Люси Фоли - The Guest List

Finally Charlie glances in my direction. I shake my head, slowly, deliberately, so he can make no mistake of my meaning. Don’t do it.

‘What’s the fuck’s going on here?’ Duncan crows. Oh God, he’s caught me doing it. He swivels to Charlie. ‘She keep you on a leash, Charlie boy?’

Charlie’s ears have gone bright red. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Obviously not. Yeah, fine. I’m in.’

Shit. I’m torn between wanting to stay so I can try to stop him doing anything stupid and thinking I should leave him to it and let him take himself out, no matter the consequences. Especially after all that unsubtle flirting with Jules.

‘I’m going to deal,’ Johnno says.

‘Wait,’ Duncan says, getting to his feet, clapping his hands. ‘We should do the school motto first.’

‘Yeah,’ Femi agrees, joining him. Angus stands too. ‘Come on, Will, Johnno. Old times’ sake and all that.’

Johnno and Will rise.

I look at them – all, except Johnno, so elegantly dressed in their white shirts and dark trousers, expensive watches at their wrists. I wonder why on earth these men, who have apparently done so well for themselves since, are still obsessing about their school days. I can’t imagine banging on about crappy old Dunraven High. I never had any resentment towards it but it’s also not somewhere I think about all that much. Like everyone else, I left in a scribbled-on leaver’s shirt and never really looked back. No leaving school at 3.30 p.m. and heading home to watch Hollyoaks for these guys – they must have spent a chunk of their childhoods locked in that place.

Duncan begins to drum slowly with a fist on the table. He looks around, encouraging the others to join him. They do. Gradually it gets louder and louder, the drumming faster, more frenzied.

‘Fac fortia et patere,’ Duncan chants, in what I guess must be Latin.

‘Fac fortia et patere ,’ the others follow.

And then, in a kind of low, intent murmur:

‘ Flectere si nequeo superos,

Acheronta movebo.

Flectere si nequeo superos,

Acheronta movebo! ’

I watch the men, how their eyes seem to gleam in the flickering candlelight. Their faces are flushed – they’re excited, drunk. There’s a prickle up my spine. With the candles and the dark pressing in at the windows and the strange rhythm of the chanting, the drumming, I feel suddenly like I’m watching some satanic ritual being performed. There’s a menacing element to it, tribal. I put a hand to my chest and I can feel my heart beating too fast, like a frightened animal’s.

The drumming intensifies to a climax, until it’s so frenzied that the crockery and cutlery is leaping about all over the place. A glass hops its way off the corner of the table and smashes on the floor. No one apart from me pays it any attention.

‘Fac fortia et patere!

Flectere si nequeo superos,

Acheronta movebo!’

And then, finally, right when I feel I can’t bear it any longer, they all give a roar and stop. They stare at each other. Their foreheads glisten with sweat. Their pupils seem bigger, like they’ve taken a hit of something. Big hyena laughs now, teeth bared, slapping each other on the back, punching each other hard enough to hurt. I notice Johnno’s not laughing as hard as all the others. His grin doesn’t convince, somehow.

‘But what does it mean?’ Georgina asks.

‘Angus,’ Femi slurs, ‘you’re the Latin geek.’

‘The first part,’ Angus says, ‘is: “Do brave deeds and endure”, which was the school motto. The second part was added in by us boys: “If I can’t move heaven, then I shall raise hell.” It used to get chanted before rugby matches.’

‘And the rest,’ says Duncan, with a nasty smile.

‘It’s so menacing,’ Georgina says. But she’s staring up at her red, sweaty, wild-eyed husband as though she’s never found him so attractive.

‘That was kind of the point.’

‘Right, ladies ,’ Johnno shouts. ‘Time to stop fannying around and get some drinking done!’

Another roar of approval from the others. Femi and Duncan mix the whisky with wine, with sauce left over from the meal, with salt and pepper, so it forms a disgusting brown soup. And then the game begins – all of them slamming down their hands on the table and yelling at the top of their voices.

Angus is the first to lose. As he drinks the mixture slops on to the immaculate white of his shirt, staining it brown. The others jeer him.

‘You idiot!’ Duncan shouts. ‘Most of it’s going down your neck.’

Angus swallows the last gulp, gags. His eyes bulge.

Will’s next. He puts it away expertly. I watch the muscles of his throat working. He turns the glass upside down above his head and grins.

Next to end up with all the cards is Charlie. He looks at his glass, takes a deep breath.

‘Come on, you pussy!’ Duncan shouts.

I can’t watch this. I don’t have to watch this. Sod Charlie, I think. This was meant to be our weekend away together. If he wants to take himself down it’s his bloody lookout. I’m his wife, not his mother. I stand up.

‘I’m going to bed,’ I say. ‘Night all.’

But no one answers, or even glances in my direction.

I push into the drawing room next door and as I walk through I stop short in shock. A figure’s sitting there on the sofa, in the gloom. After a moment I recognise it to be Olivia. ‘Oh, hey there,’ I say.

She looks up. Her long legs stick out in front of her, her feet bare. ‘Hey.’

‘Had enough in there?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘You staying up for a bit?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘No point in going to bed. My room’s right next to that .’

As if on cue from the dining room comes a burst of mocking laughter. Someone roars: ‘Drink it – drink it all down!’

And now a chant: Down it, down it, down it – switching suddenly into raise hell, raise hell, RAISE HELL! Sounds of the table being smashed with fists. Then of something else shattering – another glass? A slurred voice: ‘Johnno, you fucking idiot!’

Poor Olivia, unable to escape from all that. I hover in the doorway.

‘It’s fine,’ Olivia says. ‘I don’t need anyone to keep me company.’

But I feel I should stay. I feel bad for her. And actually, I realise I want to stay. I liked sitting with her in the cave earlier, smoking. There was something exciting about it, a strange thrill. Talking to her, with the taste of the tobacco on my tongue, I could almost imagine I was nineteen again, talking about the boys I’d slept with – not a mum of two and mortgaged up to the eyeballs. And there’s also the fact that Olivia reminds me of someone. But I can’t think who. It bothers me, like when you’re trying to think of a word and you know it’s there on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I’m not all that tired. And I don’t have to get up early tomorrow morning to deal with two crazy kids. There’s some wine in our room – I could go and grab it.’

She gives a small smile at this, the first I’ve seen. And then she reaches behind the sofa cushion and pulls out an expensive-looking bottle of vodka. ‘I nicked it from the kitchen earlier,’ she says.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, even better.’ This really is like being nineteen again.

She passes me the bottle. I unscrew the cap, take a swig. It burns a freezing streak down my throat and I gasp. ‘Wow. Can’t think of the last time I did that.’ I pass the bottle to her and wipe my mouth. ‘We got cut off, earlier, didn’t we? You were telling me about that guy – Callum? The break-up.’