Люси Фоли - The Guest List

There’s a sound in the cave then, a woman’s voice: ‘Hello?’

Both of us freeze.

‘Will?’ It’s the wedding planner. ‘Are you in here?’ She appears around the bend of the rock wall. ‘Oh, hello, Johnno. Will, I’ve been sent to find you – the other ushers told me that they’d left you in here.’ She sounds totally calm and professional, even though we’re all standing in a bloody great cave, and one of us is slumped on the ground tied up and blindfolded. ‘It’s been nearly half an hour, so Julia wanted me to come and … well, rescue you. I should warn you that she’s not—’ She looks like she’s trying to find a way to put it delicately. ‘She’s not as delighted as she might be by this … And the band are about to start.’

She waits, as I untie Will and help him up, watching over us like a schoolteacher. Then we follow her out of the cave. I can’t help wondering if she heard or saw anything. Or what I would have done if she hadn’t interrupted us.

AOIFE

The Wedding Planner

In the marquee the celebrations have moved into another gear. The guests have drunk the champagne dry. Now they are moving on to the stronger stuff: cocktails and shots at the temporary bar. They are high on the freedom of the night.

In the toilets in the Folly, refreshing the hand towels, I find tell-tale spills of fine white powder on the floor, scattered across the slate sink surround. I’m not surprised, I’ve seen guests wiping their noses furtively as they return to the marquee. They have behaved themselves for the rest of the day, this lot. They have travelled long distances to be here. They have come bearing gifts. They have dressed themselves appropriately and sat through a ceremony and listened to the speeches and worn the proper expressions and said the right things. But they’re adults who have briefly left their responsibilities behind; they’re like children without their parents present. Now this part of the day is theirs for the taking. Even as the bride and groom wait to begin their first dance they press forward, ready to make the dance floor their own.

An hour or so earlier, on a trip back to the Folly, I heard a strange noise, upstairs. The rest of the building was barricaded off, of course, but there are only so many measures you can take to stop drunk people going where they want. I went up to inspect, pushed open the door of the bride and groom’s bedroom and found, not the happily married couple, but another man and woman, bent low over the bed. At my intrusion they scrambled to cover themselves, she yanking down her skirts red-faced, he covering his bobbing erection with his own top hat. Only a little while later, I saw them both returning innocently to different corners of the marquee. What particularly interested me about this was that they both appeared to be wearing wedding bands. And yet – and I’ve probably memorised the table plan as well as Julia herself now – I happen to know that all husbands and wives are seated opposite each other.

They weren’t worried about me, though: not really. Their initial panic at my entrance gave way to a kind of giggly relief. They know I won’t expose their secret. Besides, I wasn’t particularly surprised. I’ve seen much of the same before. This extremity of behaviour is very much par for the course. There are always secrets around the fringes of a wedding. I hear the things said in confidence, the bitchy remarks, the gossip. I heard some of the best man’s words in the cave.

This is the thing about organising a wedding. I can put together a perfect day, as long as the guests play along, remember to stay within certain bounds. But if they don’t, the repercussions can last far longer than twenty-four hours. No one is capable of controlling that sort of fallout.

JULES

The Bride

The band have begun to play. Will – who returned to the marquee looking slightly unkempt – takes my hand as we step on to the laminate floor. I realise I’m holding his hand hard enough to hurt, probably – and I tell myself to loosen my grip. But I’m incensed by the interruption to the evening caused by the ushers and their stupid prank. The guests surround us, whooping, hollering. Their faces are flushed and sweaty, their teeth bared, their eyes wide. They’re drunk – and more. They press forward, leaning in, and the space suddenly feels too small. They’re so close that I can smell them: perfume and cologne, the sour, yeasty smell of Guinness and champagne, body odour, booze-soured breath. I smile at them all because that is what I am meant to do. I smile so much that there is a dull ache somewhere beneath my ears and my whole jaw feels like an overstretched piece of elastic.

I hope I’m giving an impression of having a good time. I’ve drunk a lot, but it hasn’t had any discernible effect other than making me more wary, more jittery. Since that speech I’ve been feeling a mounting unease. I look around me. Everyone else is having a great time: their inhibitions truly thrown off now. To them the train wreck of a speech is probably a mere footnote to the day – an amusing anecdote.

Will and I turn one way, then the other. He spins me away from him and back again. The guests shout their appreciation of these modest moves. We didn’t go to dance lessons, because that would be unspeakably naff, but Will is a naturally good dancer. Except that a couple of times he treads on the train of my dress; I have to yank it away from under his feet before I trip. It’s unlike him, to be so graceless. He seems distracted.

‘What on earth was all of that?’ I ask, when I’m drawn to his chest. I whisper it as though I am whispering a sweet nothing into his ear.

‘Oh, it was stupid,’ Will says. ‘Boys being boys. Messing around, you know. A little leftover from the stag, maybe.’ He smiles, but he doesn’t look quite himself. He downed two large glasses of wine when he returned to the marquee: one after the other. He shrugs. ‘Johnno’s idea of a joke.’

‘The seaweed was supposedly a little joke last night,’ I say. ‘And that wasn’t very bloody funny. And now this? And that speech – what did he mean by all of that? What was all that about the past? About keeping secrets from each other … what secrets did he mean?’

‘Oh,’ Will says, ‘I don’t know, Jules. It’s only Johnno messing around. It’s nothing.’

We turn a slow circle about the floor. I have an impression of beaming faces, hands clapping.

‘But it didn’t sound like nothing,’ I say. ‘It sounded very much like something. Will, what sort of hold does he have over you?’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Jules,’ he says sharply. ‘I said: it’s nothing. Drop it. Please .’

I stare at him. It’s not the words themselves so much as the way he said them – that and the way he has tightened his hold on my arm. It feels like as strong a corroboration as one could ask for that whatever it is it’s very much not nothing.

‘You’re hurting me,’ I say, pulling my arm out of his grip.

He is immediately contrite. ‘Jules – look, I’m sorry.’ His voice is totally different now – any hint of hostility immediately gone. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you. Look, it’s been a long day. A wonderful day, of course, but a long one. Forgive me?’ And he gives me a smile, the same smile I haven’t been able to resist since I saw it that night at the V&A museum. And yet it doesn’t have the same effect it normally does. If anything, it makes me feel more uneasy, because of the speed of the change. It’s as though he’s pulled on a mask.

‘We’re a married couple, now,’ I say. ‘We are meant to be able to share things with one another. To confide in each other.’