The Guest List(43)

‘Knock knock!’

I turn. It’s the groom. He’s got one hand up and he’s pretending to knock on the side of the canvas flap as though it were a real door.

‘I’m looking for two errant ushers,’ he says. ‘We should be getting into our morning suits. You haven’t seen any sign of them?’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Good morning. No, I don’t think I have. Did you sleep well?’ I still can’t believe it’s really him, in the flesh: Will Slater. Freddy and I have watched Survive the Night since the start. I haven’t mentioned this to the bride and groom, though, in case they worry that we’re crazed super-fans who are going to embarrass ourselves and them.

‘Well!’ he says. ‘Very well.’ He is very good-looking in real life, more so even than he looks on screen. I reach down to straighten a fork, in case I’m staring. You can tell he’s always had these looks. Some people are awkward and unformed as children but grow into attractive adults. But this man wears his beauty with such ease and grace. I suspect he uses it to great effect, is clearly very aware of its power. Every movement is like watching the working of a finely tuned machine, an animal in the peak of its condition.

‘I’m pleased you slept well,’ I say.

‘Ah,’ he says, ‘although we discovered a slight issue on going to bed.’

‘Oh?’

‘Some seaweed under the duvet. The ushers’ little prank.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ I say. ‘I’m very sorry. You should have called Freddy or me. We would have sorted it out for you, remade the bed with new sheets.’

‘You don’t have to apologise,’ he says – that charming grin again. ‘Boys will be boys.’ He shrugs. ‘Even if Johnno is a somewhat overgrown one.’ He comes to stand beside me, close enough that I can detect the scent of his cologne. I take a small step back. ‘It’s looking great in here, Aiofe. Very impressive. You’re doing a wonderful job.’

‘Thank you.’ My tone does not invite conversation. But I imagine Will Slater isn’t used to people not wanting to talk to him. I realise, when he doesn’t move, that it’s even possible he sees my curtness as a challenge.

‘So what’s your story, Aoife?’ he asks, his head tilted to one side. ‘Don’t you get lonely, living here, only the two of you?’

Is he really interested, I wonder, or simply feigning it? Why does he want to know about me? I shrug. ‘No, not really. I’m what you might call a loner anyways. In the winter it just feels like survival, to be honest. The summers are what we stay for.’

‘But how did you end up here?’ He seems genuinely intrigued. He really is one of those people that has you convinced they are fascinated by your every word. It’s all part of what makes him so charming, I suppose.

‘I used to come here on summer holidays,’ I say, ‘when I was little. My family, we all used to come here.’ I don’t often talk about that time. There’s a lot I could tell him, though. Of cheap strawberry ice lollies on the white sand beaches, the stain of red food colouring on lips and tongues. Of rock-pooling on the other side of the island, filleting through the contents of our nets with eager fingers to find shrimp and tiny, translucent crabs. Splashing about in the turquoise sea in the sheltered bays until we got used to the freezing temperature. I won’t tell him any of this, obviously: it would not be appropriate. I need to maintain that essential boundary between myself and the guests.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I didn’t think you had the local accent.’ I wonder what he expects. Top o’ the morning and to be sure, to be sure and shamrocks and leprechauns?

‘No,’ I say, ‘I have a Dublin accent, which perhaps sounds less pronounced. But I’ve also lived in different places. When I was younger we moved around a lot, because of my father’s job – he was a university professor. England for a bit – even the States for a while.’

‘You met Freddy abroad? He’s English, isn’t he?’ Still so interested, so charming. It makes me feel a little uneasy. I wonder exactly what he wants to know.

‘Freddy and I met a long long time ago,’ I tell him.

He smiles that charming, interested smile. ‘Childhood sweethearts?’

‘You could say that.’ It’s not quite right, though. Freddy’s several years younger than me and we were friends first, for years before anything else. Or perhaps not even friends, more clinging to one another as each other’s life rafts. Not long after my mother became a shell of the woman she had once been. Several years before my father’s heart attack. But I’m hardly going to tell the groom all of that. Besides everything else, in this profession it is important to never allow yourself to seem too human, too fallible.

‘I see,’ he says.

‘Now,’ I say, before the next question can form on his lips, whatever it may have been. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d better be getting on with everything.’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘We’ve got some real party animals coming this evening, Aoife,’ he says. ‘I only hope they don’t cause too much mayhem.’ He pushes his hand through his hair and grins at me in what I think is probably intended to be a rueful, winning way. His teeth are very white when he smiles. So bright, in fact, that it makes me wonder if he gets them specially lightened.