The Guest List

by Lucy Foley

  I’m not sure what it is that makes me aware I am not alone. Some animal sense, maybe. I turn and in the doorway I see—

  Oh God. I gasp, stumble backwards, my heart hammering. It’s a man holding a huge knife, his front smeared with blood.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I whisper. I shrink away from him, just managing not to drop my glass. A beat of pure fear, of racing adrenaline … then logic reasserts itself. It’s Freddy, Aoife’s husband. He’s holding a carving knife, and the blood smears are on the butcher’s apron he wears tied about his waist.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, in that awkward way of his. ‘Didn’t mean to give you a fright. I’m carving the lamb in here – there’s a better surface than in the catering tent.’

  As if to demonstrate, he lifts the cloth from the butcher’s block and beneath I see all the clustered racks of lamb: the crimson, glistening meat, the upthrust white bones.

  As my heartbeat returns to normal, I’m humiliated to think how naked the fear must have been on my face. ‘Well,’ I say, trying to inject a note of authority. ‘I’m sure it will be delicious. Thank you.’ And I walk quickly – but careful not to hurry – out of the kitchen.

  As I rejoin my milling guests I become aware of a change in the energy of the crowd. There’s a new hum of interest. It seems that something’s going on out to sea. Everyone is beginning to turn and look, caught by whatever’s happening.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, craning to see over heads, unable to make out anything at all. The crowd is thinning around me, people drifting away wordlessly, towards the sea, trying to get a better view of whatever is going on.

  Maybe some sea creature. They see dolphins from here regularly, Aoife told me. More rarely, a whale. That would be quite a spectacle, even a nice bit of atmospheric detail. But the noises coming from those at the front of the crowd of guests don’t seem the right pitch for that. I’d expect shrieks and exclamations, excited gesturing. They’re watching whatever it is, intently, but they’re not making very much noise. That makes me uneasy. It suggests it’s something bad.

  I press forward. People have become pushy, clustering for position as though they’re vying for the best view at a gig. Before, as the bride, I was like a queen among them, cutting a swathe through the crowd wherever I walked. Now they have forgotten themselves, too intent on whatever it is that is going on.

  ‘Let me through!’ I shout. ‘I want to see.’

  Finally, they part for me and I move forward, up to the front.

  There is something out there. Squinting, eyes shielded against the light, I can make out the dark shape of a head. It could be a seal or some other sea creature, save for the occasional appearance of a white hand.

  There is someone in the water. It’s difficult to get a proper glimpse of him or her from here. It must be one of the guests; it’s not like anyone could swim here from the mainland. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were Johnno – although it can’t be, he was chatting to Piers moments ago. So if it’s not him, perhaps it’s one of the other exhibitionists in our number, one of the ushers, showing off. But as I look more closely I realise the swimmer isn’t facing the shore, but out to sea. And they aren’t swimming, I see now. In fact—

  ‘They’re drowning!’ a woman is shouting – Hannah, I think. ‘They’re caught in the current – look!’

  I’m moving forward, trying to get a better look, pushing through the watching crowd of guests. And then finally I’m at the front and I can see more clearly. Or perhaps it’s simply that strange deep knowledge, the way we know those closest to us from a long distance, even if we only see the back of a head.

  ‘Olivia!’ I shout. ‘It’s Olivia! Oh my God, it’s Olivia.’ I’m trying to run, my skirt catching under my heels and hampering me. I hear the sound of tearing silk and ignore it, kick off my shoes, keep running, losing my footing as my feet sink into wet, marshy patches of ground. I’ve never been a runner, and it’s a whole other issue in a wedding dress. I seem to be moving unbelievably slowly. Will, thank God, doesn’t seem to have the same problem – he tears past me, followed by Charlie and several others.

  When I finally get to the beach it takes a few moments for me to work out what’s going on, to understand the scene in front of me. Hannah, who must have started running too, arrives next to me, breathing hard. Charlie and Johnno stand thigh-deep in the water, with several other men behind them, on the water’s edge – Femi, Duncan and others. And beyond them, emerging from the depths, is Will, with Olivia in his arms. She seems to be struggling, fighting him, her arms windmilling, her legs kicking out desperately. He holds on tight. Her hair is a black slick. Her dress is absolutely translucent. She looks so pale, her skin tinged with blue.

  ‘She could have drowned,’ Johnno says, as he returns to the beach. He looks distraught. For the first time I feel more warmly towards him. ‘Lucky we spotted her. Crazy kid, anyone could see it’s not sheltered here. Could have got swept straight out to the open sea.’

  Will gets to shore and lets Olivia go. She launches herself away from him and stands staring at us all. Her eyes are black and impenetrable. You can see her near-naked body through the soaked dress: the dark points of her nipples, the small pit of her navel. She looks primeval. Like a wild animal.

  I see that Will’s face and throat are scratched, red marks springing up livid on his skin. And at the sight of these a switch is flicked. Where a second ago I had been full of fear for her, now I feel a violent, red-hot solar flare of rage.

  ‘The crazy little bitch,’ I say.

  ‘Jules,’ Hannah says gently – but not so gently that I can’t hear the note of opprobrium in her voice. ‘You know, I don’t think Olivia’s OK. I— I think she might need help—’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Hannah.’ I spin towards her. ‘Look, I get how kind and maternal you are, and whatever. But Olivia doesn’t need a fucking mother. She’s already got one – who gives her a lot more attention, let me tell you, than I ever got. Olivia doesn’t need help. She needs to get her fucking act together. I’m not going to have her ruining my wedding. So … back off OK?’

  I see her step, almost stumble, backwards. I’m dimly aware of her expression of hurt, of shock. I’ve gone beyond the pale: there, it’s done. But, right now, I don’t care. I turn back to Olivia. ‘What the hell were you doing?’ I scream at her.

  Olivia merely gazes back at me, dully, mute. She looks like she’s drunk. I grab hold of her shoulders. Her skin is freezing to the touch. I want to shake her, slap her, pull her hair, demand answers. And then her mouth opens and closes, open and closes. I stare at her, trying to work it out. It is as though she is attempting to form words but her voice won’t come. The expression in her eyes is intent, pleading. It sends a chill through me. For a moment I feel as though she is trying hard to semaphore a message I don’t have the means to decipher. Is it an apology? An explanation?

  Before I have a chance to ask her to try again, my mother is upon us. ‘Oh my girls, my girls.’ She clasps us both to her bony embrace. Beneath the billowing cloud of Shalimar I smell the sharp, acrid tang of her sweat, her fear. It is Olivia she’s really reaching for, of course. But for a moment I allow myself to yield to her embrace.

  Then I glance behind me. The other guests are catching up with us. I can hear the murmur of their voices, sense the excitement coming off them. I need to defuse this whole situation.

  ‘Anyone else fancy a swim?’ I call. No one laughs. The silence seems to stretch out. They all seem to be waiting, now the show is over, for some cue as to where to go now. How to behave. I don’t know what to do. This is not in my playbook. So I stand, staring back at them, feeling the dampness of the beach soaking into the skirt of my dress.

  Thank God for Aoife, who appears among them, neat in her sensible navy dress and wedge shoes, absolutely unflustered. I see them turn to her, as though recognising her authority.

  ‘Everyone,’ she calls. ‘Listen up.’ For a small, quiet woman, her voice is impressively resonant. ‘
If you’ll all follow me back this way. The wedding breakfast will be served soon. The marquee awaits!’

  JOHNNO

  The Best Man

  Look at him. Playing the hero, carrying Jules’s sister out of the water. Just fucking look at him. He’s always been so good at getting people to see exactly what he wants them to see.

  I know Will better than other people, maybe better than anyone in the world. I’ll bet I know him a lot better than Jules does, or probably ever will. With her he’s put on the mask, put up the screen. But I have kept his secrets for him, because they are both of ours to keep.

  I always knew he was a ruthless fucker. I’ve known it since school, when he stole those exam papers. But I thought I was safe from that side of his character. I’m his best friend.

  That’s what I thought until about half an hour ago, anyway.

  ‘It was such a shame,’ Piers said, ‘when we heard you didn’t want to do it. I mean, Will goes down an absolute storm with the ladies, of course. He’s made for TV. But he can be a bit too … smooth. And between you and me, I don’t think male viewers like him all that much. The consumer research we’ve done has suggested they find him a bit – well, I think the expression one participant used was: “a bit of an arse”. Some viewers, the men, especially, are turned off by a host who they see as a bit too good-looking. You’d have balanced all that.’

  ‘Hang on, mate,’ I said. ‘Why did you think I didn’t want to do it?’

  Piers looked a bit put out at first – I don’t think he’s the sort of bloke who likes to be cut off in full flow when he’s talking about demographics. Then he frowned, registering what I’d said.

  ‘Why did we think—’ He stopped, shook his head. ‘Well, you never turned up at the meeting, that’s why.’

  I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. ‘What meeting?’

  ‘The meeting we had to discuss how everything would progress. Will turned up with his agent and said unfortunately you and he had had a long discussion, and you’d decided it wasn’t for you after all. That you weren’t “a TV sort of bloke”.’

  All the stuff I’ve been saying to everyone these past four years. Except I never said it to Will. Not then, anyway. Not before some sort of important meeting. ‘I never heard of any meeting,’ I said. ‘I got an email saying you didn’t want me.’

  It seemed to take a while for the penny to drop. Then Piers’ mouth opened and closed gormlessly, silently, like a fish: bloop bloop bloop. Finally he said, ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Nope,’ I told him. ‘No, it isn’t. And I can tell you that for certain – because I never heard about a meeting.’

  ‘But we emailed—’

  ‘Yeah. You never had my email though, did you? It all went through Will, and his agent. They sorted everything like that.’

  ‘Well,’ Piers said. I think he’d just worked out that he’d opened up a massive can of worms. ‘Well,’ he went on, like he might as well say it all now. ‘He definitely told us that you weren’t interested. That you’d had this whole period of soul searching and told him you’d decided against it. And it was such a shame, because you and Will, as we’d always planned … the rough and the smooth. Now, that could be TV dynamite.’

  There was no point in saying any more to Piers about it. He already looked like he wished he could teleport to anywhere else. We’re on a small island, mate, I nearly told him. Nowhere to go. I wasn’t surprised he felt like that, though. I could see him glancing over my shoulder, searching for someone to save him.

  But my beef wasn’t with him. It was with the bloke I thought was my best friend.

  Speak of the devil. Will had started striding towards us, grinning at us both, looking so fucking handsome with not a hair out of place, despite the wind. ‘What are you two over here gossiping about?’ he asked. He was close enough that I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead. See, Will is the sort of bloke who hardly ever sweats. Even on the rugby pitch, I barely saw him break much of one. But he was sweating now.

  Too late, mate, I thought. Too fucking late.

  I think I get it. He was too clever to cut me off at the beginning. The idea for Survive the Night was mine and we both knew it. If he’d done that, I could have spilled the beans, told everyone about what had happened when we were kids. I didn’t have nearly so much to lose as him. So he brought me in, made me feel a part of it, and then he made it look like it was down to someone else that I was chucked out. Not his fault at all. Sorry about that, mate. Such a shame. Would have loved working with you.

  I remember how much I liked doing the screen test. I felt natural, talking about all that stuff, stuff I knew. I felt like I had something to say – something people would listen to. If they’d asked me to recite my times tables, or talk about politics, I would have been fucked. But climbing and abseiling and all that: I taught those skills at the retreat. I didn’t even think about the camera, after the first bit.

  The most fucking offensive thing about it is how simple it all must have felt to Will. Stupid Johnno … so easy to pull the wool over his eyes. Now I understand why he’s been so hard to get hold of recently. Why I’ve felt like he’s pushed me away. Why I practically had to beg to be his best man. When he agreed he must have thought of it as a consolation prize, a sticking plaster. But being best man doesn’t pay the bills. It’s not a big enough sticking plaster. He’s used me, the whole time, ever since school. I’ve been there to do his dirty work for him. But he didn’t want to share the spotlight with me, oh no. When it came to it he threw me under the bus.

  I swallow my whisky in one long gulp. That double-crossing motherfucker. I’ll have to find a way to get my own back.

  HANNAH

  The Plus-One

  Olivia is someone else’s sister, someone else’s daughter. Perhaps I should back off, as Jules told me to. And yet I can’t. As the others are streaming into the marquee I find myself walking in the other direction, towards the Folly.

  ‘Olivia?’ I call, once I’ve stepped inside. There’s no answer. My voice is echoed back to me by the stone walls. The Folly seems so silent and dark and empty now. It’s hard to believe that there’s anyone else in here. I know where Olivia’s room is, the door that leads off the dining room – I’ll try that first, I decide. I knock on the door.

  ‘Olivia?’

  ‘Yeah?’ I think I hear a small voice from inside. I take it as my cue to push open the door. Olivia’s sitting there on the bed, a towel wrapped around her shoulders.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says, without looking up at me. ‘I’m coming back to the marquee in a minute. I’ve just got to change first. I’m fine.’ The second time doesn’t make it sound any more convincing.

  ‘You don’t really seem fine,’ I say.

  She shrugs but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘I know it’s not my business. I know we hardly know each other. But when we talked yesterday, I got the sense that you’ve been going through some pretty major stuff … I imagine it must be hard to put on a happy face over all that.’

  Olivia remains silent, not looking at me.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘I guess I wanted to ask – what were you doing in the water?’

  Olivia shrugs again. ‘I dunno,’ she says. A pause. ‘I – it all got a bit much. The wedding, all the people. Saying I must be so happy for Jules. Asking me how I was doing. About uni—’ She trails off, looks at her hands. I see how the nails are bitten down as a child’s, the cuticles red and raw-looking against the pale skin. ‘I just wanted to get away from all of it.’

  Jules had made out that it was all a stunt, that Olivia was being a drama queen. I suspect it was the opposite. I think she was trying to disappear.

  ‘Can I tell you something?’ I ask her.

  She doesn’t say no, so I go on.

  ‘You know how I mentioned my sister Alice, last night?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, I … I suppose you remind me of her a little bit.
I hope you don’t mind me saying that. I promise it’s a compliment. She was the first one in our family to go to university. She got the best GCSEs, straight A’s for her A-levels.’

  ‘I’m not all that clever,’ Olivia mumbles.

  ‘Yeah? I think you’re cleverer than you like to let on. You did English Lit at Exeter. That’s a good course, isn’t it?’

  She shrugs.

  ‘Alice wanted to work in politics,’ I say. ‘She knew that she had to have an impeccable record and to get the right grades for it. She got them, of course, she was accepted into one of the UK’s top universities. And then in her first year, after she’d realised that she was easily knocking off Firsts for every essay she turned in, she relaxed a bit and got her first boyfriend. We all found it quite funny, me and Mum and Dad, because she was suddenly so into him.’

  Alice told me all about this new guy when she came home for the Christmas holidays. She’d met him at the Reeling Society, which was some posh club she’d joined because they had a fancy ball at the end of term. I remember thinking she brought the same intensity to this new relationship as she brought to her studies. ‘He’s dead fit, Han,’ she told me. ‘And everyone fancies him. I can’t believe he’d even look at me.’ She told me, swearing me to secrecy, that they’d slept together. He was the first boy she’d ever slept with. She told me that she felt so close to him, that she hadn’t realised it could be like that. But I remember she qualified this, said it was probably the hormones and all the socio-cultural idealisation of young love. My beautiful, brainy sister, trying to rationalise away her feelings … classic Alice.