The Guest List(47)

It made me remember the blood, all those months ago. I hadn’t known there would be so much. I shut my eyes. But I can see it there, beneath my eyelids.

I glance out of the window again, think about all those people arriving. I’ve been feeling claustrophobic in this place since we arrived, feeling like there’s no escape, nowhere to run to … but it’s going to get so much worse today. In less than an hour, Jules will call for me and then I’ll have to walk down the aisle in front of her, with everyone looking at us. And then all the people – family, strangers – who I’ll have to talk to. I don’t think I can do it. Suddenly I feel like I can’t breathe.

I think about how the only time I’ve felt a bit better, since I’ve been here, was last night in the cave, talking with Hannah. I haven’t been able to speak to anyone else the way I did with her: not my mates, not anyone. I don’t know what it was about her. I guess it was because she seemed like an odd one out, like she was trying to hide from everything too.

I could go and find Hannah. I could talk to her now, I think. Tell her the rest. Get it all out into the open. The thought of it makes me feel dizzy, sick. But maybe I’d feel better too, in a way – less like I can’t get any air into my lungs.

My hands shake as I pull on my jeans and my jumper. If I tell her, there’ll be no taking it back. But I think I’ve made up my mind. I think I have to do it, before I go totally mental.

I creep out of my room. My heart feels like it’s moved up into my throat, beating so hard I can hardly swallow. I tiptoe through the dining room, up the stairs. I can’t bump into anyone else on the way – if I do I know I’ll chicken out.

Hannah’s room is at the end of the long corridor, I think. As I get closer, I realise I can hear the murmur of voices coming from inside, growing louder.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Han,’ I hear. ‘You’re being completely ridiculous—’

The door’s open a crack, too. I creep a little closer. Hannah’s out of sight but I can see Charlie in just a pair of boxers, gripping on to the edge of the chest of drawers as though he’s trying to contain his anger.

I stop short. I feel like I’ve seen something I shouldn’t, like I’m spying on them. I stupidly hadn’t thought about Charlie being in there too – Charlie, who I used to have that cringeworthy teenage crush on. I can’t do it. I can’t go up and knock on their door, ask Hannah if she’ll come for a chat … not when they’re half-dressed, clearly in the middle of some sort of argument. Then I nearly jump out of my skin as another door opens behind me.

‘Oh, hello, Olivia.’ It’s Will. He’s wearing suit trousers and a white shirt that hangs open to show his chest, tanned and muscular. I glance quickly away.

‘I thought I heard someone outside,’ he says. He frowns at me. ‘What are you doing up here?’

‘N-nothing,’ I say, or try to say, because hardly any sound comes out of my mouth, just a hoarse whisper. I turn to leave.

Back in my room I sit down on the bed. I’ve failed. It’s too late. I’ve missed my chance. I should have found a way of telling Hannah last night.

I look out through the window at the boats approaching: closer now. It feels like they are bringing something bad with them to this island. But that’s silly. Because it’s here already, isn’t it? It’s me. I’m the bad thing. What I’ve done.





AOIFE


The Wedding Planner


The guests are arriving. I watch the approach of the boats from the jetty, ready to welcome them. I smile and nod, try to present a front of decorum. I’m wearing a plain, navy dress now, low wedge heels. Smart, but not too smart. It wouldn’t be appropriate to look like one of the guests. Though I needn’t have worried about that. It’s clear they have all made a big effort with their outfits: glittering earrings and painfully high heels, tiny handbags and real fur stoles (it might be June, but this is the cool Irish summer, after all). I even see a smattering of top hats. I suppose when your hosts are the owner of a lifestyle magazine and a TV star, you have to step up your game.

The guests disembark in groups of thirty or so. I can see them all taking in the island, and feel a little surge of personal pride as they do. We’ll be a hundred and fifty tonight – that’s a lot of people to introduce to Inis an Amplóra.

‘Where’s the nearest loo?’ one man asks me urgently, rather green about the gills, plucking at his shirt collar as though it’s strangling him. Several of the guests, in fact, are looking worse for wear beneath their finery. And yet it’s not too choppy at the moment, the water somewhere between white and silver – so bright with the cold sunlight on it that you can hardly look at it. I shield my eyes and smile graciously and point them on their way. Perhaps I should offer some strong seasickness pills for the return journey, if it’s going to get as windy as the forecast suggests.

I remember the first time we came here as kids, stepping off the old ferry. We didn’t feel seasick, not that I remember. We stood out at the front and held on to the rail and squealed as we soared over the waves, as the water came up in big arcs and soaked us. I remember pretending we were riding a huge sea-serpent.

It was warm for this part of the world that summer, and the sun would soon dry us. And children are tough. I remember running down the beaches into the water like it was nothing. I guess I hadn’t yet learned to be wary of the sea.