The Guest List

by Lucy Foley

  ‘Brad Pitt is really fucking old,’ I say.

  ‘Um – Harry Styles?’

  That almost makes me smile. ‘Yeah. Maybe. Or Timothée Chalamet.’ I always thought Callum looked a bit like him. ‘But Callum probably hadn’t thought about me for a moment, especially not while Ellie’s stupid big tits were in his face.’ I told myself I had better stop fucking thinking about him.

  ‘And did this guy … what was his name?’

  ‘Steven.’

  ‘Did he say anything? When you met, about you being so much younger?’

  I give her a look. That sounded a bit judge-y.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, with a laugh. ‘But, seriously, did he?’

  ‘Yeah, he did. He asked me if I was really twenty-six. But he didn’t say it in a suspicious way, more like it was, I dunno – a joke we were both in on. It didn’t really seem to matter to him, not then. And he was nice,’ I say, though it’s hard to remember that now. ‘I was having a good time. He laughed at all my jokes. He asked me loads of questions about myself.’

  I cast my mind back to that night. Being in that bar with the drinks going to my head – I was drinking Negronis because I thought that would make me seem older. ‘My original plan was to get a photo,’ I say, ‘post it to my Instagram.’ Let Callum see what he was missing.

  ‘I’m guessing …’ Hannah looks at me, ‘a bit more than that happened?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I take a gulp of vodka.

  There was this moment, I remember, when I thought maybe he was going to say goodbye, but he opened the door of the cab and turned to me and said: ‘Well, are you getting in?’ And in the taxi (not even an Uber, a proper black cab), how this little voice kept piping up: What are you doing? You hardly know him! But the drunk part of me, the part of me that was up for it, kept telling it to shut up.

  We went back to Jules’s place, because he’d just moved house and didn’t have any proper furniture. I felt a bit bad about it, but I told myself I’d wash the sheets.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘This is impressive. And it all belongs to you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, feeling like I’d got a whole lot more sophisticated in his eyes.

  ‘And then we had sex,’ I tell Hannah. ‘I guess I wanted to do it before the booze wore off.’

  ‘Was it good?’ Hannah asks. She sounds excited. And then: ‘I haven’t had sex for ages. Sorry. I know that’s TMI.’

  I try not to think of her and Charlie having sex. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It was a bit – y’know. A bit rough? He pushed me up against the wall, pushed my skirt up around my waist, pulled my knickers down. And he— Can I have a bit more of that?’ Hannah passes me the bottle and I take a quick slug. ‘He went down on me, even though I hadn’t had a shower. He said he preferred it like that.’

  ‘Right,’ Hannah says. ‘OK. Wow.’

  Callum and I had never done anything very adventurous. I guess the sex I had with Steven was better than anything I’d had with Callum, even if, after he’d made me come with his mouth that first time, I weirdly felt like crying for a moment.

  ‘I saw him, like, quite a few times after that,’ I tell Hannah.

  I feel rather than see Hannah nod, her head so close to mine that I sense the movement of the air. I find myself telling her how I liked seeing myself the way he seemed to: as someone sexy, someone adventurous. Even if sometimes I felt like I was out of my depth, not always totally comfortable with all the stuff he asked me to do in bed.

  ‘I mean,’ I say, ‘it wasn’t like it was with Callum, when it felt like we were …’

  ‘Soulmates?’ Hannah asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. It’s a pretty cringe word, but it’s also exactly right. ‘This was different, I guess. With Steven it was like he only showed me a tiny bit of himself, which—’

  ‘Left you wanting to see more?’

  ‘Yeah. I was sort of obsessed by him, I think. And he was so grown-up and so sophisticated, but he wanted me. And then—’ I shrug. ‘I fucked up.’

  Hannah frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I dunno. I suppose I wanted to prove to him I was mature. And we never seemed to do anything together, other than meet up and, you know, have sex. I had this – this feeling that he might only be interested in me for that.’

  Hannah nods.

  ‘But at the end of the summer Jules’s magazine was throwing this party at the V&A, and I thought it would be a cool thing to bring him to. A proper date. Like, impress him a bit. Make him think I was grown-up and mature.’

  I tell Hannah about walking up those steps and seeing all these very grown-up glamorous people milling around inside, all looking like film stars. And how the guy who checked our names looked over me like he didn’t think I should be there, whereas Steven seemed to fit in so perfectly.

  ‘I got a bit nervous,’ I said. ‘Especially of having to introduce him to Jules. And there were all these free drinks. I had way too many of them, to try and feel more confident. I made a total twat of myself. I had to go and be sick in the loos – I was a state. And then Steven put me in a cab back to Jules’s, and I couldn’t even ask him to come with me because she would be there later on. I remember him counting out the notes to the cab driver. And then asking him to make sure I got home safe, like I was a child.’

  ‘He should have gone with you,’ Hannah says. ‘He should have made sure you were all right. Not left it to some taxi driver.’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe. But I was such a fucking embarrassment. I’m not surprised he wanted to be rid of me.’

  I remember watching him out of the window and thinking: I’ve blown it. And thinking, if I were him, maybe I’d just go back inside and hang out with people my own age who could hold their booze.

  ‘After that he started ghosting me.’ In case she doesn’t know what that means I say, ‘You know, like not replying? Even though I could see the two little blue ticks.’

  She nods.

  ‘I went back to uni. One night I got a bit drunk and sad after a night out and I sent him ten messages. I tried to call him on the walk to Halls at two a.m. He didn’t answer. Didn’t reply to my texts. I knew I’d never see him again.’

  ‘Shit,’ Hannah says.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So was that it?’ she asks, when I don’t say any more. ‘Did you see him again?’ And then, when I don’t answer: ‘Olivia?’

  But I can’t speak. It’s like I was under some sort of spell before, it was so easy to talk. Now it feels as though the words are stuck in my throat.

  There’s this image in my brain. Red on white. All the blood.

  When we get back to the Folly, Hannah says she’s knackered. ‘Straight to bed for me,’ she says. I get it. It was different in the cave. Sitting there in the dark with the vodka and the candlelight, it felt like we could say anything. Now it feels almost like we overshared. Like we crossed a line.

  I know I won’t be able to go to sleep, though, especially not while all the blokes are still playing their game outside my room. So I stand against the wall outside for a bit and try to slow down the thoughts racing round my head.

  ‘Hello there.’

  I nearly jump out of my skin. ‘What the fuck—’

  It’s the best man, Johnno. I don’t like him. I saw how he looked at me earlier. And he’s drunk – I can tell that, and I’m pretty drunk. In the light spilling from the dining room I can see him give a big grin, more of a leer. ‘Fancy a puff?’ He holds out a big joint, sickly smell of weed. I can see it’s wet on the end where it’s been in his mouth.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say.

  ‘Very well-behaved.’

  I make to go inside, but as I reach for the door he catches my arm, his hand tight about it. ‘You know, we should have a dance tomorrow, you and I. Best man and the bridesmaid.’

  I shake my head.

  He steps nearer, pulls me closer to him. He’s so much bigger than me. But he wouldn’t do anything right here, would he? Not with everyone upstairs?

&
nbsp; ‘You should think about it,’ he says. ‘Might surprise you. An older man.’

  ‘Get the fuck off me,’ I hiss. I think of my razor blade, upstairs. I wish I had it with me, just so I knew it was there.

  I yank my arm out of his grip as I fumble with the door, my fingers not working properly. I feel him watching me the whole time.

  JOHNNO

  The Best Man

  I’m back up in my room, having finished my joint. I managed to pick up the grass in Dublin when I arrived, hanging around Temple Bar with all the tourists. Not sure it’s as strong as the stuff I get from my usual guy but hopefully it will help me sleep. I need a bit of help tonight.

  Here on the island it’s like we’re back there, at Trevellyan’s. Maybe it’s to do with the land. The cliffs, the sea. All I can hear is the sound of the waves outside the windows, slamming into the rocks below. I remember the dorm room: the rows of beds and the bars outside the windows. To keep us safe or to keep us in – maybe a bit of both. And the sound of the waves there, too, rushing up the beach. Shush, shush, shush. Reminding me to keep the secret.

  I haven’t thought about it, not properly, for years. I can’t. Some things you’ve got to put behind you. But it’s like being here is forcing me to look right at it. And when I do I can’t fucking breathe properly.

  I lie in bed. I’ve drunk enough to pass out, and then the weed on top. But I feel like something’s crawling all over my skin, a million cockroaches in the bed with me. They’re here to stop me getting any rest. I want to scratch at myself, tear into my skin if I have to, to make it stop. And I’m afraid that if I do sleep I’ll have dreams like I did last night. I haven’t had them for as long as I can remember … years and years. It’s the company. It’s this place.

  It’s so dark in here. It’s too dark. I feel like it’s pressing down on me. Like I’m drowning in it. I sit up in bed, remind myself that I’m fine. Nothing trying to suffocate me, no cockroaches. It could be the weed – different stuff, making me more paranoid. I’ll go take a shower, that’s what I’ll do. Get the water nice and hot, have a good scrub.

  Then I think I see this thing, in the corner of the room. Growing, gathering itself together, out of the darkness.

  Nah. I’m imagining it. Must be. Don’t believe in ghosts.

  It’s got to be the weed, the whisky. My brain playing tricks on me. Fuck, but I’m sure there’s something there. I can see it out of the corner of my eye, but when I look directly at it, it seems to disappear. I shut my eyes like a little kid scared of monsters under the bed, press my eyelids with my fingers until I see silver spots. It’s no good. I can see it even with my eyes closed. It had a face. And it’s not an it, it’s a someone. I know who it is.

  ‘Get the fuck away from me,’ I whisper. Then I try a different way: ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t think—’

  My stomach gives a heave. I just make it to the bathroom in time before I’m spewing over the bowl of the toilet, my whole body shaking with fear.

  JULES

  The Bride

  Charlie and I are up on the battlements, looking out at the glitter of lights along the mainland. We left the others to their disgusting game. There’s something illicit about it, just the two of us up here. Something reckless. Perhaps it’s being on top of the world with the steep drop beneath us – invisible but very much there – adding a frisson of excitement, making everything feel slightly freighted with danger. Or that we’re cloaked by darkness. That anything could happen up here and no one would know.

  ‘It’s so good to have you here,’ I tell him. ‘You know you’re my best man, really?’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘It’s good to be here. Why did you choose this place?’

  ‘Oh, you know. My Irish roots. And it’s so exclusive, I like the idea of being first. There’s the remoteness, too: good for deterring any paps.’

  ‘They’d really try and get photos of his wedding?’ He sounds incredulous, like he doesn’t believe Will’s celebrity justifies it.

  ‘They might. And it’s so on-brand for Will, having his wedding in such a wild place.’

  All of what I’ve told him is true, in a way. But not the whole truth.

  I rest my head against his shoulder. I think I feel him go still. Perhaps it doesn’t feel quite so natural as it once did, being physically close like this. Come to think of it, did it ever?

  Charlie clears his throat. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  He sounds serious. I sense a touch of wariness. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘He does makes you happy, doesn’t he?’

  I lift my head a fraction off his shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

  I feel him shrug. ‘Just that. You know how much I care about you, Jules.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He does. And I could ask you the same about Hannah.’

  ‘That’s very different—’

  ‘Really? How so?’ I don’t want to hear his reply; I don’t need yet another person telling me that it has all been so quick, between Will and me. And then, because I’ve drunk more than I meant to this evening – and because when else am I going to be able to? – I say it: ‘Are you saying that you would have made me happier?’

  ‘Jules—’ He says it as a kind of groan. ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘Do what?’ I ask innocently.

  ‘We wouldn’t have worked. We’re friends, good friends. You know that.’ At that I feel him pulling away from me, retreating from the cliff edge.

  Do I, though? And is he really so convinced of that? I know he wanted me once. I still think about that night. The memory I have returned to so many times … when I have needed some inspiration in the bath, for example. We have never spoken of it since. And because we haven’t, it has retained its power. I’m sure he still thinks about it too.

  ‘We were different people back then,’ he says, as though he might have read my mind. I wonder if he’s as convinced by his words as he’s making out. ‘I wasn’t asking because of anything like that,’ he says. ‘Not out of jealousy … or anything.’

  ‘Really? Because it sounds to me like you’re a bit jealous.’

  ‘I’m not, I—’

  ‘Did I tell you how good he is in bed? That’s the sort of thing friends are meant to tell each other, isn’t it?’ I know I’m pushing it, but I can’t help myself.

  ‘Look,’ Charlie says. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

  How bloody patronising. I lift my head fully away from his shoulder. I feel the distance between us expanding now, metaphorically as well as physically. ‘I’m perfectly capable of knowing what does and doesn’t make me happy,’ I say. ‘In case you haven’t noticed I’m thirty-four. Not a sixteen-year-old virgin totally in awe of you.’

  Charlie grimaces. ‘God, I know. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I care, that’s all.’

  Something has suddenly occurred to me. ‘Charlie?’ I ask. ‘Did you write me a note?’

  ‘A note?’

  I hear the answer to my question in his confusion. It wasn’t him.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say. ‘Forget it. You know what? I think I’m going to turn in. If I go now, I can get eight hours’ sleep before tomorrow.’

  ‘OK,’ he says. I sense that he is relieved I’ve called it a night and that pisses me off.

  ‘Give me a hug?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure.’

  I lean into him. His body is softer than Will’s, so much less taut than it used to be. But the scent of him is the same. So familiar, somehow, which is strange – considering how long it’s been.

  It’s still there, I think. He must feel it too. But then attraction never really goes away, does it? I’m sure of it: he’s jealous.

  When I get back to the room Will’s getting undressed. He grins at me, I move toward him.

  ‘Shall we pick up where we left off earlier?’ he murmurs.

  It’s one way, I think, to erase the humiliation of that conversation with Charlie.

  I tear open the
remaining buttons on his shirt, he rips one of the straps of my jumpsuit trying to get it off me. It’s always like the first time with him – that haste – only better, now we know exactly what the other wants. We fuck braced against the bed, him entering me from behind. I come, hard. I’m not quiet about it. In a strange way, it feels as though much of the evening since we got interrupted earlier has been a kind of foreplay. Feeling the gaze of the others upon us: envious, awed. Seeing in their reactions to us how good we look together. And yes, the hurt of having crossed a line with Charlie and being rebuffed. Maybe he’ll hear us.

  Afterwards Will goes for a shower. He takes impeccable care of himself – his routine even makes my own look rather slapdash. I remember being a little surprised when I realised his permanently brown face wasn’t actually due to the constant exposure to the elements but to Sisley’s self-tan, the same one I use.

  It’s only now, sitting in the armchair in my robe, that I become aware of a strange odour, more powerful than the evanescently marine scent of sex. It is stronger, undeniably the smell of the sea: a briny, fishy, ammoniac tang at the back of the throat. And as I sit here it seems to gather itself from the shadowy corners of the room, gaining texture and depth.

  I go to the window and open it. The air outside is pretty icy, now that it’s dark. I can hear the slam of the waves against the rocks down below. Further out the water is silver in the light of the moon, like molten metal, so bright that I can hardly look at it. You can see the swell in it even from here, great muscular movements beneath the surface, full of intent. I can hear a cackling above me, up on the roof, perhaps. It sounds like a gleeful mocking.

  Surely, I think, the smell of the sea should be stronger outside than in? Yet the breeze that wafts in is fresh and odourless by comparison. I can’t make sense of it. I reach over to the dressing table and light my scented candle. Then I sit in the chair and try for calm. But I can practically hear the beat of my own heart. Too fast, a flutter in my chest. Is it just the aftermath of our exertions? Or something more than that?