The Guest List

by Lucy Foley

  I look at Dad. ‘So,’ I say, more to distract myself from the roiling in my stomach than anything else, ‘you’ve finally met Will.’ My voice sounds strange and slightly strangled. I cough. ‘Better late than never.’

  ‘Yep,’ Dad says. ‘Sure have.’

  I try to keep my tone light. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing, Juju. Just – yep, sure have met him.’

  I know, even before it crosses my lips, that I should not ask this next question. But I can’t not ask it. I need to know his opinion, like it or not. More than anyone else’s, I have always sought my dad’s approval. When I opened my A-level results in the school car park, his, not Mum’s, was the expression of delight I imagined, his the: ‘Nice one, kiddo.’ So I ask. ‘And?’ I say. ‘And did you like him?’

  Dad raises his eyebrows. ‘You really want to have this conversation now, Jules? Half an hour before you get married to the fella?’

  He’s right, I suppose. It’s spectacularly bad timing. But now we’ve started down this path, there’s no going back. And I’m beginning to suspect that his lack of an answer might be an answer in itself.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I want to know. Do you like him?’

  Dad does a sort of grimace. ‘He seems like a very charming man, Juju. Very handsome, too. Even I can see that one. A catch, to be sure.’

  Nothing good can come of this. And yet I can’t stop. ‘But you must have had a stronger first impression,’ I say. ‘You’ve always told me you’re good at reading people. That it’s such an important skill in business, that you have to be able to do it very quickly … yada yada yada.’

  He makes a noise, a kind of groan, and puts his hands on his knees as though he’s bracing himself. And I feel a small, hard kernel of dread, one that’s been there ever since I saw the note this morning, beginning to unfurl itself in my belly.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. ‘Tell me what your first impression of him was.’

  ‘See, I don’t reckon what I think’s important,’ Dad says. ‘I’m only your old Da. What do I know? And you’ve been with him for what now … two years? I should say that’s long enough to know.’

  It’s not two years, actually. Nowhere near it. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It is long enough to know when it’s right.’ It’s what I’ve said so many times before, to friends, to colleagues. It’s what I said last night, effectively, in my toast. And every time before, I meant it. At least … I think I did. So why, this time, do my words seem to ring so hollowly? I can’t help feeling that I’m saying it not to convince my dad so much as myself. Since finding that note again the old misgivings have reared their heads. I don’t want to think about those, so I change tactic. ‘Anyway,’ I add. ‘To be honest, Dad, I probably know him better than I know you – considering we’ve only spent about six weeks together in my entire life.’

  It was meant to wound and I see it land: he recoils as though struck by a physical blow. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘there you go. That’s all you need to say. You won’t be needing my opinion.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Fine, Dad. But you know what? Just this once, you could have come out and told me you thought he was a great guy. Even if you had to lie through your teeth to do it. You know what I needed to hear from you. It’s … it’s selfish.’

  ‘Look,’ Dad says. ‘I’m sorry. But … I can’t lie to you, kid. Now I understand if you don’t want me to walk you up the aisle.’ He says it magnanimously, like he’s handed me some great gift. And I feel the hurt of it go right through me.

  ‘Of course you’re going to walk me up the bloody aisle,’ I snap. ‘You’ve barely been in my life, you were barely free to even attend this wedding. Yes, yes, I know … the twins are teething or whatever it is. But I’ve been your daughter for thirty-four years. You know how important you are to me, even though I wish to God it were otherwise. You are one of the reasons I chose to have my wedding here, in Ireland. Because I know how much you value that heritage, I value it too. I wish it didn’t matter to me, what you think. But it bloody does. So you’re going to walk me up the aisle. That’s the very least you can do. You can walk me up that aisle and look bloody delighted for me, every step of the way.’

  There’s a knock on the door. Aoife pops her head round. ‘All ready to go?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I need a moment, actually.’

  I march up the stairs to the bedroom. I’m looking for something, the right shape, the right weight. I’ll know it when I see it. There’s the scented candle – or, no, the vase that held my bridal bouquet. I pick it up and heft it in my hand, readying myself. Then I hurl it at the wall, watching in satisfaction as the top half of it explodes into shards of glass.

  Next I wrap my hand in a T-shirt – I’ve always been careful to avoid cuts, this is not about self-harm – pick up the unbroken base and slam it into the wall, again and again until I am left with smithereens, panting with the effort, my teeth gritted. I haven’t done this for a while, for too long. I haven’t wanted Will to see this side of me. I had forgotten how good it feels. The release of it. I unclench my teeth. I breathe in, out.

  Everything feels a little clearer, calmer, on the other side.

  I clean up the mess, as I have always done. I take my time about it. This is my day. They can all bloody well wait.

  In the mirror I put my hands up and rearrange the crown on my head where it has slipped to one side. I see that my exertions have lent a rather flattering colour to my complexion. Rather appropriate, for the blushing bride. I bring my hands up to my face and massage it, rearranging, remoulding my expression into one of blissful, expectant joy.

  If Aoife and Dad heard anything, their faces don’t belie it when I re-emerge. I nod to them both. ‘Ready to go.’ Then I yell for Olivia. She emerges, from that little room next to the dining room. She looks even paler than normal, if that’s possible. But miraculously she is ready – in her dress and shoes, holding her garland of flowers. I snatch my own bouquet from Aoife. Then I stride out of the door, leaving Olivia and Dad following in my wake. I feel like a warrior queen, walking into battle.

  As I walk the length of the aisle my mood changes, my certainty ebbs. I see them all turn to look at me and they seem a blur of faces, each oddly featureless. The Irish folk singer’s voice eddies around me and for a moment I am struck by how mournful the notes sound, though it is meant to be a love song. The clouds scud overhead above the ruined spires – too fast, as in a nightmare. The wind has picked up and you can hear it whistling among the stones. For a strange moment I have the feeling that our guests are all strangers, that I’m being observed, silently, by a congregation of people I have never met before. I feel dread rise up through me, as though I’ve stepped into a tank of cold water. All of them are unknown to me, including the man waiting at the end, who turns his head as I approach. That excruciating conversation with Dad pinballs around in my brain – but loudest of all are the words he didn’t say. I loosen my grip on his arm, try to put some distance between the two of us, as though his thoughts might further infect me.

  Then suddenly it is as though a mist clears and I can see them properly: friends and family, smiling and waving. None of them, thank God, pointing phones at us. We got round that with a stern note on the wedding invite telling them to refrain from pictures during the ceremony. I manage to unfreeze my face, smile back. And then beyond them all, standing there in the centre of the aisle, literally haloed in the light that has momentarily broken through the cloud: my husband-to-be. He looks immaculate in his suit. He is incandescent, as handsome as I have ever seen him. He smiles at me and it is like the sun, now warm upon my cheeks. Around him the ruined chapel rises, starkly beautiful, open to the sky.

  It is perfect. It is absolutely as I had planned, better than I had planned. And best of all is my groom – beautiful, radiant – awaiting me at the altar. Looking at him, stepping towards him, it is impossible to believe that this man is anything other than the one I k
now him to be.

  I smile.

  HANNAH

  The Plus-One

  During the ceremony I’ve been sitting on my own, crammed on to a bench with some cousins of Jules’s – Charlie had a seat reserved at the front, as part of the wedding party. There was a weird moment, as Jules walked up the aisle. She wore an expression I’ve never seen on her before. She looked almost afraid: her eyes wide, her mouth set in a grim line. I wondered if anyone else noticed it, or even if I’d imagined it, because by the time she joined Will at the front she was smiling, the radiant bride everyone expects to see, greeting her groom. All around me there were sighs, whispers about how wonderful they both looked together.

  The whole thing has gone very smoothly since: no fumbles over the vows, like at some weddings I’ve been to. The two of them speak the words loudly, clearly, as we all look on silently, the only other sound the whistling of the breeze among the stones. I’m not actually looking at Jules and Will, though. I’m trying to get a glimpse of Charlie, instead, all the way down at the front. I want to try and see what expression he wears as Jules says I will. But it’s impossible: I can see only the back of his head, the set of his shoulders. I give myself a little mental shake: what did I think I was going to see, anyway? What proof am I looking for?

  And suddenly it’s all over. People are getting up around me with a sudden explosion of noise, laughing and chattering. The same woman who sung while Jules walked into the chapel sings us out, too, the notes of the accompanying fiddle tripping along behind. The words are all in Gaelic, her voice ethereally high and clear, echoing slightly eerily around the ruined walls.

  I follow the trail of guests outside, dodging the huge floral arrangements: big sprays of greenery and colourful wildflowers which I suppose are very chic and right for the dramatic surroundings. I think of our wedding, how my mum’s friend Karen gave us mates’ rates on our flowers. It was all done in rather retro pastel shades. But I wasn’t about to complain; we could never have afforded a florist of our choice. I wonder what it must be like to have the money to do exactly what you want.

  The other guests are a very well-dressed, well-heeled bunch. When I looked around at the rest of the congregation in the chapel I realised no one else here is wearing a fascinator. Maybe they’re not the thing, in circles like this? Every other woman seems to be in an expensive-looking hat, the sort that probably comes in its own specially made box. I feel like I did on the day at school when we hadn’t realised it was home clothes day and both Alice and I wore our uniforms. I remember sitting in assembly and wishing I could spontaneously combust, to avoid spending the day feeling everyone’s eyes on me.

  We’re given crushed dried rose petals to throw as Will and Jules step out of the chapel. But the breeze is stiff enough that they’re whipped quickly away. I don’t see a single petal land on the newlyweds. Instead they’re carried off in a big cloud, up and out towards the sea. Charlie’s always telling me I’m too superstitious, but I wouldn’t like that, if I were Jules.

  The bridal party are taken off for photographs, while everyone else pours away to the outside of the marquee where there’s a bar set up. I need some Dutch courage, I decide. I pick my way across the grass towards it, my heels sinking in with every couple of steps. A couple of barmen are taking orders, sloshing cocktail shakers. I ask for a gin and tonic, which comes with a big sprig of rosemary in it.

  I chat to the barmen for a bit because they seem like the friendliest faces in this crowd. They’re a couple of young local guys, home for the summer from university: Eoin and Seán.

  ‘We normally work in the big hotel on the mainland,’ Seán tells me. ‘Used to belong to the Guinness family. Big castle on a lough. That’s where people usually want to get married. Never heard of a wedding here, other than in the old days. You know this place is meant to be haunted?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Eoin leans across, dropping his voice. ‘My gran tells some pretty dark tales about this place.’

  ‘The bodies in the turf,’ Seán says. ‘No one knows for sure how they died, but they think they were hacked to pieces by the Vikings. They’re not buried in hallowed ground, so there’s all this talk about them being unquiet souls.’

  I know they’re probably just pulling my leg but I feel a prickle of disquiet all the same.

  ‘And the rumours are that’s why the latest folk all left this place in the end,’ Eoin says. ‘Because the voices from the bog got too loud for them.’ He grins at Seán, then at me. ‘I’m not looking forward to being here after dark tonight, I tell you. It’s the island of ghosts.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ a man in aviators and a tweed jacket behind me says, crossly. ‘This all sounds very bloody interesting, but would you mind making me an Old Fashioned?’

  I take that as my cue to leave them to their work.

  I decide to sneak a peek inside the marquee, via the entranceway lit by flaming torches. Inside there’s a delicious floral scent from lots of expensive-looking candles. And yet (I’m not proud to be pleased by this) there’s definitely a whiff of damp canvas underneath. I suppose at the end of the day it’s still a big tent. But what a tent. Tents plural, actually: in a smaller one at one end there’s a laminate dance floor with a stage set up for a band and at the other end is a tent containing another bar. Jesus. Why have one bar at your wedding when you can have two? In the main tent white-shirted waiters are moving with the grace of ballet dancers, straightening forks and polishing glasses.

  In the middle of everything, on a silver stand, sits a huge cake. It’s so beautiful that it makes me sad to think that later Jules and Will will take a knife to it. I can’t begin to guess how much a cake like that costs. Probably as much as our entire wedding.

  I step outside the marquee again and shiver as a gust catches me. The wind’s definitely picking up. Out to sea there are white horses on the caps of the waves now.

  I look at the crowd. Everyone I know at this wedding is in the bridal party. If I don’t pluck up my courage I’ll be standing here on my own until Charlie returns – and as soon as he’s finished with the photos I suppose he’ll be straight into the MC duties. So I take a big swig of my gin and tonic and launch myself into a nearby group.

  They’re friendly enough on the surface, but I can tell they’re a group of friends catching up – and I don’t belong. I stand there and sip my drink, trying not to poke myself in the eye with the rosemary. I wonder how everyone else with a gin and tonic is managing it without injuring themselves. Maybe that’s a thing you get taught at private school: how to drink cocktails with unwieldy garnishes. Because everyone here, without a shadow of a doubt, went to private school.

  ‘Do you know what the hashtag is?’ one woman asks. ‘You know, for the wedding? I checked the invitation but I couldn’t see it.’

  ‘I’m not sure there is one,’ her friend replies. ‘Anyway, the signal here’s so awful you wouldn’t be able to upload anything while you’re on the island.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why they chose this place for the wedding,’ the first says, knowingly. ‘You know, because of Will’s profile.’

  ‘It’s very mysterious,’ the other woman says. ‘I have to admit I’d have expected Italy – the Lakes, perhaps. That seems to be a trend, doesn’t it?’

  ‘But then Jules is a trendsetter,’ a third woman chips in. ‘Perhaps this is the new thing—’ a great gust of wind nearly sends her hat flying and she clamps it down with a firm hand, ‘weddings on godforsaken islands in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘It’s rather romantic, isn’t it? All wilderness and ruined glory. Makes you think of that Irish poet. Keats.’

  ‘Yeats, darling.’

  The women have the deep, real tans of summer holidays on Greek islands. I know this because they start talking about them next, comparing the benefits of Hydra over Crete. ‘God,’ one of them says now, ‘why would anyone fly economy with kids? I mean, talk about starting the holiday on a bad note.’ I wonder what they’d say if I chipped in and start
ed debating the benefits of one New Forest campsite versus another. Personally I think it’s all about which has the best chemical loos, I could say, in the same tone in which they’re comparing which waterfront restaurant has the best views. I’ll have to save that one up to tell Charlie later. Though, as proven last night, Charlie always gets a bit funny around posh people – a little unsure of himself and defensive.

  The guy on my right turns to me: an overgrown schoolboy, one of those very round, pink and white faces at odds with a receding hairline. ‘So,’ he says, ‘Hannah, is it? Bride or groom?’

  I’m so relieved that someone’s actually deigned to talk to me I could kiss him.

  ‘Er – bride.’

  ‘I’m groom. Went to school with the bastard.’ He sticks out his hand, I shake it. I feel like I’ve walked into his office for an interview. ‘And you know Julia, how …?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m married to Charlie – he’s Jules’s mate? He’s one of the ushers.’

  ‘And where’s that accent from then?’

  ‘Um, Manchester. Well – the outskirts.’ Though I always feel like I’ve lost a lot of it, having lived down South for so long.

  ‘Support United, do you? You know, I went up for a corporate thing a few years ago. OK match. Southampton I think it was. Two-one, one-nil – not a draw, anyway, which would have been fucking boring. Dreadful food, though. Fucking inedible.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, my dad supports—’

  But he’s turned away, bored already, and is in conversation with the guy next to him.

  So I introduce myself to an older couple, mainly because they don’t seem to be in conversation with anyone else.

  ‘I’m the groom’s father,’ the man says. This strikes me as an odd way to phrase it. Why not just say: ‘I’m Will’s dad’? He indicates the woman next to him with one long-fingered hand: ‘and this is my wife.’