest List

‘I sent her over to the Folly for a couple more bottles of champagne,’ the head waitress – only twenty or so herself – says helplessly.

There is a palpable hush in the marquee. The guests are looking among the throng of people for their loved ones, to check that they are safe and accounted for. But it is difficult to spot anyone among the seething crowd, all a little worse for wear after a day of carousing. It is difficult, too, because of the structure of this state-of-the-art marquee: the dance floor in one tent, the bar in another, the main dining section in the largest.

‘She could have had a scare,’ a man suggests. ‘She’s a teenage girl. It’s pitch-black out there and it’s blowing a gale.’

‘But it sounds like someone needs help,’ another man says. ‘We should go and see—’

‘We can’t have everyone wandering all over the island.’ They listen to the wedding planner. She has an innate authority, though she looks as shocked as the rest of them, her face drawn and white. ‘It is blowing a gale,’ she says. ‘It’s dark. And there’s the bog, the cliffs. I don’t want someone else to … to injure themselves, if that is what has happened.’

‘Must be shitting herself about her insurance,’ a man mutters.

‘We should go and look,’ one of the ushers says. ‘Some of us blokes. Safety in numbers and all that.’

The day before

JULES

The Bride

‘Dad!’ I say, ‘You terrified poor Hannah!’ I mean it was a bit of an overreaction from her, dropping her glass like that. Did she really have to make such a scene? I stifle my annoyance as Aoife begins sweeping up the shards, moving discreetly around us with a broom.

‘Sorry.’ Dad grins at us all as he enters the room. ‘Thought I’d give ye all a little fright.’ His accent is more pronounced than usual, presumably as he’s on home turf, or nearly. He grew up in the Gaeltacht, the Irish-speaking part of Galway, not far from here. Dad’s not a big man but he manages to take up quite a bit of space and presents an imposing figure: the set of his shoulders, the broken nose. It’s difficult for me to see him objectively, because of what he is to me. But I suppose an outsider might assume he was a boxer or something similarly pugilistic, rather than a very successful property developer.

Séverine, Dad’s latest wife – French, not far off my age, one part décolletage and three parts liquid eyeliner – slinks in behind him, tossing her long mane of red hair.

‘Well,’ I say to Dad, ignoring Séverine (I can’t be bothered to spend much time on her until she passes the five-year mark, Dad’s record to date). ‘You’ve made it … at last.’ I’d known they were scheduled to arrive about now – I had to ask Aoife to arrange the boat. But even then I’d wondered if there might be some excuse, some delay that meant they couldn’t make tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time.

I notice Will and Dad sizing each other up surreptitiously. In Dad’s company, oddly, Will seems a little diminished, a little less himself. Looking at him, in his pressed shirt and chinos, I’m worried that to Dad he might seem privileged and glib, very much the ex-public schoolboy.

‘I can’t believe this is the first time you’ve met,’ I say. Not for want of bloody trying. Will and I flew to New York specially a few months ago. At the last minute, we learned, Dad had been called away on business in Europe. I imagined our planes crossing somewhere over the Atlantic. Dad is a Very Busy Man. Too busy, even, to meet his daughter’s fiancé until the eve of her wedding. Story of my bloody life.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ronan,’ Will says, holding out a hand.

Dad ignores the gesture and cuffs him on the shoulder instead. ‘The famous Will,’ he says. ‘We meet at last.’

‘Not particularly famous yet,’ Will says, giving Dad a winning grin. I wince. It’s a rare misstep. It sounded like a humblebrag and I’m fairly sure Dad didn’t mean ‘famous’ as a reference to the TV stuff. Dad’s not a fan of celebrities, of anyone making their fortune by anything other than proper hard graft. He’s a proudly self-made man.

‘And this must be Séverine,’ Will says, reaching across to give her a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Jules has told me so much about you – and about the twins.’

No, I haven’t. The twins, Dad’s latest progeny, were not invited.

Séverine simpers, melting beneath Will’s charm. This does not seem likely to endear Will further to Dad. I wish it didn’t matter to me what my father thinks. And yet I stand, transfixed, watching as the two of them circle each other in the small space. It is excruciating. It’s some relief when Aoife comes through and tells us that dinner is about to be served.

Aoife is a woman after my own heart: organised, capable, discreet. There’s a coolness to her, a detachment, which I suppose some might not like. I prefer it. I don’t want someone pretending to be my best friend when I’m paying her to do something. I liked Aoife the moment we first spoke on the phone and I’m half tempted to ask if she’d consider leaving all of this and coming to work at The Download . She might look quite homely, but she has a steelier side.

We make our way through to the dining room. Mum and Dad, as planned, are seated either end of the table, as physically distant from one another as it is possible to get. I’m genuinely not sure if my parents have spoken more than a few words to one another since the nineties and it’s probably better for the harmony of the weekend if that continues. Séverine, meanwhile, is sitting so close to Dad that she might as well be on his lap. Ugh: she may not be far off half his age but she’s still a thirty-something, not a teenager.

Tonight, at least, everyone seems to be on pretty good behaviour. I think the several bottles of 1999 Bollinger we’ve drunk are probably helping. Even Mum is being fairly gracious, acting the role of mother-of-the-bride with aplomb. Her skills as an actress have always seemed to come to the fore in real life rather than on the stage.

Now Aoife and her husband come in bearing our starters: a creamy chowder flecked with parsley. ‘This is Aoife and Freddy,’ I tell the others. I don’t say that they’re our hosts because, really, I’m the host. I’m paying for that privilege. So I settle on: ‘the Folly belongs to them.’

Aoife gives a neat little nod. ‘If you need anything, come to either of us,’ she says. ‘I hope you’ll all enjoy your stay here. And the wedding tomorrow is our first on the island, so it will be particularly special.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Hannah says graciously. ‘And this looks delicious.’

‘Thank you,’ Freddy says, finding his voice. He’s English, I realise – I’d assumed he was Irish like Aoife.

Aoife nods. ‘We picked the mussels ourselves this morning.’

Once we’re all served the conversation around the table resumes, with the exception of Olivia, who sits there mutely, staring at her plate.

‘Such fond memories of Brighton,’ Mum is saying to Hannah. ‘You know, I performed down there a couple of times.’ Oh God. Not long before she starts telling everyone about that time she had penetrative sex on screen for an arthouse film (never got a release, probably now on PornHub).

‘Oh,’ Hannah replies, ‘we feel a bit guilty about not getting to the theatre more often. Where did you perform? The Theatre Royal?’

‘No,’ Mum says, with that slightly haughty tone that creeps into her voice when she’s been shown up. ‘It’s a little more boutique than that.’ A toss of her head. ‘It’s called “The Magic Lantern”. In the Lanes. Do you know it?’