The Guest List(52)

Then suddenly it is as though a mist clears and I can see them properly: friends and family, smiling and waving. None of them, thank God, pointing phones at us. We got round that with a stern note on the wedding invite telling them to refrain from pictures during the ceremony. I manage to unfreeze my face, smile back. And then beyond them all, standing there in the centre of the aisle, literally haloed in the light that has momentarily broken through the cloud: my husband-to-be. He looks immaculate in his suit. He is incandescent, as handsome as I have ever seen him. He smiles at me and it is like the sun, now warm upon my cheeks. Around him the ruined chapel rises, starkly beautiful, open to the sky.

It is perfect. It is absolutely as I had planned, better than I had planned. And best of all is my groom – beautiful, radiant – awaiting me at the altar. Looking at him, stepping towards him, it is impossible to believe that this man is anything other than the one I know him to be.

I smile.





HANNAH


The Plus-One


During the ceremony I’ve been sitting on my own, crammed on to a bench with some cousins of Jules’s – Charlie had a seat reserved at the front, as part of the wedding party. There was a weird moment, as Jules walked up the aisle. She wore an expression I’ve never seen on her before. She looked almost afraid: her eyes wide, her mouth set in a grim line. I wondered if anyone else noticed it, or even if I’d imagined it, because by the time she joined Will at the front she was smiling, the radiant bride everyone expects to see, greeting her groom. All around me there were sighs, whispers about how wonderful they both looked together.

The whole thing has gone very smoothly since: no fumbles over the vows, like at some weddings I’ve been to. The two of them speak the words loudly, clearly, as we all look on silently, the only other sound the whistling of the breeze among the stones. I’m not actually looking at Jules and Will, though. I’m trying to get a glimpse of Charlie, instead, all the way down at the front. I want to try and see what expression he wears as Jules says I will. But it’s impossible: I can see only the back of his head, the set of his shoulders. I give myself a little mental shake: what did I think I was going to see, anyway? What proof am I looking for?

And suddenly it’s all over. People are getting up around me with a sudden explosion of noise, laughing and chattering. The same woman who sung while Jules walked into the chapel sings us out, too, the notes of the accompanying fiddle tripping along behind. The words are all in Gaelic, her voice ethereally high and clear, echoing slightly eerily around the ruined walls.

I follow the trail of guests outside, dodging the huge floral arrangements: big sprays of greenery and colourful wildflowers which I suppose are very chic and right for the dramatic surroundings. I think of our wedding, how my mum’s friend Karen gave us mates’ rates on our flowers. It was all done in rather retro pastel shades. But I wasn’t about to complain; we could never have afforded a florist of our choice. I wonder what it must be like to have the money to do exactly what you want.

The other guests are a very well-dressed, well-heeled bunch. When I looked around at the rest of the congregation in the chapel I realised no one else here is wearing a fascinator. Maybe they’re not the thing, in circles like this? Every other woman seems to be in an expensive-looking hat, the sort that probably comes in its own specially made box. I feel like I did on the day at school when we hadn’t realised it was home clothes day and both Alice and I wore our uniforms. I remember sitting in assembly and wishing I could spontaneously combust, to avoid spending the day feeling everyone’s eyes on me.

We’re given crushed dried rose petals to throw as Will and Jules step out of the chapel. But the breeze is stiff enough that they’re whipped quickly away. I don’t see a single petal land on the newlyweds. Instead they’re carried off in a big cloud, up and out towards the sea. Charlie’s always telling me I’m too superstitious, but I wouldn’t like that, if I were Jules.

The bridal party are taken off for photographs, while everyone else pours away to the outside of the marquee where there’s a bar set up. I need some Dutch courage, I decide. I pick my way across the grass towards it, my heels sinking in with every couple of steps. A couple of barmen are taking orders, sloshing cocktail shakers. I ask for a gin and tonic, which comes with a big sprig of rosemary in it.

I chat to the barmen for a bit because they seem like the friendliest faces in this crowd. They’re a couple of young local guys, home for the summer from university: Eoin and Seán.

‘We normally work in the big hotel on the mainland,’ Seán tells me. ‘Used to belong to the Guinness family. Big castle on a lough. That’s where people usually want to get married. Never heard of a wedding here, other than in the old days. You know this place is meant to be haunted?’

‘Yeah,’ Eoin leans across, dropping his voice. ‘My gran tells some pretty dark tales about this place.’

‘The bodies in the turf,’ Seán says. ‘No one knows for sure how they died, but they think they were hacked to pieces by the Vikings. They’re not buried in hallowed ground, so there’s all this talk about them being unquiet souls.’

I know they’re probably just pulling my leg but I feel a prickle of disquiet all the same.

‘And the rumours are that’s why the latest folk all left this place in the end,’ Eoin says. ‘Because the voices from the bog got too loud for them.’ He grins at Seán, then at me. ‘I’m not looking forward to being here after dark tonight, I tell you. It’s the island of ghosts.’