The Guest List(11)

‘Me too,’ says Pete.

‘To the survivors,’ Will says.

‘The survivors!’ We echo him. And just for a moment, when I look at the others, they look different, younger. It’s like the sun has gilded them. You can’t see Femi’s bald spot from this angle, or Angus’s paunch, and Pete looks less like he only goes out at night. And, if possible, even Will looks better, brighter. I have this sudden sense that we’re back there, sitting on that sports hall roof and nothing bad has happened yet. I’d give a fair amount to return to that time.

‘Right,’ Will says, draining the dregs of his Guinness. ‘I better get downstairs. Charlie and Hannah will be arriving soon. Jules wants a welcoming party on the jetty.’

I suppose once everyone’s here the weekend will kick off in earnest. But I wish for a moment we could go back to just Will and me, shooting the breeze, like we were before the others arrived. I haven’t seen all that much of Will recently. Yet he’s the person who knows more about me than anyone in the world, really. And I know the most about him.





OLIVIA


The Bridesmaid


My room used to be a maid’s quarters, apparently. I worked out pretty quickly that I’m directly below Jules and Will’s room. Last night I could hear everything. I did try not to, obviously. But it was like the harder I tried, the more I heard every tiny sound, every groan and gasp. Almost as if they wanted to be heard.

They did it this morning too, but at least then I could get out, escape the Folly. We’re all under instructions not to go walking around the island after dark. But if it happens again this evening there’s no way I’m going to stay here. I’d prefer to take my chances with the peat bog and the cliffs.

I toggle my phone on to Airplane mode and off again, to see if anything happens to the little NO SIGNAL message, but it does fuck all. I doubt I have any new messages. I’ve sort of lost contact with all my mates. It’s not like we’ve fallen out. It’s more that I’ve left their world since I dropped out of uni. They sent me messages at first:

Hope you’re OK babes

Call if you need to chat Livs

See you soon, yeah?

We miss you!

What happened????

Suddenly I feel like I can’t breathe. I reach for the bedside table. The razor blade is there: so small, but so sharp. I pull down my jeans and press the razor’s edge to my inner thigh, up near my knickers, drag it into my flesh until the blood wells. The colour’s such a dark red against the blue-white skin there. It’s not a very big cut; I’ve made bigger. But the sting of it focuses everything to a point, to the metal entering my flesh, so that for a moment nothing else exists.

I breathe a little easier. Maybe I’ll do one more—

There’s a knock on my door. I drop the blade, fumbling to get my jeans closed. ‘Who is it?’ I call.

‘Me,’ Jules says, pushing the door open before I tell her she can come in, which is so Jules. Thank God I reacted quickly. ‘I need to see you in your bridesmaid dress,’ she says. ‘We’ve got a bit of time before Hannah and Charlie arrive. Johnno’s forgotten his bloody suit so I want to make sure that at least one member of the wedding party looks good.’

‘I’ve already tried it on,’ I say. ‘It definitely fits.’ Lie. I have no idea whether it fits or not. I was meant to come to the shop to try it on. But I found an excuse every time Jules tried to get me there: eventually she gave up and bought it, on condition I tried it on and told her it fitted straight away. I told her it did but I couldn’t make myself put it on. It’s been in its big stiff cardboard box since Jules had it delivered.

‘You may have tried it on,’ Jules says, ‘but I want to see it.’ She smiles at me, suddenly, like she’s just remembered to do so. ‘You can do it in our bedroom, if you like.’ She says it as if she’s offering some amazing privilege.

‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘I’d prefer to stay here—’

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘We’ve got a nice big mirror.’ I realise it isn’t optional. I go to the wardrobe and lift out the big duck-egg blue box. Jules’s mouth tightens. I know she’s pissed off I haven’t hung it up yet.

Growing up with Jules sometimes felt like having a second mother, or one who was like other mums – bossy, strict, all that stuff. Mum was never really like that, but Jules was.

I follow her up to their bedroom. Even though Jules is super tidy and even though there’s a window open to let the fresh air in, it smells of bodies in here, and men’s aftershave and, I think (I don’t want to think), of sex. It feels wrong being in here, in their private space.

Jules closes the door and turns to me with her arms folded. ‘Go on then,’ she says.

I don’t feel like I have much choice. Jules is good at making you feel that. I strip down to my underwear, keeping my legs pressed together in case my thigh’s still bleeding. If Jules sees I’ll have to tell her I’ve got my period. My skin prickles into goosebumps in the slight breeze coming through the window. I can feel her watching me; I wish she’d give me a bit of privacy. ‘You’ve lost weight,’ she says critically. Her tone is caring, but it doesn’t quite ring true. I know she’s probably jealous. Once, when she got drunk, she went on about how kids had got at her at school for being ‘chubby’. She’s always making comments about my weight, like she doesn’t know I’ve always been skinny, ever since I was a little girl. But it’s possible to hate your body when you’re thin, too. To feel like it’s kept secrets from you. To feel like it’s let you down.