The Guest List(53)

‘Excuse me,’ a man in aviators and a tweed jacket behind me says, crossly. ‘This all sounds very bloody interesting, but would you mind making me an Old Fashioned?’

I take that as my cue to leave them to their work.

I decide to sneak a peek inside the marquee, via the entranceway lit by flaming torches. Inside there’s a delicious floral scent from lots of expensive-looking candles. And yet (I’m not proud to be pleased by this) there’s definitely a whiff of damp canvas underneath. I suppose at the end of the day it’s still a big tent. But what a tent. Tents plural, actually: in a smaller one at one end there’s a laminate dance floor with a stage set up for a band and at the other end is a tent containing another bar. Jesus. Why have one bar at your wedding when you can have two? In the main tent white-shirted waiters are moving with the grace of ballet dancers, straightening forks and polishing glasses.

In the middle of everything, on a silver stand, sits a huge cake. It’s so beautiful that it makes me sad to think that later Jules and Will will take a knife to it. I can’t begin to guess how much a cake like that costs. Probably as much as our entire wedding.

I step outside the marquee again and shiver as a gust catches me. The wind’s definitely picking up. Out to sea there are white horses on the caps of the waves now.

I look at the crowd. Everyone I know at this wedding is in the bridal party. If I don’t pluck up my courage I’ll be standing here on my own until Charlie returns – and as soon as he’s finished with the photos I suppose he’ll be straight into the MC duties. So I take a big swig of my gin and tonic and launch myself into a nearby group.

They’re friendly enough on the surface, but I can tell they’re a group of friends catching up – and I don’t belong. I stand there and sip my drink, trying not to poke myself in the eye with the rosemary. I wonder how everyone else with a gin and tonic is managing it without injuring themselves. Maybe that’s a thing you get taught at private school: how to drink cocktails with unwieldy garnishes. Because everyone here, without a shadow of a doubt, went to private school.

‘Do you know what the hashtag is?’ one woman asks. ‘You know, for the wedding? I checked the invitation but I couldn’t see it.’

‘I’m not sure there is one,’ her friend replies. ‘Anyway, the signal here’s so awful you wouldn’t be able to upload anything while you’re on the island.’

‘Maybe that’s why they chose this place for the wedding,’ the first says, knowingly. ‘You know, because of Will’s profile.’

‘It’s very mysterious,’ the other woman says. ‘I have to admit I’d have expected Italy – the Lakes, perhaps. That seems to be a trend, doesn’t it?’

‘But then Jules is a trendsetter,’ a third woman chips in. ‘Perhaps this is the new thing—’ a great gust of wind nearly sends her hat flying and she clamps it down with a firm hand, ‘weddings on godforsaken islands in the middle of nowhere.’

‘It’s rather romantic, isn’t it? All wilderness and ruined glory. Makes you think of that Irish poet. Keats.’

‘Yeats, darling.’

The women have the deep, real tans of summer holidays on Greek islands. I know this because they start talking about them next, comparing the benefits of Hydra over Crete. ‘God,’ one of them says now, ‘why would anyone fly economy with kids? I mean, talk about starting the holiday on a bad note.’ I wonder what they’d say if I chipped in and started debating the benefits of one New Forest campsite versus another. Personally I think it’s all about which has the best chemical loos, I could say, in the same tone in which they’re comparing which waterfront restaurant has the best views. I’ll have to save that one up to tell Charlie later. Though, as proven last night, Charlie always gets a bit funny around posh people – a little unsure of himself and defensive.

The guy on my right turns to me: an overgrown schoolboy, one of those very round, pink and white faces at odds with a receding hairline. ‘So,’ he says, ‘Hannah, is it? Bride or groom?’

I’m so relieved that someone’s actually deigned to talk to me I could kiss him.

‘Er – bride.’

‘I’m groom. Went to school with the bastard.’ He sticks out his hand, I shake it. I feel like I’ve walked into his office for an interview. ‘And you know Julia, how …?’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m married to Charlie – he’s Jules’s mate? He’s one of the ushers.’

‘And where’s that accent from then?’

‘Um, Manchester. Well – the outskirts.’ Though I always feel like I’ve lost a lot of it, having lived down South for so long.

‘Support United, do you? You know, I went up for a corporate thing a few years ago. OK match. Southampton I think it was. Two-one, one-nil – not a draw, anyway, which would have been fucking boring. Dreadful food, though. Fucking inedible.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, my dad supports—’

But he’s turned away, bored already, and is in conversation with the guy next to him.

So I introduce myself to an older couple, mainly because they don’t seem to be in conversation with anyone else.

‘I’m the groom’s father,’ the man says. This strikes me as an odd way to phrase it. Why not just say: ‘I’m Will’s dad’? He indicates the woman next to him with one long-fingered hand: ‘and this is my wife.’