Люси Фоли - The Guest List

Will spins me away under his arm, and towards him again. The crowd cheer this flourish.

Then, when we’re facing one another once more, he takes a deep breath. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘Johnno has got this bee in his bonnet about this thing that he says happened in the past, when we were young. He’s obsessed by it. But he’s a fantasist. I’ve felt sorry for him, all these years. That’s where I went wrong. Feeling I should pander to him, because my life has worked out, and his hasn’t. Now he’s envious: of everything I have, we have. He thinks that I owe him.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I say. ‘What could you possibly owe him? He’s the one that’s clearly been hanging on your coattails for too long.’

He doesn’t answer this. Instead he pulls me close, as the song comes to its crescendo. A cheer goes up from the crowd. But they sound suddenly far away. ‘After tonight, that’s it,’ Will says firmly, into my hair. ‘I’ll cut him from my life – our life. I promise. I’m done with him. Trust me. I’ll sort it out.’

HANNAH

The Plus-One

I’ve wandered into the dance tent. The first dance is over, thank God, and all the guests who were watching have swarmed in to fill the space. I’m not sure what I want to find in here, exactly. Some distraction, I suppose, from the churn of thoughts in my head. Charlie and Jules. It’s too painful to think about.

It feels as though every single guest is crammed in here, a hot press of bodies. The band’s vocalist takes to the mic: ‘Are you ready to dance, girls and boys?’

They begin to play a frenzied rhythm – four fiddles, a wild, foot-tapping tune. Bodies are crashing around as everyone attempts, unsuccessfully, drunkenly, to do his or her version of an Irish jig. I see Will grab Olivia out of the crowd: ‘Time for the groom to claim his dance with the bridesmaid!’ But they seem oddly out of step as they careen on to the dance floor, as though one of them is resisting the other. Olivia’s expression gives me pause. She looks trapped. There was this bit in the speech. I thought that before. What was it? It had struck me as oddly familiar. I grope about in my memory for it, trying to focus.

The V&A museum, that was it. I remember her telling me last night about how she brought Steven there, to a party, held by Jules. And everything goes still as it occurs to me—

But that’s completely crazy. It can’t be. It wouldn’t make any sense. It must be a weird coincidence.

‘Hey,’ a guy says, as I push past him. ‘What’s the hurry?’

‘Oh,’ I say, glancing vaguely in his direction. ‘Sorry. I was … a bit distracted.’

‘Well, maybe a dance will help with that.’ He grins. I look at him more closely. He’s pretty attractive – tall, black-haired, a dimple forming in one cheek when he smiles. And before I can say anything he takes hold of my hand and gives me a gentle tug towards him, on to the laminate of the dance floor. I don’t resist.

‘I saw you earlier,’ he shouts, over the music. ‘In the church, sitting on your own. And I thought: She looks worth getting to know.’ That grin again. Oh. He thinks I’m single, here by myself. He can’t have caught that scene with Charlie in the bar.

‘Luis,’ he shouts now, pointing to his chest.

‘Hannah.’

Maybe I should explain that I’m here with my husband. But I don’t want to think about Charlie right now. And holding this flattering new image of myself through his eyes – not the badly dressed imposter I thought I was, but someone attractive, mysterious – I decide not to say anything. I allow myself to begin to move in time with him, to the music. I allow him to move a little nearer, his eyes on mine. Perhaps I move closer, too. Close enough that I can smell his sweat – but clean sweat, a good smell. There’s a stirring in the pit of my stomach. A little sting of want.

NOW

The wedding night

Someone else out there. The thought has them spooking at shadows, cringing away from shapes in the blackness, which seem to loom up at them and then reveal themselves to be nothing more than tricks of the eye. They move in a tight, close pack, afraid of losing another of their number. Pete is still missing.

They seem to feel the prickle of unknown eyes upon them. They feel clumsier now, more exposed. They trip and stumble over the uneven ground, over hidden tussocks of heather. They try not to think about Pete. They can’t afford to: they have to look out for themselves. Every so often they shout to one another for reassurance more than anything else, their voices like another light held against the night, uncharacteristically caring: ‘All right there, Angus?’ ‘Yeah – you OK, Femi?’ It helps them to keep going. It helps them forget about their mounting fear.

‘Jesus – what’s that?’ Femi sweeps his torch in a wide arc. It illuminates an upright form, rising palely out of the shadows, nearly as tall as a man. And then several similar shapes, some smaller, too.

‘It’s the graveyard,’ Angus calls, softly. They gaze at the Celtic crosses, the crumbling stone forms: an eerie, silent army.

‘Christ,’ Duncan shouts. ‘I thought it was a person.’ For a moment they all thought it: the round shape and thin upright base conspired briefly to seem human. Even now, as they retreat somewhat gingerly, it is hard to shake the feeling of being watched, reproachfully, by the many sentinel forms.

They continue for a time in a new direction.

‘Do you hear that?’ Angus shouts. ‘I think we’ve got too close to the sea now.’

They stop. Somewhere near at hand they are vaguely aware of the crash of water against rock. They can feel the ground shuddering beneath their feet at the impact of it.

‘OK. Right.’ Femi thinks. ‘The graveyard’s behind us, the sea’s here. So I think we need to go – that way.’

They begin to creep away from the sound of the crashing surf.

‘Hey – there’s something there—’

Instantly, they all stop where they are.

‘What did you say, Angus?’

‘I said there’s something there. Look.’

They hold out their torches. The beams they cast tremble on the ground. They are bracing themselves to find a grisly sight. They are surprised, and rather relieved, when the torchlight reflects brightly off the hard gleam of metal.

‘It’s a— what is it?’

Femi, bravest among them, steps forward and picks it up. Turning to them, shielding his eyes from the glare, he lifts it so they can all see. They recognise the object immediately; although it is mangled out of shape, the metal twisted and broken. It is a gold crown.

Earlier that day

OLIVIA

The Bridesmaid

I wander round the corners of the marquee. I move between the tables. I pick up half-full glasses, the remains of people’s drinks, and down them. I want to get as drunk as possible.

I pulled away from Will as quickly as I could, after he grabbed me for that dance. It made me feel sick, being so close to him, feeling his body pressed up against me, thinking of the things I’ve done with him … the things he got me to do … the horrible secret between us. It was like he was getting off on it. Right at the end he whispered in my ear: ‘That crazy stunt you pulled earlier … that’s the end of it, OK? No more. Do you hear me? No more.’

No one seems to notice me as I go about minesweeping their discarded drinks. They’re all pretty wasted by now and, besides, they’ve abandoned the tables for the dance floor. It’s absolutely crammed in there. There are all these thirty-somethings slut-dropping and grinding on each other as though they’re in some shit noughties club dancing to 50 Cent, not a marquee on a deserted island with some guys playing fiddles.