The Guest List(60)

JULES


The Bride


Will and I have been away from the melee, having our photos taken beside the cliffs. The wind has definitely picked up. It did so as soon as we stepped outside the protection of the chapel and the handfuls of thrown confetti were whipped away and out to sea before they could even touch us. Thank goodness I decided to wear my hair down, so the elements can only do so much damage. I feel it rippling out behind me, and the train of my skirt lifts in a stream of silk. The photographer loves this. ‘You look like an ancient Gaelic queen, with that crown – and your colouring!’ he calls. Will grins. ‘My Gaelic queen,’ he mouths. I smile back at him. My husband.

When the photographer asks us to kiss I slip my tongue into his mouth and he responds in kind, until the photographer – somewhat flustered – suggests that these photos might be a little ‘racy’ for the official records.

Now we return to our guests. The faces that turn towards us as we walk among them are already flushed with warmth and booze. In front of them I feel oddly stripped bare, as though the stress of earlier might be visible on my face. I try to remind myself of the pleasure of friends and loved ones being here together in one place, clearly enjoying themselves. And that it’s worked: I have created an event that people will remember, will talk about, will try – and probably fail – to replicate.

On the horizon, darker clouds mass ominously. Women clasp their hats to their heads, their skirts to their thighs, with small shrieks of hilarity. I can feel the wind tugging at my outfit, too, flinging up the heavy silk skirt of my dress as though it were light as tissue, whistling through the metal spokes of my headpiece as if it would quite like to rip it from my head and hurl it out to sea.

I glance across at Will, to see if he’s noticed. He’s surrounded by a gaggle of well-wishers and is being his usual, charming self. But I sense that he’s not fully engaged. He keeps glancing distractedly over the shoulders of the various relatives and friends who come up to greet us as though he’s searching for someone, or looking at something.

‘What is it?’ I ask. I take his hand. It looks different to me now, foreign, with its plain band of gold.

‘Is that – Piers – over there?’ he says. ‘Talking to Johnno?’

I follow his gaze. There, indeed, is Piers Whiteley, producer of Survive the Night, balding head bent earnestly as he listens to whatever Johnno has to say.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that’s him. What’s the matter?’ Because something is the matter, I’m sure of it – I can see it from Will’s frown. It’s an expression I rarely see him wear, this look of slightly anxious distraction.

‘Nothing – in particular,’ he says. ‘I – well, it’s just a little awkward, you know. Because Johnno was turned down for the TV stuff. Not sure who it’s more awkward for, to be honest. Perhaps I should go over and rescue one of them.’

‘They’re grown men,’ I say. ‘I’m sure they can handle themselves.’

Will hardly seems to have heard me. In fact, he’s dropped my hand and is making his way across the grass towards them, pushing politely but decisively past the guests who turn to greet him as he goes.

It’s very out of character. I look after him, wondering. I’d thought the sense of unease would leave me, after the ceremony, after we’d said those all-important vows. But it’s still with me, sitting like sickness in the pit of my stomach. I have the sense that there’s something malign stalking me, as though at the very edge of my vision, of which I can never get a proper glimpse. But that’s crazy. I just need a moment to myself, I decide, away from the fray.

I move quickly past the guests on the outskirts of the crowd, head down, stride purposeful, in case one of them tries to stop me. I enter the Folly via the kitchen. It’s blissfully quiet inside. I close my eyes for a long moment, in relief. On the butcher’s block in the centre of the kitchen, something – part of the meal for later, no doubt – is covered with a large cloth. I find a glass, run myself a cold drink of water, listen to the soothing tick of the clock on the wall. I stand there facing the sink and as I sip my water I count to ten and back down again. You’re being ridiculous, Jules. It’s all in your head.

I’m not sure what it is that makes me aware I am not alone. Some animal sense, maybe. I turn and in the doorway I see—

Oh God. I gasp, stumble backwards, my heart hammering. It’s a man holding a huge knife, his front smeared with blood.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I whisper. I shrink away from him, just managing not to drop my glass. A beat of pure fear, of racing adrenaline … then logic reasserts itself. It’s Freddy, Aoife’s husband. He’s holding a carving knife, and the blood smears are on the butcher’s apron he wears tied about his waist.

‘Sorry,’ he says, in that awkward way of his. ‘Didn’t mean to give you a fright. I’m carving the lamb in here – there’s a better surface than in the catering tent.’

As if to demonstrate, he lifts the cloth from the butcher’s block and beneath I see all the clustered racks of lamb: the crimson, glistening meat, the upthrust white bones.

As my heartbeat returns to normal, I’m humiliated to think how naked the fear must have been on my face. ‘Well,’ I say, trying to inject a note of authority. ‘I’m sure it will be delicious. Thank you.’ And I walk quickly – but careful not to hurry – out of the kitchen.