Люси Фоли - The Guest List

‘Er – no,’ Hannah says. And then, quickly, ‘But as I say, we’re so out of the loop we wouldn’t know anywhere, even if it’s the place to go.’

She’s kind, Hannah. That is one of the things I know about her. It sort of … spills out of her. I remember meeting Hannah for the first time and thinking: oh, that’s who Charlie wants. Someone nice. Someone soft, and warm. I’m too much for him. I’m too angry, too driven. He would never have picked me.

I’m not envious of Hannah any more, I remind myself. Charlie might once have been the sailing club hottie but he’s softened now, a paunch where that flat brown stomach used to be. And he’s settled in his career, too. If I had anything to do with it he’d be gunning for a deputy head position. There’s nothing less sexy than a lack of ambition, is there?

I watch Charlie until his gaze snags on mine – I make sure I’m the first to glance away. And I wonder: is he now the jealous one? I’ve seen the mistrustful way he acts around Will, as though he’s trying to find the flaw. I caught him observing the two of us over drinks. And I felt it again, how good we look together, imagining it through his eyes.

‘How sweet ,’ Mum’s saying to Hannah. ‘Five’s a lovely age.’ She’s certainly doing a very good job of acting interested. ‘And how are your two, Ronan?’ she calls down the table. I wonder if it is an intentional slight, not to have included Séverine in her question. Actually – scrap that, I don’t need to wonder. Despite the impression she works hard to convey of bohemian vagueness, very little my mother does is unintentional.

‘They’re good,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Araminta. They’re starting at nursery soon, aren’t they?’ He turns to Séverine.

‘ Oui ,’ she says. ‘We are looking for a French-speaking nursery for them. So important that they grow up – ah – bileengual, like me.’

‘Oh, you’re bilingual?’ I ask. I can’t help the slight.

If Séverine notices, she doesn’t react. ‘ Oui ,’ she says with a shrug. ‘I went to a girl’s boarding school in the UK when I was leetle. And my brudders, they attended a school for boys there too.’

‘Goodness,’ Mum says, still speaking only to Dad. ‘It must all be so exhausting at your age, Ronan.’ Before he has a chance to reply she claps her hands. ‘While we’re between courses,’ she says, getting to her feet, ‘I’d like to say a little something.’

‘You don’t have to, Mum,’ I call. Everyone laughs. But I’m not joking. Is she drunk? It’s difficult to gauge, we’ve all had quite a bit. And I’m not sure it makes much of a difference with Mum anyway. She’s never had any inhibitions to lose.

‘To my Julia,’ she says, raising her glass. ‘Ever since you were a little girl you’ve known exactly what you wanted. And woe betide anyone who got in your way! I’ve never been like that – what I want always changes from week to week, which is probably why I’ve always been so bloody unhappy.

‘Anyway: you’ve always known. And what you want, you go after.’ Oh God. She’s doing this because I’ve banned her from doing a speech at the wedding itself. I’m sure of it. ‘I knew it from the moment you told me about Will that he was what you wanted.’

Not quite so clairvoyant as it sounds, seeing as I told her, in the same conversation, that we were already engaged. But Mum has never let inconvenient facts get in the way of a good story.

‘Don’t they look wonderful together?’ she asks. Murmurs of assent from the others. I don’t like the way the emphasis seemed to land on the ‘look’.

‘I knew Jules would need to find someone as driven as her,’ Mum says. And was there an edge to the way she said driven? It’s difficult to be sure. I catch Charlie’s eye across the table – he knows of old what Mum is like. He winks at me and I feel a secret fizz of warmth deep in my belly. ‘And she has such style, my daughter. We all know that about her, don’t we? Her magazine, her beautiful house in Islington, and now this stunning man here.’ She puts a red-nailed hand on Will’s shoulder. ‘You’ve always had a good eye, Jules.’ Like I picked him out to go with a pair of shoes. Like I’m marrying him just because he fits perfectly into my life—

‘And it might seem like madness to anyone else,’ Mum goes on. ‘To haul everyone out to this freezing godforsaken island in the middle of nowhere. But it is important to Jules, and that’s what matters.’

I don’t like the sound of that, either. I’m laughing along with the others. But I’m secretly bracing myself. I want to stand up and say my own piece, as though she’s the prosecuting barrister, and I’m the defence. That’s not how you’re meant to feel, listening to a speech from a loved one, is it?

Here’s the truth my mother won’t speak: if I hadn’t known what I wanted, and worked out how to get it, I wouldn’t have got anywhere. I had to learn how to get my way. Because my mother wasn’t going to be any bloody help. I look at her, in her frothy black chiffon – like a negative of a wedding gown – and her glittering earrings, holding her sparkling glass of champagne, and I think: you don’t get this. This isn’t your moment. You didn’t create it. I created it in spite of you.

I grip the edge of the table with one hand, hard, anchoring myself. With the other I pick up my glass of champagne and take a long swig. Say you’re proud of me , I think. And it will just about make everything all right. Say it, and I’ll forgive you.

‘This might sound a little immodest,’ Mum says, touching her breastbone. ‘But I have to say that I’m proud of myself, for having brought up such a strong-willed, independent daughter.’

And she does a little bow, as though to an adoring audience. Everyone claps dutifully as she sits down.

I’m trembling with anger. I look at the champagne flute in my hand. I imagine, for one delicious, delirious second, picking it up and smashing it against the table, bringing everything to a halt. I take a deep breath. And instead I rise to make my own toast. I will be gracious, grateful, affectionate.

‘Thank you so much for coming,’ I say. I strive to make my tone warm. I’m so used to giving talks to my employees that I have to work to keep the note of authority out of my voice. I know some women complain about not being able to get people to take them seriously. If anything, I have the opposite problem. At our Christmas party one of my employees, Eliza, got drunk and told me I have permanent resting bitch face. I let it go, because she was drunk and wouldn’t remember saying it in the morning. But I certainly haven’t forgotten it.

‘We’re so happy to have you all here,’ I say. I smile. My lipstick feels waxy and unyielding on my lips. ‘I know it was a long way to come … and difficult to get time away from everything. But from the moment this place came to my attention I knew it was perfect. For Will, so outward-bound. And as a nod to my Irish roots.’ I look to Dad, who grins. ‘And to see you all gathered here – our nearest and dearest – it means so much to me. To both of us.’ I raise my glass to Will, and he raises his in return. He’s so much better at this than I am. He exudes charm and warmth without even trying. I can get people to do what I want, sure. But I haven’t always been able to get them to like me. Not in the way that my fiancé can. He gives me a grin, a wink, and I find myself imagining carrying on what we started earlier, in the bedroom—

‘I didn’t believe this day would ever come,’ I say, remembering myself. ‘I’ve been so busy with The Download over the last few years that I thought I’d never have the time to meet someone.’