The Guest List

by Lucy Foley

  I smile – my politest, most professional smile – and take a small step away. I suppose a man like him is very sure of his sexual power. It reads as charm at first, but underneath there is something darker, more complicated. I don’t think he is actually attracted to me, nothing like that. He put his hand on my shoulder because he can. Perhaps I’m reading too much into it. But it felt like a reminder that he is the one in charge, that I am working for him. That I must dance to his tune.

  NOW

  The wedding night

  The search party marches out into the darkness. Instantly the wind assaults them, the screaming rush of it. The flames of the paraffin torches billow and hiss and threaten to extinguish. Their eyes water, their ears ring. They find themselves having to push against the wind as though it were a solid mass, their heads bent low.

  The adrenaline is coursing through them, it’s them versus the elements. A feeling remembered from boyhood – deep, unnameable, feral – stirring memories of nights not altogether unlike this. Them against the dark.

  They move forward, slowly. The longish tract of land between the Folly and the marquee, hemmed in by the peat bog on either side: this is where they will begin their search. They call out: ‘Is anyone out there?’ and ‘Is anyone hurt?’ and ‘Can you hear us?’

  There is no reply. The wind seems to swallow their voices.

  ‘Maybe we should spread out!’ Femi shouts. ‘Speed up the search.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Angus replies. ‘When there’s a bog in either direction? None of us knows where it starts. And especially not in the dark. I’m not – I’m not frightened. But I don’t fancy finding, you know … shit on my own.’

  So they remain close together, within touching distance.

  ‘She must have screamed pretty loud,’ Duncan shouts. ‘That waitress. To be heard over this.’

  ‘She must have been terrified,’ Angus shouts.

  ‘You scared, Angus?’

  ‘No. Fuck off, Duncan. But it’s – it’s really hard to see—’

  His words are lost to a particularly vicious gust. In a shower of sparks, two of the big paraffin torches are snuffed out like birthday candles. Their bearers keep the metal supports anyway, holding them out in front like swords.

  ‘Actually,’ Angus shouts. ‘Maybe I am a bit. Is that so shameful? Maybe I’m not enjoying being out here in a bloody gale, or … or looking forward to what we might find—’

  His words are cut off by a panicked cry. They turn, holding their torches aloft to see Pete grasping at the air, the lower half of one leg submerged.

  ‘Stupid fucker,’ Duncan shouts, ‘must have wandered away from the drier part.’ He’s relieved though, they all are. For a moment they thought Pete had found something.

  They haul him out.

  ‘Jesus,’ Duncan shouts, as Pete, freed, sprawls on hands and knees at their feet, ‘you’re the second person we’ve had to rescue today. Femi and I found Charlie’s wife squealing like a stuck pig earlier in this bloody bog.’

  ‘The bodies …’ Pete moans, ‘in the bog …’

  ‘Oh pack it in, Pete,’ Duncan shouts angrily. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’ He swings his torch nearer to Pete’s face, turns to the others. ‘Look at his eyes – he’s tripping out of his mind. I knew it. Why did we bring him? He’s a bloody liability.’

  They are all relieved when Pete falls silent. No one mentions the bodies again. It is a piece of folklore, they know this. They can dismiss it – albeit less easily than they might in the light of day, when everything felt more familiar. But they can’t dismiss the purpose of their own mission, the possibility of what they may find. There are real dangers out here, the landscape unfamiliar and treacherous in the dark. They are only now beginning to realise it fully. To understand just how unprepared they are.

  Earlier that day

  JULES

  The Bride

  I open my eyes. The big day.

  I didn’t sleep well last night and when I did I had a strange dream: the ruined chapel crumbling to dust around me as I walked into it. I woke up feeling off, uneasy. A touch of hungover paranoia from a glass too many, no doubt. And I’m sure I can still detect the lingering stench of the seaweed, even though it’s hours since it was removed.

  Will moved to the spare room first thing in a nod to tradition, but I find myself rather wishing he were here. No matter. Adrenaline and willpower will carry me through: they’ll have to.

  I look over at the dress, hanging from its padded hanger. Its wings of protective tissue dance gently to and fro in some mysterious breeze. I’ve learned by now that there are currents in this place that somehow find their way inside, despite closed doors and shut windows. They eddy and caper through the air, they kiss the back of your neck, they send a prickle down your spine, soft as the touch of fingertips.

  Beneath my silk robe I’m wearing the lingerie I picked out for today from Coco de Mer. The most delicate Leavers lace, fine as cobweb, and an appropriately bridal cream. Very traditional, at first glimpse. But the knickers have a row of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons all the way through, so that they can be completely opened. Nice, then very naughty. I know Will will enjoy discovering them, later.

  A shiver of movement through the window catches my attention. Below, on the rocks, I see Olivia. She’s wearing the same baggy jumper and ripped jeans as yesterday, picking her way in bare feet towards the edge, where the sea smashes up against the granite in huge explosions of white water. Why on earth isn’t she getting ready, as she should be? Her head is bent, her shoulders slumped, her hair blowing in a tangled rope behind her. There’s a moment when she’s so close to the edge, to the violence of the water, that my breath catches in my throat. She could fall and I wouldn’t be able to get down from here in time to save her. She could drown right there while I stand here helpless.

  I rap on the window, but I think she’s ignoring me – or, I admit it’s likely – can’t hear me above the sound of the waves. Luckily, though, she seems to have stepped a little further away from the drop.

  Fine. I’m not going to worry any more about her. It’s time to start getting ready in earnest. I could easily have had a make-up artist shipped over from the mainland, but there is no way in hell I’d hand over control of my appearance to someone else on such an important day. If doing your own make-up is good enough for Kate Middleton, it’s good enough for me.

  I reach for my make-up bag but a little unexpected tremor of my hand sends the whole thing crashing to the floor. Fuck. I’m never clumsy. Am I … nervous?

  I look down at the spilled contents, shining gold tubes of mascara and lipsticks rolling in a bid for freedom across the floorboards, an overturned compact leaking a trail of bronzing powder.

  There, in the middle of it all, lies a tiny folded piece of paper, slightly soot-blackened. The sight of it turns my blood cold. I stare at it, unable to look away. How is it possible that such a small thing could have occupied such a huge space in my mind over the last couple of months?

  Why on earth did I keep it?

  I unfold it even though I don’t need to: the words are imprinted on my memory.

  Will Slater is not the man you think he is. He’s a cheat and a liar. Don’t marry him.

  I’m sure it’s some random weirdo. Will’s always getting mail from strangers who think they know him, know all about his life. Sometimes I get included in their wrath. I remember when a couple of pictures emerged of us online. ‘Will Slater out shopping with squeeze, Julia Keegan’. It was a slow day at the Mail Online, no doubt.

  Even though I knew – knew – it was a terrible idea, I ended up scrolling down to the comments section underneath. Christ. I’ve seen that bile on there before, but when it’s directed at you it feels particularly poisonous, especially personal. It was like stumbling into an echo chamber of my own worst thoughts about myself.

  — God she thinks shes all that doesn’t she?

  — Looks like a proper b*tch if you ask me.

&
nbsp; — Jeez love haven’t you heard your never meant to sleep with a man with thighs thinner than your own?

  — Will! ILY! Pick me instead! :) :) :) She doesn’t deserve you . . . . . .

  — God, I hate her just from looking at her. Snotty cow.

  Nearly all of the comments were like this. It was hard to believe that there were that many total strangers out there who felt such vitriol for me. I found myself scrolling down until I found a couple of naysayers:

  — He looks happy. She’ll be good for him!

  — BTW she’s behind The Download – favourite site everrrr. They’ll make a good match.

  Even these kinder voices were as unsettling in their own way – the sense some of them seemed to have of knowing Will – knowing me. That they were in a position to comment on what was good for him. Will’s not a household name. But at his level of celebrity you get even more of this sort of thing, because you haven’t yet risen above people thinking they have ownership of you.

  The note is different to those comments online, though. It’s more personal. It was dropped through the letterbox without a stamp, meaning it had to have been hand-delivered. Whoever wrote it knows where we live. He or she had come to our place in Islington – which was, until Will moved in recently, my place. Less likely, surely, to have been a random weirdo. Or it could have been the very worst kind of weirdo.

  But it occurs to me it could conceivably be someone we know. It could even be someone who’s coming to this island today.

  The night the note arrived I threw it into the log burner. Seconds later I snatched it back, burning my wrist in the process. I’ve still got the mark – a shiny, risen pink seal on the tender skin there. Every time I’ve caught sight of it I’ve thought of the note, in its hiding place. Three little words:

  Don’t marry him.

  I rip the note in half. I rip it again, and again, until it is paper confetti. But it isn’t enough. I take it into the bathroom and pull the chain, watching intently until all the pieces have disappeared, swirling out of the bowl. I imagine them travelling down through the plumbing, out into the Atlantic, the same ocean that surrounds us. The thought troubles me more than it probably should.

  Anyway, it is out of my life now. It is gone. I am not going to think about it any more. I pick up my hairbrush, my eyelash curler, my mascara: my arsenal of weapons, my quiver.

  Today I am getting married and it is going to be bloody brilliant.

  NOW

  The wedding night

  ‘Christ, it’s hard going in this.’ Duncan puts up a hand to shelter his face from the stinging wind, waving his torch with the other, letting off a spray of sparks. ‘Anyone see anything?’

  See what, though? This is the question that occupies their thoughts. Each of them is remembering the waitress’s words. A body. Every lump or divot in the ground is a potential source of horror. The torches that they hold in front of them don’t help as much as they might. They only make the rest of the night seem blacker still.

  ‘It’s like being back at school,’ Duncan shouts to the others. ‘Creeping around in the dark. Anyone for Survival?’

  ‘Don’t be a dick, Duncan,’ Femi shouts. ‘Have you forgotten what we’re supposed to be looking for?’

  ‘Well, yeah. Guess you can’t call it Survival, then.’

  ‘That’s not funny,’ Femi shouts.

  ‘All right, Femi! Calm down. I was only trying to lighten the mood.’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t think now’s the time for that either.’

  Duncan rounds on him. ‘I’m out here looking, aren’t I? Better than those cowardly fucks in the marquee.’

  ‘Survival wasn’t funny, anyway,’ Angus shouts. ‘Was it? I can see that now. I’m – I’m done with pretending it was all some big lark. It was totally messed up. Someone could have died … someone did die, actually. And the school let it carry on—’

  ‘That was an accident,’ Duncan cuts in. ‘When that kid died. That wasn’t because of Survival.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Angus shouts back. ‘How’d you figure that one? Just because you loved all of that shit. I know you got off on it, when it came to your turn, freaking the younger boys out. Can’t go around being a sadistic bully now, can you? I bet you haven’t had such a big thrill since—’

  ‘Guys,’ Femi, ever the peacekeeper, calls to them. ‘Now is not the time.’

  For a while they fall silent, continuing to trudge through the darkness, alone with their own thoughts. None of them have ever been out in weather like this. The wind comes and goes in squally gusts. Sometimes it drops enough for them to hear themselves think. But it is only gathering itself for the next onslaught: a busy murmuring, like the sound of thousands of insects swarming. At its highest it rises to a howl that sounds horribly like a person shrieking, an echo of the waitress’s scream. Their skin is flayed raw by it, their eyes blinded by tears. It sets their teeth on edge – and they are in its teeth.

  ‘It doesn’t feel real, does it?’

  ‘What’s that, Angus?’

  ‘Well, you know – one minute we’re all in the marquee, prancing around, eating wedding cake. Now we’re out here looking for …’ he summons his courage to say it out loud: ‘a body. What do you think could have happened?’

  ‘We still don’t know what we’re looking for,’ Duncan answers. ‘We’re going off the word of one kid.’

  ‘Yeah, but she seemed pretty sure …’

  ‘Well,’ Femi calls, ‘there were a lot of drunk people about. It got seriously loose in there. It’s not all that difficult to imagine, is it? Someone wandering out of the marquee into the dark, having an accident—’

  ‘What about that Charlie bloke?’ Duncan suggests. ‘He was in a total state.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Femi shouts, ‘he was definitely the worse for wear. But after what we did to him on the stag—’

  ‘Less said about that the better, Fem.’

  ‘Did you see that bridesmaid, earlier, though?’ Duncan shouts. ‘Anyone else think the same thing I did?’

  ‘What?’ Angus answers, ‘that she was trying to … you know …’

  ‘Top herself?’ Duncan shouts, ‘Yeah, I do. She’s been acting funny since we arrived, hasn’t she? Clearly a bit of a basket case. Wouldn’t put it past her to have done something stup—’

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ Pete shouts, cutting him off, pointing into the darkness behind them, ‘someone’s coming for us—’

  ‘Oh shut up, you twat,’ Duncan rounds on him. ‘Christ, he’s doing my head in. We should take him back to the marquee. Because I swear—’

  ‘No.’ There’s a wobble in Angus’s voice. ‘He’s right. There’s something there—’

  The others turn to look too, moving in a clumsy circle, bumping into each other, fighting down their unease. All of them fall silent as they stare behind them, into the night.

  A light bobs towards them through the darkness. They hold out their own torches, strain to see what it is.

  ‘Oh,’ Duncan shouts, in some relief. ‘It’s just him – that fat bloke, the wedding planner’s husband.’

  ‘But wait,’ Angus says. ‘What’s that … in his hand?’

  Earlier that day

  OLIVIA

  The Bridesmaid

  Out of the window I can see the boats carrying the wedding guests to the island, still distant dark shapes out on the water but moving ever closer. It will all be happening soon. I’m supposed to be getting ready, and God knows I’ve been up since early. I woke with this ache in my chest and a throbbing head, and took myself outside to get some air. But now I’m sitting here in my room in my bra and pants. I can’t bring myself to get changed yet, into that dress. I found a little crimson stain on the pale silk where the small cut I’d made on my thigh must have bled a bit yesterday when I was trying it on. Thank God Jules didn’t notice. She really might have lost her shit at that. I’ve scrubbed it in the sink down the hall with some cold water and soap. It’s nearly all come out,
thank God. Just a tiny darker pink patch was left, as a reminder.

  It made me remember the blood, all those months ago. I hadn’t known there would be so much. I shut my eyes. But I can see it there, beneath my eyelids.

  I glance out of the window again, think about all those people arriving. I’ve been feeling claustrophobic in this place since we arrived, feeling like there’s no escape, nowhere to run to … but it’s going to get so much worse today. In less than an hour, Jules will call for me and then I’ll have to walk down the aisle in front of her, with everyone looking at us. And then all the people – family, strangers – who I’ll have to talk to. I don’t think I can do it. Suddenly I feel like I can’t breathe.

  I think about how the only time I’ve felt a bit better, since I’ve been here, was last night in the cave, talking with Hannah. I haven’t been able to speak to anyone else the way I did with her: not my mates, not anyone. I don’t know what it was about her. I guess it was because she seemed like an odd one out, like she was trying to hide from everything too.

  I could go and find Hannah. I could talk to her now, I think. Tell her the rest. Get it all out into the open. The thought of it makes me feel dizzy, sick. But maybe I’d feel better too, in a way – less like I can’t get any air into my lungs.

  My hands shake as I pull on my jeans and my jumper. If I tell her, there’ll be no taking it back. But I think I’ve made up my mind. I think I have to do it, before I go totally mental.

  I creep out of my room. My heart feels like it’s moved up into my throat, beating so hard I can hardly swallow. I tiptoe through the dining room, up the stairs. I can’t bump into anyone else on the way – if I do I know I’ll chicken out.