by Lucy Foley
‘No offence taken,’ Will says mildly.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’ve never watched the whole thing. I … caught the highlights, you know.’
‘Methinks the lady does protest too much,’ Peter says. He takes hold of Will’s shoulder, grinning. ‘Will, you’ve got a fan!’
Will laughs it off. But I can feel the heat prickling up my neck into my cheeks. I’m hoping it’s too dark in here for anyone to see that I’m blushing.
Fuck it. I need more champagne. I hold my glass out for a top-up.
‘At least your wife knows how to party, mate,’ Duncan says to Charlie. Femi pours for me, filling the flute close to the top. ‘Whoa,’ I say, as it reaches the rim, ‘that’s plenty.’
Suddenly there’s a loud ‘plink!’ and a little splash up over my wrist. I look in surprise to see that something has been dropped into my drink.
‘What was that?’ I say, confused.
‘Have a look,’ Duncan says, grinning. ‘Pennyed you. Have to drink it all now.’ I stare at him, then at my glass. Sure enough, at the bottom of my very full glass sits the little copper coin, the Queen’s stern profile.
‘Duncan!’ Georgina says, giggling. ‘You’re too awful!’
I don’t think I’ve been pennyed since I was about eighteen. Suddenly everyone’s looking at me. I look to Charlie, for agreement that I don’t have to drink it. But his expression is oddly pleading. It’s the sort of look Ben might give me: Please don’t embarrass me in front of my friends, Mum.
This is crazy, I think. I don’t have to drink it. I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman. I don’t even know these people, they have no hold over me. I won’t be made to do it—
‘Down it …’
‘Down it!’
God, they’ve started to chant.
‘Save the Queen!’
‘She’s drowning!’
‘Down it down it down it.’
I can feel my cheeks reddening. To get their eyes off me, to stop their chanting, I knock the glass back and gulp it all down. I’d thought the champagne was delicious before but it’s awful like this, sour and sharp, stinging my throat as I cough mid-swallow, rushing up inside my nose. I feel some of it spill out over my bottom lip. I feel my eyes tear up. I’m humiliated. It’s like everyone has understood the rules of whatever is happening. Everyone but me.
Afterwards, they cheer. But I don’t think they’re cheering me. They’re congratulating themselves. I feel like a child who’s been surrounded by a ring of playground bullies. When I glance in Charlie’s direction he gives me a kind of apologetic wince. I suddenly feel very alone. I turn away from the others to hide my face.
As I do I catch sight of something that makes my blood run cold.
There is someone at the window, looking in at us out of the blackness, observing silently. The face is pressed against the glass, its features distorted into a hideous gargoyle mask, its teeth bared in a horrible grin. As I continue to stare, unable to look away, it mouths a single word.
BOO.
I’m not even aware of the champagne glass leaving my hand until it explodes at my feet.
NOW
The wedding night
It is a few moments before the waitress regains consciousness. She is, it appears, uninjured, but whatever she has seen out there has struck her nearly mute. The most they can get from her are low moans, wordless nonsense.
‘I sent her over to the Folly for a couple more bottles of champagne,’ the head waitress – only twenty or so herself – says helplessly.
There is a palpable hush in the marquee. The guests are looking among the throng of people for their loved ones, to check that they are safe and accounted for. But it is difficult to spot anyone among the seething crowd, all a little worse for wear after a day of carousing. It is difficult, too, because of the structure of this state-of-the-art marquee: the dance floor in one tent, the bar in another, the main dining section in the largest.
‘She could have had a scare,’ a man suggests. ‘She’s a teenage girl. It’s pitch-black out there and it’s blowing a gale.’
‘But it sounds like someone needs help,’ another man says. ‘We should go and see—’
‘We can’t have everyone wandering all over the island.’ They listen to the wedding planner. She has an innate authority, though she looks as shocked as the rest of them, her face drawn and white. ‘It is blowing a gale,’ she says. ‘It’s dark. And there’s the bog, the cliffs. I don’t want someone else to … to injure themselves, if that is what has happened.’
‘Must be shitting herself about her insurance,’ a man mutters.
‘We should go and look,’ one of the ushers says. ‘Some of us blokes. Safety in numbers and all that.’
The day before
JULES
The Bride
‘Dad!’ I say, ‘You terrified poor Hannah!’ I mean it was a bit of an overreaction from her, dropping her glass like that. Did she really have to make such a scene? I stifle my annoyance as Aoife begins sweeping up the shards, moving discreetly around us with a broom.
‘Sorry.’ Dad grins at us all as he enters the room. ‘Thought I’d give ye all a little fright.’ His accent is more pronounced than usual, presumably as he’s on home turf, or nearly. He grew up in the Gaeltacht, the Irish-speaking part of Galway, not far from here. Dad’s not a big man but he manages to take up quite a bit of space and presents an imposing figure: the set of his shoulders, the broken nose. It’s difficult for me to see him objectively, because of what he is to me. But I suppose an outsider might assume he was a boxer or something similarly pugilistic, rather than a very successful property developer.
Séverine, Dad’s latest wife – French, not far off my age, one part décolletage and three parts liquid eyeliner – slinks in behind him, tossing her long mane of red hair.
‘Well,’ I say to Dad, ignoring Séverine (I can’t be bothered to spend much time on her until she passes the five-year mark, Dad’s record to date). ‘You’ve made it … at last.’ I’d known they were scheduled to arrive about now – I had to ask Aoife to arrange the boat. But even then I’d wondered if there might be some excuse, some delay that meant they couldn’t make tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time.
I notice Will and Dad sizing each other up surreptitiously. In Dad’s company, oddly, Will seems a little diminished, a little less himself. Looking at him, in his pressed shirt and chinos, I’m worried that to Dad he might seem privileged and glib, very much the ex-public schoolboy.
‘I can’t believe this is the first time you’ve met,’ I say. Not for want of bloody trying. Will and I flew to New York specially a few months ago. At the last minute, we learned, Dad had been called away on business in Europe. I imagined our planes crossing somewhere over the Atlantic. Dad is a Very Busy Man. Too busy, even, to meet his daughter’s fiancé until the eve of her wedding. Story of my bloody life.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ronan,’ Will says, holding out a hand.
Dad ignores the gesture and cuffs him on the shoulder instead. ‘The famous Will,’ he says. ‘We meet at last.’
‘Not particularly famous yet,’ Will says, giving Dad a winning grin. I wince. It’s a rare misstep. It sounded like a humblebrag and I’m fairly sure Dad didn’t mean ‘famous’ as a reference to the TV stuff. Dad’s not a fan of celebrities, of anyone making their fortune by anything other than proper hard graft. He’s a proudly self-made man.
‘And this must be Séverine,’ Will says, reaching across to give her a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Jules has told me so much about you – and about the twins.’
No, I haven’t. The twins, Dad’s latest progeny, were not invited.
Séverine simpers, melting beneath Will’s charm. This does not seem likely to endear Will further to Dad. I wish it didn’t matter to me what my father thinks. And yet I stand, transfixed, watching as the two of them circle each other in the small space. It is excruciating. It’s some relief when Aoife comes through and tells us that di
nner is about to be served.
Aoife is a woman after my own heart: organised, capable, discreet. There’s a coolness to her, a detachment, which I suppose some might not like. I prefer it. I don’t want someone pretending to be my best friend when I’m paying her to do something. I liked Aoife the moment we first spoke on the phone and I’m half tempted to ask if she’d consider leaving all of this and coming to work at The Download. She might look quite homely, but she has a steelier side.
We make our way through to the dining room. Mum and Dad, as planned, are seated either end of the table, as physically distant from one another as it is possible to get. I’m genuinely not sure if my parents have spoken more than a few words to one another since the nineties and it’s probably better for the harmony of the weekend if that continues. Séverine, meanwhile, is sitting so close to Dad that she might as well be on his lap. Ugh: she may not be far off half his age but she’s still a thirty-something, not a teenager.
Tonight, at least, everyone seems to be on pretty good behaviour. I think the several bottles of 1999 Bollinger we’ve drunk are probably helping. Even Mum is being fairly gracious, acting the role of mother-of-the-bride with aplomb. Her skills as an actress have always seemed to come to the fore in real life rather than on the stage.
Now Aoife and her husband come in bearing our starters: a creamy chowder flecked with parsley. ‘This is Aoife and Freddy,’ I tell the others. I don’t say that they’re our hosts because, really, I’m the host. I’m paying for that privilege. So I settle on: ‘the Folly belongs to them.’
Aoife gives a neat little nod. ‘If you need anything, come to either of us,’ she says. ‘I hope you’ll all enjoy your stay here. And the wedding tomorrow is our first on the island, so it will be particularly special.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Hannah says graciously. ‘And this looks delicious.’
‘Thank you,’ Freddy says, finding his voice. He’s English, I realise – I’d assumed he was Irish like Aoife.
Aoife nods. ‘We picked the mussels ourselves this morning.’
Once we’re all served the conversation around the table resumes, with the exception of Olivia, who sits there mutely, staring at her plate.
‘Such fond memories of Brighton,’ Mum is saying to Hannah. ‘You know, I performed down there a couple of times.’ Oh God. Not long before she starts telling everyone about that time she had penetrative sex on screen for an arthouse film (never got a release, probably now on PornHub).
‘Oh,’ Hannah replies, ‘we feel a bit guilty about not getting to the theatre more often. Where did you perform? The Theatre Royal?’
‘No,’ Mum says, with that slightly haughty tone that creeps into her voice when she’s been shown up. ‘It’s a little more boutique than that.’ A toss of her head. ‘It’s called “The Magic Lantern”. In the Lanes. Do you know it?’
‘Er – no,’ Hannah says. And then, quickly, ‘But as I say, we’re so out of the loop we wouldn’t know anywhere, even if it’s the place to go.’
She’s kind, Hannah. That is one of the things I know about her. It sort of … spills out of her. I remember meeting Hannah for the first time and thinking: oh, that’s who Charlie wants. Someone nice. Someone soft, and warm. I’m too much for him. I’m too angry, too driven. He would never have picked me.
I’m not envious of Hannah any more, I remind myself. Charlie might once have been the sailing club hottie but he’s softened now, a paunch where that flat brown stomach used to be. And he’s settled in his career, too. If I had anything to do with it he’d be gunning for a deputy head position. There’s nothing less sexy than a lack of ambition, is there?
I watch Charlie until his gaze snags on mine – I make sure I’m the first to glance away. And I wonder: is he now the jealous one? I’ve seen the mistrustful way he acts around Will, as though he’s trying to find the flaw. I caught him observing the two of us over drinks. And I felt it again, how good we look together, imagining it through his eyes.
‘How sweet,’ Mum’s saying to Hannah. ‘Five’s a lovely age.’ She’s certainly doing a very good job of acting interested. ‘And how are your two, Ronan?’ she calls down the table. I wonder if it is an intentional slight, not to have included Séverine in her question. Actually – scrap that, I don’t need to wonder. Despite the impression she works hard to convey of bohemian vagueness, very little my mother does is unintentional.
‘They’re good,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Araminta. They’re starting at nursery soon, aren’t they?’ He turns to Séverine.
‘Oui,’ she says. ‘We are looking for a French-speaking nursery for them. So important that they grow up – ah – bileengual, like me.’
‘Oh, you’re bilingual?’ I ask. I can’t help the slight.
If Séverine notices, she doesn’t react. ‘Oui,’ she says with a shrug. ‘I went to a girl’s boarding school in the UK when I was leetle. And my brudders, they attended a school for boys there too.’
‘Goodness,’ Mum says, still speaking only to Dad. ‘It must all be so exhausting at your age, Ronan.’ Before he has a chance to reply she claps her hands. ‘While we’re between courses,’ she says, getting to her feet, ‘I’d like to say a little something.’
‘You don’t have to, Mum,’ I call. Everyone laughs. But I’m not joking. Is she drunk? It’s difficult to gauge, we’ve all had quite a bit. And I’m not sure it makes much of a difference with Mum anyway. She’s never had any inhibitions to lose.
‘To my Julia,’ she says, raising her glass. ‘Ever since you were a little girl you’ve known exactly what you wanted. And woe betide anyone who got in your way! I’ve never been like that – what I want always changes from week to week, which is probably why I’ve always been so bloody unhappy.
‘Anyway: you’ve always known. And what you want, you go after.’ Oh God. She’s doing this because I’ve banned her from doing a speech at the wedding itself. I’m sure of it. ‘I knew it from the moment you told me about Will that he was what you wanted.’
Not quite so clairvoyant as it sounds, seeing as I told her, in the same conversation, that we were already engaged. But Mum has never let inconvenient facts get in the way of a good story.
‘Don’t they look wonderful together?’ she asks. Murmurs of assent from the others. I don’t like the way the emphasis seemed to land on the ‘look’.
‘I knew Jules would need to find someone as driven as her,’ Mum says. And was there an edge to the way she said driven? It’s difficult to be sure. I catch Charlie’s eye across the table – he knows of old what Mum is like. He winks at me and I feel a secret fizz of warmth deep in my belly. ‘And she has such style, my daughter. We all know that about her, don’t we? Her magazine, her beautiful house in Islington, and now this stunning man here.’ She puts a red-nailed hand on Will’s shoulder. ‘You’ve always had a good eye, Jules.’ Like I picked him out to go with a pair of shoes. Like I’m marrying him just because he fits perfectly into my life—
‘And it might seem like madness to anyone else,’ Mum goes on. ‘To haul everyone out to this freezing godforsaken island in the middle of nowhere. But it is important to Jules, and that’s what matters.’
I don’t like the sound of that, either. I’m laughing along with the others. But I’m secretly bracing myself. I want to stand up and say my own piece, as though she’s the prosecuting barrister, and I’m the defence. That’s not how you’re meant to feel, listening to a speech from a loved one, is it?
Here’s the truth my mother won’t speak: if I hadn’t known what I wanted, and worked out how to get it, I wouldn’t have got anywhere. I had to learn how to get my way. Because my mother wasn’t going to be any bloody help. I look at her, in her frothy black chiffon – like a negative of a wedding gown – and her glittering earrings, holding her sparkling glass of champagne, and I think: you don’t get this. This isn’t your moment. You didn’t create it. I created it in spite of you.
I grip the edge of the table with one hand, hard, anch
oring myself. With the other I pick up my glass of champagne and take a long swig. Say you’re proud of me, I think. And it will just about make everything all right. Say it, and I’ll forgive you.
‘This might sound a little immodest,’ Mum says, touching her breastbone. ‘But I have to say that I’m proud of myself, for having brought up such a strong-willed, independent daughter.’
And she does a little bow, as though to an adoring audience. Everyone claps dutifully as she sits down.
I’m trembling with anger. I look at the champagne flute in my hand. I imagine, for one delicious, delirious second, picking it up and smashing it against the table, bringing everything to a halt. I take a deep breath. And instead I rise to make my own toast. I will be gracious, grateful, affectionate.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ I say. I strive to make my tone warm. I’m so used to giving talks to my employees that I have to work to keep the note of authority out of my voice. I know some women complain about not being able to get people to take them seriously. If anything, I have the opposite problem. At our Christmas party one of my employees, Eliza, got drunk and told me I have permanent resting bitch face. I let it go, because she was drunk and wouldn’t remember saying it in the morning. But I certainly haven’t forgotten it.
‘We’re so happy to have you all here,’ I say. I smile. My lipstick feels waxy and unyielding on my lips. ‘I know it was a long way to come … and difficult to get time away from everything. But from the moment this place came to my attention I knew it was perfect. For Will, so outward-bound. And as a nod to my Irish roots.’ I look to Dad, who grins. ‘And to see you all gathered here – our nearest and dearest – it means so much to me. To both of us.’ I raise my glass to Will, and he raises his in return. He’s so much better at this than I am. He exudes charm and warmth without even trying. I can get people to do what I want, sure. But I haven’t always been able to get them to like me. Not in the way that my fiancé can. He gives me a grin, a wink, and I find myself imagining carrying on what we started earlier, in the bedroom—