The Guest List(50)

‘Me most of all,’ Femi says. ‘Obviously.’

‘Speaking of seaweed,’ Will says, ‘it wasn’t funny, by the way. Last night.’

‘What wasn’t funny?’ I look at the others, they seem confused.

Will raises his eyebrows. ‘I think you know. The seaweed in the bed. Jules freaked out. She was pretty pissed off about it.’

‘Well it wasn’t me, mate,’ I say. ‘Honest.’ It’s not like I’d do anything that would bring back memories of our time at Trevs.

‘Not me,’ Femi says.

‘Or me,’ Duncan says. ‘Didn’t have an opportunity. Georgina and I were otherwise engaged before dinner, if you get what I’m saying … certainly had better things to be doing than wandering around collecting seaweed.’

Will frowns. ‘Well, I know it was one of you,’ he says. He gives me a long look.

There’s a knock on the door.

‘Saved by the bell!’ Femi says.

It’s Charlie. ‘Apparently the buttonholes are in here?’ he says. He doesn’t look at any of us properly. Poor bloke.

‘They’re over there,’ Will says. ‘Chuck Charlie one, will you, Johnno?’

I pick one up, little sprig of green stuff and white flowers, and toss it to Charlie, but not quite hard enough to reach him. Charlie makes a sort of lunge for it and doesn’t manage to catch it, fumbles around on the floor.

When he’s finally picked it up he leaves as quickly as possible, without saying anything. I catch the others’ eyes and we all stifle a laugh. And for a moment it’s like we’re kids again, like we can’t help ourselves.

‘Fellas?’ Aoife calls, ‘Johnno? The guests are all here. They’re in the chapel.’

‘Right,’ Will says, ‘how do I look?’

‘You’re an ugly bastard,’ I say.

‘Thanks.’ He straightens his jacket in the mirror. Then, as the others go ahead, he turns to me. ‘One other thing, mate,’ he says, in an undertone. ‘Before we go down, as I know I won’t get a chance to mention it later. The speech. You’re not going to totally embarrass me, are you?’ He says it with a grin, but I reckon he’s serious. I know there’s stuff he doesn’t want me to get into. But he doesn’t need to worry – I don’t want to get into it either. It doesn’t reflect well on either of us.

‘Nah, mate,’ I say. ‘I’ll do you proud.’





JULES


The Bride


I lift the gold crown on to my head, with hands that – I cannot help noticing – betray a tell-tale tremble. I turn my head, this way and that. It’s the one capricious element of my outfit, the one concession to a romantic fantasy. I had it made by a hat-maker’s in London. I didn’t want to go for a full flower crown, because that would be a bit hippy-child, but I felt this would be a stylish solution. A vague nod to a bride from an Irish folktale, say.

The crown gleams nicely against my dark hair, I can see that. I pick my bouquet out of its glass vase, a gathering of local wildflowers: speedwell, spotted orchids and blue-eyed grass.

Then I walk downstairs.

‘You look stunning, sweetheart.’

Dad stands there in the drawing room, looking very dapper. Yes, my father is going to walk me down the aisle. I considered other possibilities, I really did. Obviously my father is not the best representative of the joys of marriage. But in the end that little girl in me, the one who wants order, who wants things done in the right way, won out. Besides, who else was going to do it? My mother?

‘The guests are all seated in the chapel,’ he says. ‘So everything’s just waiting on us now.’

In a few minutes we will make the short journey along the gravel drive that divides the chapel from the Folly. The thought makes my stomach do a somersault, which is ridiculous. I can’t think of the last time I felt like this. I did a TEDx talk last year about digital publishing to a room of eight hundred people and I didn’t feel like this.

I look at Dad. ‘So,’ I say, more to distract myself from the roiling in my stomach than anything else, ‘you’ve finally met Will.’ My voice sounds strange and slightly strangled. I cough. ‘Better late than never.’

‘Yep,’ Dad says. ‘Sure have.’

I try to keep my tone light. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, Juju. Just – yep, sure have met him.’

I know, even before it crosses my lips, that I should not ask this next question. But I can’t not ask it. I need to know his opinion, like it or not. More than anyone else’s, I have always sought my dad’s approval. When I opened my A-level results in the school car park, his, not Mum’s, was the expression of delight I imagined, his the: ‘Nice one, kiddo.’ So I ask. ‘And?’ I say. ‘And did you like him?’

Dad raises his eyebrows. ‘You really want to have this conversation now, Jules? Half an hour before you get married to the fella?’

He’s right, I suppose. It’s spectacularly bad timing. But now we’ve started down this path, there’s no going back. And I’m beginning to suspect that his lack of an answer might be an answer in itself.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I want to know. Do you like him?’