The Guest List

by Lucy Foley

  ‘But then she started going off him,’ I tell Olivia.

  Olivia raises her eyebrows. ‘She got the ick?’ She seems a bit more engaged now.

  ‘I think so. By the Easter holiday she’d stopped talking about him so much. When I asked her she told me that she realised he wasn’t quite the guy she thought he was. And that she’d spent too much time wrapped up in him, that she really needed to get her head down and focus on her studies. She’d got a low 2.1 in an essay she’d handed in and that had been her wake-up call.’

  ‘Jeez,’ Olivia says, rolling her eyes. ‘She sounds like a massive geek.’ And then she catches herself. ‘Sorry.’

  I smile. ‘I told her exactly the same thing. But that was Alice, all over. Anyway, she wanted to make sure that she did the decent thing by him, told him in person.’ That was Alice all over too.

  ‘How did he take it?’ Olivia asks.

  ‘It didn’t go that well,’ I say. ‘He was pretty horrible about it all, said he wouldn’t let her humiliate him. That she would pay for it.’ I remember that because I remember wondering what he could possibly do. How do you make someone ‘pay’ for a break-up?

  ‘She didn’t tell me what he did, to get her back,’ I tell Olivia. ‘She didn’t tell me or Mum or Dad. She was too ashamed.’

  ‘But you found out?’

  ‘Later,’ I say. ‘I found out later. He’d taken this video of her.’

  A video of Alice had been uploaded to the university’s intranet. It was a video she had let him take, after the fancy Reeling Society ball. It was taken down from the server the second the university found out about it. But by then the news had spread, the damage was done. Other versions of it had been saved on computers around campus. It was posted to Facebook. It was taken down. It was posted again.

  ‘So, like … revenge porn?’ Olivia asks.

  I nod. ‘That’s what we’d call it now. But then it was this, you know, more innocent time. Now you’re warned to be careful, aren’t you? Everyone knows that if you let someone take photos or a video of you it could end up on the internet.’

  ‘I guess,’ Olivia says. ‘But people forget. In the moment. Or you know, if you really like someone and they ask you. So I suppose everyone at uni saw it, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But the worst part is we didn’t know at the time, she didn’t tell us. She was too ashamed. I think maybe she thought it would spoil our image of her. She’d always been so perfect, though of course that wasn’t why we loved her.’

  The fact that she didn’t even tell me. That’s the part that still hurts so much.

  ‘Sometimes,’ I say, ‘I think it’s too difficult to tell the people closest to you. The ones you love. Does that sound familiar?’

  Olivia nods.

  ‘So. I want you to know: you can tell me. Yeah? Because here’s the thing. It’s always better to get it out in the open – even if it seems shameful, even if you feel like people won’t understand. I wish Alice had been able to talk to me about it. I think she might have got some perspective she couldn’t see herself.’

  Olivia looks up at me, then away. It comes out as little more than a whisper. ‘Yeah.’

  And then the tinny sound of an announcement comes from the direction of the marquee. ‘Ladies and gents’ – it’s Charlie’s voice, I realise, he must be doing his MC bit – ‘please take your seats for the wedding breakfast.’

  I don’t have time to tell Olivia the rest – and perhaps that’s for the best. So I don’t tell her how the whole thing was like a huge stain upon Alice’s life, on her person – like it was tattooed there. None of us had realised quite how fragile Alice was. She had always seemed so capable, so in control: getting all those amazing grades, playing on the sports teams, getting her place at university, never missing a trick. But underneath that, fuelling all this success, was a tangled mass of anxiety that none of us saw until it was too late. She couldn’t cope with the shame of it all. She realised she would never – could never – work in politics as she had dreamed. It wasn’t just that she didn’t have her BA, because she’d dropped out. There was a video of her giving some guy a blowjob – and more – on the internet, now. It was indelible.

  So I didn’t tell Olivia how one June, two months after she came home from uni, Alice took a cocktail of painkillers and pretty much anything else she could find from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom while my mum was collecting me from netball practice. How, seventeen years ago this month, my beautiful, clever sister killed herself.

  AOIFE

  The Wedding Planner

  It’s my fault, what just happened, with the bridesmaid. I should have seen it coming. I did see it coming: I knew there was trouble brewing with that girl. I knew it when I gave her her breakfast this morning. She held it together during the ceremony, even though she looked like she wanted to turn and bolt out of there. Afterwards, of course, I tried to keep my eye on her. But there have been so many other demands on me: the guests were so insistent, so rabid, that the waiting staff – all mostly older schoolkids and students on their summer holidays – could hardly cope.

  The next thing I knew, there was the commotion, and she was in the water. Seeing her I was suddenly transported back to a different day. Powerless to help. Having seen the signs, but ignoring them until it was too late. Those insistent images in my dreams: the water rising, my hands reaching out as though I might be able to do something …

  This time rescue was possible. I think of the groom walking out of the water with her, saviour of the day. But maybe I could have prevented it from happening at all, if I had paid more attention at the right time. I am angry with myself for having been so lax. I managed to keep a veneer of cool professionalism in front of the guests, for the time it took to marshal them all into the marquee for the wedding breakfast. Even if I hadn’t kept such a firm hold of myself, I doubt anyone would have noticed anything was amiss. After all, it is my job to be invisible.

  I need Freddy. Freddy always makes me feel better.

  I find him out of sight of the guests, in the catering area of the back of the marquee: plating up with a small army of helpers. I get him to step outside with me, away from the curious gaze of his kitchen aides.

  ‘The girl could have drowned, out there,’ I say. When I think about it, I can hardly breathe. I’m seeing it all, how it could have happened, playing out before my eyes. It is as though I’ve been transported back to a different day, when there was no happy ending. ‘Oh God – Freddy, she could have drowned. I wasn’t paying enough attention.’ It is the past, all over again. All my fault.

  ‘Aoife,’ he says. He takes a firm hold of my shoulders. ‘She didn’t drown. It’s all OK.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘He saved her. But what if—’

  ‘No what ifs. The guests are in the marquee, now. Everything is going to go perfectly, trust me. Go back out there and do what you do best.’ Freddy has always been good at soothing me. ‘It’s a minor blip. Otherwise everything is going beautifully.’

  ‘But it’s all different to how I imagined,’ I say. ‘Harder, having them all here, wandering about all over the place. Those men, with their horrible games last night. And now this – bringing it all back …’

  ‘It’s nearly done,’ Freddy says, firmly. ‘All you have to do is get through the next few hours.’

  I nod. He’s right. And I know I need to get a grip of myself. I can’t afford to fall apart, not today.

  NOW

  The wedding night

  Now they can make him out, the man, Freddy, hurrying toward them as quickly as he is able. He holds a torch in his hand: nothing more sinister than that. The light of their own torches picks out the sheen of sweat on his pale forehead as he draws near. ‘You should come back to the marquee,’ he shouts, between gasps of breath. ‘We’ve called the Gardaí.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘The waitress has come round a little. She says she thinks she saw someone else out there, in the dark.’

>   ‘We should listen to him,’ Angus shouts to the others, once Freddy has left them. ‘Wait for the police. It’s not safe.’

  ‘Nah,’ Femi shouts. ‘We’ve come too far.’

  ‘You really think they’re going to be here soon do you, Angus?’ Duncan asks. ‘The police? In this weather? No fucking way, mate. We’re all alone out here.’

  ‘Well, all the more reason. It’s not safe—’

  ‘Aren’t we jumping to conclusions?’ Femi shouts.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He only said she might have seen someone.’

  ‘But if she did,’ Angus calls, ‘that means—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, if someone else was involved. It means it might not – it might not have been an accident.’

  He doesn’t go so far as to spell it out but they hear it, all the same, behind his words. Murder.

  They grip their torches a little tighter. ‘These would make good weapons,’ Duncan shouts. ‘If it comes down to it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Femi shouts, straightening his shoulders a little. ‘It’s us against them. Four of us, one of them.’

  ‘Wait, has anyone seen Pete?’ Angus says, suddenly.

  ‘What? Shit— no.’

  ‘Maybe he went with that Freddy bloke?’

  ‘He didn’t, Fem,’ Angus replies. ‘And he was really out of it. Shit—’

  They call for him: ‘Pete!’

  ‘Pete, mate – you out there?’ There is no answer.

  ‘Christ … well, I’m not going to wander around looking for him, too,’ Duncan shouts, a faint but telling tremor in his voice. ‘It’s not the first time he’s been in that state, is it? He can look after himself. He’ll be fine.’ The others suspect he’s made an effort to sound more certain than he really is. But they aren’t going to question it. They want to believe it too.

  Earlier that day

  JULES

  The Bride

  Inside the marquee, Aoife has conjured something magical. It’s warm in here, a respite from the increasingly cool wind outside. Through the entrance I can see the lighted torches flicker and dip and every so often the roof of the marquee billows and deflates gently, flexing against the wind outside. But in a way it only adds to the sense of cosiness inside. The whole place is scented by the candles and the faces clustered about the candlelight appear rosy, flushed with health and youth – even if the true cause is an afternoon of drinking in the penetrating Irish wind. It’s everything I could have wanted. I look around at the guests and see it in their faces: the awe at their surroundings. And yet … why am I left feeling so hollow?

  Everyone already seems to have forgotten about Olivia’s crazy stunt; it could have happened on another day entirely. They are throwing back the wine, guzzling it down … growing increasingly loud and animated. The atmosphere of the day has been recaptured and is following its prescribed track. But I can’t forget. When I think about Olivia’s expression, about that pleading look in her eyes when she tried to speak, all the little hairs on the back of my neck prickle to attention.

  The plates are cleared away, every one practically licked clean. Alcohol has given the guests a real hunger and Freddy is a great talent. I’ve been to so many weddings where I’ve had to force down mouthfuls of rubbery chicken breast, school canteen style vegetables. This was the most tender rack of lamb, velvet on the tongue, crushed potatoes scented with rosemary. It was perfect.

  It’s time for the speeches. The waiters fan out about the room, carrying trays of Bollinger, ready for toasts. There’s a sourness in the pit of my stomach and the thought of yet more champagne makes me feel slightly queasy. I’ve drunk too much already, in an effort to match the bonhomie of my guests, and feel strange, untethered. The image of that dark cloud on the horizon during the reception drinks keeps playing upon my mind.

  There’s the sound of a spoon on a glass: ding ding ding!

  The chatter in the marquee subsides, replaced by an obedient hush. I feel the attention of the room shift. Faces swivel towards us, to the top table. The show is about to begin. I rearrange my expression into one of joyful anticipation.

  Then the lights in the marquee shiver, going out. We are plunged into a twilit gloom that matches the fading light outside.

  ‘Apologies,’ calls Aoife, from the back of the marquee. ‘It’s the wind, outside. The electricity’s a bit temperamental here.’

  Someone, one of the ushers, I think, lets out a long, lupine howl. And then others join in, until it sounds as though there is a whole pack of wolves in here. They’re all drunk by now, all getting looser and more wild. I want to scream at them all to shut up.

  ‘Will,’ I hiss, ‘can we ask them to stop?’

  ‘It’ll only encourage them,’ he says soothingly. His hand closes over mine. ‘I’m sure the lights will come on again in a second.’

  Just when I think I can’t bear it any longer, that I really will scream, the lights flicker on again. The guests cheer.

  Dad stands, first, to give his speech. Perhaps I should have banished him at the last minute as a punishment for his earlier behaviour. But that would look odd, wouldn’t it? And so much of this whole wedding business, I have realised, is about how things appear. As long as we can make it through with all seeming joyful, jubilant … well, perhaps then we can suppress any darker forces stirring beneath the surface of the day. I bet most people would guess that this wedding is all down to my dad’s generosity. Not quite.

  Everyone’s been asking me what made me decide to hold the wedding here. I put a shout out on social media. ‘Pitch me your wedding venue.’ All part of a feature for The Download. Aoife answered the call. I admired the level of planning in her pitch, the consideration of practicalities. She seemed so much hungrier than all the rest. It knocked spots off the competition, really. But that’s not why this place won our business. The whole unvarnished truth of why I decided to hold my wedding here was because it was nice and cheap.

  Because Daddy dearest, standing up there looking all proud, turned off the tap. Or Séverine did it for him.

  No one’s going to guess that one, are they? Not when I’ve got a cake that cost three grand, or solid silver engraved napkin rings, or Cloon Keen Atelier’s entire year’s output of candles. But those were exactly the sort of things my guests expected from me. And I could only afford them – and a wedding in the style to which I am accustomed – because Aoife also offered a 50 per cent discount if I held it here. She might look dowdy but she’s savvy. That’s how she clinched it. She knows I’ll feature it in the magazine now, knows it’ll get press because of Will. It’ll pay dividends in the end.

  ‘I’m honoured to be here,’ Dad says, now. ‘At the wedding of my little girl.’

  His little girl. Really. I feel my smile harden.

  Dad raises aloft his glass. He’s drinking Guinness, I see – he’s always made a point of not drinking champagne, keeping true to his roots. I know that I should be gazing back adoringly but I’m still so cross about what he said earlier that I can barely bring myself to look at him.

  ‘But then Julia has never really been my little girl,’ Dad says. His accent is the strongest I’ve heard it in years. It always gets more pronounced at times of heightened emotion … or when he’s had a fair amount to drink. ‘She’s always known her own mind. Even at the age of nine, always knew exactly what she wanted. Even if I …’ He gives a meaningful cough, ‘tried to persuade her otherwise.’ There’s a ripple of amusement from the guests. ‘She went after whatever she wanted with a single-minded ambition.’ He smiles, ruefully. ‘If I were to flatter myself I might try to say that she takes after me in that respect. But I’m not the same. I’m not nearly so strong. I pretend to know what I want but really it’s whatever has taken my fancy. Jules is absolutely her own person, and woe betide anyone who gets in her way. I’m sure any employees of hers will agree.’ There’s some slightly nervous laughter from the table of The Download crowd. I smile at them beatific
ally: none of you are going to get in trouble. Not today.

  ‘Look,’ Dad says, ‘sure, I’m not the best role model for this wedding stuff, I’ll be totally honest. I believe I have wife number one and number five here this evening. So I suppose you could say I’m a card-carrying member of the club … though not a very good one.’ Not very funny – though there are some dutiful titters from the spectators. ‘Jules was – ahem – quick to point that out to me earlier today when I attempted to offer some words of fatherly advice.’

  Fatherly advice. Ha.

  ‘But I would say that I’ve learned a thing or two over the years, about how to get it right. Marriage is about finding that person you know best in the world. Not how they take their coffee or what their favourite film is or the name of their first cat. It’s knowing on a deeper level. It’s knowing their soul.’ He grins at Séverine, who positively preens.

  ‘Besides, I hardly felt qualified to give that advice. I know I haven’t always been around. Scratch that. I have hardly ever been around. Neither of us have been. I think Araminta will probably agree with me on that.’

  Wow. I look towards Mum. She wears a rictus smile that I think might well be as taut as my own. She won’t have enjoyed the first wife bit because it’ll make her feel old and she’ll be livid at the suggestion of parental neglectfulness, considering how much she’s been enjoying playing the gracious mother of the bride today.

  ‘So in our absence, Julia has always had to forge her own path. And what a path she has forged. I know I haven’t always been very good at showing it, but I am so proud of you, Juju, of all that you have achieved.’ I think of the school prize-giving ceremony. My graduation. The launch for The Download – none of which my father attended. I think about how often I have wanted to hear those words, and now, here they are – right when I’m most furious at him. I feel my eyes fill with tears. Shit. That really caught me unawares. I never cry.