Люси Фоли - The Guest List

THE GUEST LIST

Lucy Foley

Copyright

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2020

Copyright © Lost and Found Books Ltd 2020

Jacket design by Claire Ward © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2020

Jacket images © John Race/Arcangel Images (island), Shutterstock.com(lighthouse)

Lucy Foley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008297169

Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008297183

Version: 2019-12-24

Dedication

For Kate and Robbie, the most supportive siblings a girl could hope for … Luckily nothing like the ones in this book!

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Now: The wedding night

The day before: Aoife: The Wedding Planner

Hannah: The Plus-One

Jules: The Bride

Johnno: The Best Man

Olivia: The Bridesmaid

Jules: The Bride

Hannah: The Plus-One

Olivia: The Bridesmaid

Aoife: The Wedding Planner

Now: The wedding night

The day before: Hannah: The Plus-One

Now: The wedding night

The day before: Jules: The Bride

Johnno: The Best Man

Hannah: The Plus-One

Now: The wedding night

The day before: Olivia: The Bridesmaid

Johnno: The Best Man

Jules: The Bride

Aoife: The Wedding Planner

The wedding day: Hannah: The Plus-One

Aoife: The Wedding Planner

Now: The wedding night

Earlier that day: Jules: The Bride

Now: The wedding night

Earlier that day: Olivia: The Bridesmaid

Aoife: The Wedding Planner

Johnno: The Best Man

Jules: The Bride

Hannah: The Plus-One

Johnno: The Best Man

Aoife: The Wedding Planner

Olivia: The Bridesmaid

Jules: The Bride

Johnno: The Best Man

Hannah: The Plus-One

Aoife: The Wedding Planner

Now: The wedding night

Earlier that day: Jules: The Bride

Olivia: The Bridesmaid

Hannah: The Plus-One

Johnno: The Best Man

Hannah: The Plus-One

Johnno: The Best Man

Aoife: The Wedding Planner

Jules: The Bride

Hannah: The Plus-One

Now: The wedding night

Earlier that day: Olivia: The Bridesmaid

Jules: The Bride

Olivia: The Bridesmaid

Now: The wedding night

Several hours earlier: Hannah: The Plus-One

Now: The wedding night

Earlier: Aoife: The Wedding Planner

Jules: The Bride

Olivia: The Bridesmaid

Now: The wedding night

Earlier: Will: The Groom

Hannah: The Plus-One

Olivia: The Bridesmaid

Jules: The Bride

Johnno: The Best Man

Aoife: The Wedding Planner

Will: The Groom

Now: The wedding night

Earlier: Will: The Groom

Now: Johnno: The Best Man

Aoife: The Wedding Planner

Epilogue

Several hours later: Olivia: The Bridesmaid

The next day: Hannah: The Plus-One

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Lucy Foley

About the Publisher

NOW

The wedding night

The lights go out.

In an instant, everything is in darkness. The band stop their playing. Inside the marquee the wedding guests squeal and clutch at one another. The light from the candles on the tables only adds to the confusion, sends shadows racing up the canvas walls. It’s impossible to see where anyone is or hear what anyone is saying: above the guests’ voices the wind rises in a frenzy.

Outside a storm is raging. It shrieks around them, it batters the marquee. At each assault the whole structure seems to flex and shudder with a loud groaning of metal; the guests cower in alarm. The doors have come free from their ties and flap at the entrance. The flames of the paraffin torches that illuminate the doorway snicker.

It feels personal, this storm. It feels as though it has saved all its fury for them.

This isn’t the first time the electrics have shorted. But last time the lights snapped back on again within minutes. The guests returned to their dancing, their drinking, their pill-popping, their screwing, their eating, their laughing … and forgot it ever happened.

How long has it been now? In the dark it’s difficult to tell. A few minutes? Fifteen? Twenty?

They’re beginning to feel afraid. This darkness feels somehow ominous, intent. As though anything could be happening beneath its cover.

Finally, the bulbs flicker back on. Whoops and cheers from the guests. They’re embarrassed now about how the lights find them: crouched as though ready to fend off an attack. They laugh it off. They almost manage to convince themselves that they weren’t frightened.

The scene illuminated in the marquee’s three adjoining tents should be one of celebration, but it looks more like one of devastation. In the main dining section, clots of wine spatter the laminate floor, a crimson stain spreads across white linen. Bottles of champagne cluster on every surface, testament to an evening of toasts and celebrations. A forlorn pair of silver sandals peeks from beneath a tablecloth.

The Irish band begin to play again in the dance tent – a rousing ditty to restore the spirit of celebration. Many of the guests hurry in that direction, eager for some light relief. If you were to look closely at where they step you might see the marks where one barefoot guest has trodden in broken glass and left bloody footprints across the laminate, drying to a rusty stain. No one notices.

Other guests drift and gather in the corners of the main tent, nebulous as leftover cigarette smoke. Loath to stay, but also loath to step outside the sanctuary of the marquee while the storm still rages. And no one can leave the island. Not yet. The boats can’t come until the wind dies down.

In the centre of everything stands the huge cake. It has appeared whole and perfect before them for most of the day, its train of sugar foliage glittering beneath the lights. But only minutes before the lights went out the guests gathered around to watch its ceremonial disembowelling. Now the deep red sponge gapes from within.

Then from outside comes a new sound. You might almost mistake it for the wind. But it rises in pitch and volume until it is unmistakable.