The Guest List(21)
‘Hannah,’ Will says, turning to me with that famous, generous smile of his. ‘You look stunning.’
‘Thanks.’ I take a big gulp of my champagne, feeling sexy, a little bit reckless.
‘I meant to ask, on the jetty – did we meet at the engagement drinks?’
‘No,’ I say, apologetically. ‘We couldn’t make it up from Brighton, sadly.’
‘Maybe I’ve seen you in one of Jules’s photos then. You seem familiar.’
‘Maybe,’ I say. I don’t think so. I can’t imagine Jules displaying a photo that includes me; she’s got plenty of just her and Charlie. But I know what Will’s doing: helping me feel welcome, one of the gang. I appreciate the kindness. ‘You know,’ I say, ‘I think I’m getting the same feeling about you. Might I have seen you somewhere before? You know … like on my TV set?’
It was corny but Will laughs anyway, a rich, low sound, and I feel as though I’ve just won something. ‘Guilty!’ he says, raising his hands. As he does I get a gust of that cologne again: moss and pine, a forest floor via an expensive department store perfume hall. He asks me about the kids, about Brighton. He seems fascinated by what I’m saying. He’s one of those people who makes you feel wittier and more attractive than normal. I realise I’m enjoying myself, enjoying the delicious glass of chilled champagne.
‘Now,’ Will says, palm on my back as a gentle steer, warm through my dress, ‘let me introduce you to some people. This is Georgina.’
Georgina, thin and chic in a column of fuchsia silk, gives me a wintry smile. She can’t move her face much and I try hard not to stare – I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Botox in real life. ‘Were you on the hen do?’ she asks. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘I had to give it a miss,’ I say. ‘The kids …’ Partly true. But there’s also the fact that it was on a yoga retreat in Ibiza and I could never in a million years have afforded it.
‘You didn’t miss much,’ a man – slender, dark red hair – swoops into the conversation. ‘Just a load of bitches burning their tits off and gossiping over bottles of Whispering Angel. Goodness,’ he says, giving me a once-over before bending in to kiss my cheek. ‘Don’t you scrub up well?’
‘Er – thanks.’ His smile suggests it was meant kindly, but I’m not totally sure it was a compliment.
This man is Duncan, apparently, and he’s married to Georgina. He’s also one of the ushers, along with the other three guys. Peter – hair slicked back, a party-boy look. Oluwafemi, or Femi – tall, black, seriously handsome. Angus – Boris Johnson blond and similarly pot-bellied. But in a funny way they all look quite similar. They’re all wearing the same striped tie plus crisp white shirts, polished brogues and tailored jackets that definitely don’t come from Next, like Charlie’s. Charlie bought his especially for this weekend and I hope he’s not feeling too put out by the comparison. But at least he looks fairly dapper next to the best man, Johnno, who despite his size somehow reminds me of a kid wearing clothes from the school lost property cupboard.
On the face of it they’re so charming, these men. But I remember the laughter from the tower as we walked up to the Folly. And even now there’s definitely an undercurrent beneath the charm. Smirks, raised eyebrows, as though they’re having a secret joke at someone’s expense – possibly mine.
I move over to chat to Olivia, who looks ethereal in a grey dress. It felt like we bonded a bit earlier in the cave but now she answers me in monosyllables, darting her eyes away.
A couple of times my gaze snags with Will’s over her shoulder. I don’t think it’s my fault: sometimes I’ll have the impression that his eyes have been on me for a while. It shouldn’t be, but it’s exciting. It reminds me – I know it’s totally inappropriate to say this – but it reminds me most of that feeling you get when you start to suspect that someone you’re attracted to fancies you back.
I catch myself in the thought. Reality check, Hannah. You’re a married mother of two and your husband is right there and you’re talking to a man who is about to get married to your husband’s best friend, who is standing looking like Monica Bellucci, only better dressed. Probably ease off the champagne a little. I’ve been knocking it back. It’s partly nerves, surrounded by this lot. But it’s also the sense of freedom. No babysitter to embarrass ourselves in front of later, no small people to have to wake up for in the morning. There’s something exotic about being all dressed up with only other adults for company, a plentiful supply of booze, no responsibility.
‘The food smells incredible,’ I say. ‘Who’s cooking?’
‘Aoife and Freddy,’ Jules says. ‘They own the Folly. Aoife’s our wedding planner, too. I’ll introduce you all at dinner. And Freddy is doing the catering for us tomorrow.’
‘I can tell it’s going to be delicious,’ I say. ‘God, I’m hungry.’
‘Well your stomach’s completely empty,’ Charlie says. ‘Got rid of it all on the boat, didn’t you?’
‘Had a vom?’ Duncan asks, delighted. ‘Fed the fish?’
I shoot Charlie an icy look. I feel like he’s just undone some of the effort I made this evening. I feel like he’s playing for laughs, trying to get in on the joke at my expense. I swear he’s put on a different voice – posher – but I know if I called him out on it he’d pretend he hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.