The Guest List(57)

I must have got pretty drunk, because I even brought up the game we used to play at school: Survival. I remember Will giving me this look. I think he was afraid of what I might say next. But I wasn’t going to go into any of that. We never do. I’d been watching this show the night before with some adventurer guy and it seemed so soft. So I said, ‘That would have made a much better idea for a TV programme than most of the so-called survival stuff you see, wouldn’t it?’

He had looked at me differently, then.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Johnno,’ he said. ‘That might be the best idea you’ve ever come up with.’

‘Yeah, but you couldn’t actually do it. You know … because of what happened.’

‘That was a million years ago,’ he said. ‘And it was an accident, remember?’ And then, when I didn’t respond: ‘Remember?’

I looked at him. Did he really believe that? He was waiting for an answer.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah it was.’

Next thing I knew, he’d got us both the screen test. And the rest, you could say, was history. For him, anyway. Obviously they didn’t want my ugly mug in the end.

I realise that Piers is looking at me a bit funny. I think he’s just asked me something. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘What was that?’

‘I was saying that it sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you. I suppose at least our loss is whisky’s gain.’

Our loss? But it wasn’t their loss: they didn’t want me, full stop.

I take a big swig of my drink. ‘Piers,’ I say. ‘You didn’t want me on the show. So, with the greatest possible respect, what the fuck are you talking about?’





AOIFE


The Wedding Planner


On the horizon the stain of bad weather is already spreading, darkening. The breeze has stiffened. Silk dresses flap in the wind, a couple of hats cartwheel away, cocktail garnishes are whisked into the air.

But over the growing sound of the wind the voice of the singer rises: ‘is tusa ceol mo chroí,

Mo mhuirnín

is tusa ceol mo chroí.’

You’re the music of my heart,

My darling,

You’re the music of my heart.

For a moment it is as though I have forgotten how to breathe. That song. My mother sang it to us when we were little. I force myself to inhale, exhale. Focus, Aoife. You have too much to be getting on with.

The guests are already crowding about me with demands: ‘Are there any gluten-free canapés?’

‘Where’s the best signal here?’

‘Will you ask the photographer to take some photos of us?’

‘Can you change my seat on the table plan?’

I move among them, reassuring, answering their questions, pointing them in the right direction for the lavatories, the cloakroom, the bar. There seem to be so many more than a hundred and fifty of them: they are everywhere, streaming in and out of the fluttering doors of the marquee, thronging in front of the bar, swarming across the grass, posing for smartphone pictures, kissing and laughing and eating canapés from the army of waiters. I’ve already corralled several guests away from the bog before they can begin to get in trouble.

‘Please,’ I say, heading off another group who are trying to enter the graveyard, clutching their drinks, as though they’re looking around some fairground attraction. ‘Some of these stones are very old and very fragile.’

‘It doesn’t look as though anyone’s visited them in a while,’ says one of the men in a calm-down-dear sort of voice as they leave, a little begrudgingly. ‘It’s a deserted island, isn’t it? So I don’t think anyone’s going to mind.’ Evidently he hasn’t spotted my own family’s little patch yet and I am glad of that. I don’t want them milling about among the stones, spilling their drinks and treading upon the hallowed ground in their spike heels and shiny brogues, reading the inscriptions aloud. My own tragedy written there for them all to pore over.

I had prepared myself for how strange it would feel, having all these people, here. It is a necessary evil: this is what I have wanted, after all. To bring people to the island again. And yet I hadn’t realised quite how much of a trespass it would seem.





OLIVIA


The Bridesmaid


The ceremony went on for hours – or that’s how it felt. In my thin dress I couldn’t stop shivering. I held my bouquet so tightly that the thorns of the rose stems bit through the white silk ribbon into my hands. I had to suck the little drops of blood from my palms while no one was watching.

Eventually, though, it was over.

But after the ceremony there were photos. My face hurts from trying to smile. My cheeks ache. The photographer kept singling me out, telling me I need to ‘turn that frown upside down, darling!’ I tried. I know it can’t have seemed like a smile on the other side – I know it must have looked like I was baring my teeth, because that’s how it felt. I could tell Jules was getting annoyed with me, but I didn’t know how to do anything about it. I couldn’t remember how to smile properly. Mum put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Are you all right, Livvy?’ She could see something was up, I guess. That I’m not all right, not at all.