The Guest List(23)

‘Christ, Duncan,’ Femi says. ‘You nearly took my eye out!’

‘How do you guys all know each other?’ I ask Johnno, keen to capitalise on the distraction.

‘Ah,’ Johnno says, ‘we go back years.’ He puts a hand on Will’s shoulder, and somehow this gesture sets him and Will apart from the others. Next to him Will looks even more handsome. They’re like chalk and cheese. And there’s something a bit weird about Johnno’s eyes. I spend a while trying to work out exactly what’s off about them. Are they too close together? Too small?

‘Yup,’ Will says. ‘We were at school together.’ I’m surprised. The other men have that public schoolboy polish, while Johnno seems rougher – no cut-glass accent.

‘Trevellyan’s,’ Femi says. ‘It was like that book with all the boys on a desert island together, killing each other, oh Christ, what’s it called—’

‘Lord of the Flies,’ Charlie says, the faintest trace of superiority in his tone. I might have gone to state school, it says, but I’m better read than you.

‘It wasn’t as bad as all that,’ Will says quickly. ‘It was more … boys running a bit wild.’

‘Boys will be boys!’ Duncan chips in. ‘Am I right, Johnno?’

‘Yeah. Boys will be boys,’ Johnno echoes.

‘And we’ve been friends ever since,’ Will says. He slaps Johnno on the back. ‘Johnno here used to drive up in his ancient banger while I was at Edinburgh for uni, didn’t you, Johnno?’

‘Yeah,’ Johnno says. ‘I’d take him out into the mountains for climbing and camping trips. Make sure he didn’t get too soft. Or spend all his time shagging around.’ He pretends to look contrite. ‘Sorry, Jules.’

Jules tosses her head.

‘Who do we know who went to Edinburgh, Han?’ Charlie says. I stiffen. How can he possibly have forgotten who it was? Then I see his expression change to one of horror as he realises his mistake.

‘You know someone?’ Will says. ‘Who?’

‘She wasn’t there for very long,’ I say quickly. ‘You know, Will, I’ve been wondering. That bit in Survive the Night, in the Arctic tundra. How cold was it? Did you really nearly get frostbite?’

‘Yep,’ says Will. ‘Lost all the feeling in the pads of these fingers.’ He holds up one hand towards me. ‘The fingerprints have gone from a couple of them.’ I squint. They don’t actually look all that different to me. And yet I find myself saying, ‘Oh yes, I think I can. Wow.’ I sound like a fangirl.

Charlie turns to me. ‘I didn’t realise you’d seen the show,’ he says. ‘When did you watch it? We’ve never watched it together.’ Oops. I think of those afternoons, setting the kids up with CBeebies, and watching Will’s show on my iPad in the kitchen as I heated up their dinner. He looks to Will. ‘No offence, mate – I do keep meaning to catch it.’ This isn’t true. You can tell from the way he says it that it isn’t true. He hasn’t made any attempt to sound genuine.

‘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.