The Guest List(61)

As I rejoin my milling guests I become aware of a change in the energy of the crowd. There’s a new hum of interest. It seems that something’s going on out to sea. Everyone is beginning to turn and look, caught by whatever’s happening.

‘What is it?’ I ask, craning to see over heads, unable to make out anything at all. The crowd is thinning around me, people drifting away wordlessly, towards the sea, trying to get a better view of whatever is going on.

Maybe some sea creature. They see dolphins from here regularly, Aoife told me. More rarely, a whale. That would be quite a spectacle, even a nice bit of atmospheric detail. But the noises coming from those at the front of the crowd of guests don’t seem the right pitch for that. I’d expect shrieks and exclamations, excited gesturing. They’re watching whatever it is, intently, but they’re not making very much noise. That makes me uneasy. It suggests it’s something bad.

I press forward. People have become pushy, clustering for position as though they’re vying for the best view at a gig. Before, as the bride, I was like a queen among them, cutting a swathe through the crowd wherever I walked. Now they have forgotten themselves, too intent on whatever it is that is going on.

‘Let me through!’ I shout. ‘I want to see.’

Finally, they part for me and I move forward, up to the front.

There is something out there. Squinting, eyes shielded against the light, I can make out the dark shape of a head. It could be a seal or some other sea creature, save for the occasional appearance of a white hand.

There is someone in the water. It’s difficult to get a proper glimpse of him or her from here. It must be one of the guests; it’s not like anyone could swim here from the mainland. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were Johnno – although it can’t be, he was chatting to Piers moments ago. So if it’s not him, perhaps it’s one of the other exhibitionists in our number, one of the ushers, showing off. But as I look more closely I realise the swimmer isn’t facing the shore, but out to sea. And they aren’t swimming, I see now. In fact—

‘They’re drowning!’ a woman is shouting – Hannah, I think. ‘They’re caught in the current – look!’

I’m moving forward, trying to get a better look, pushing through the watching crowd of guests. And then finally I’m at the front and I can see more clearly. Or perhaps it’s simply that strange deep knowledge, the way we know those closest to us from a long distance, even if we only see the back of a head.

‘Olivia!’ I shout. ‘It’s Olivia! Oh my God, it’s Olivia.’ I’m trying to run, my skirt catching under my heels and hampering me. I hear the sound of tearing silk and ignore it, kick off my shoes, keep running, losing my footing as my feet sink into wet, marshy patches of ground. I’ve never been a runner, and it’s a whole other issue in a wedding dress. I seem to be moving unbelievably slowly. Will, thank God, doesn’t seem to have the same problem – he tears past me, followed by Charlie and several others.

When I finally get to the beach it takes a few moments for me to work out what’s going on, to understand the scene in front of me. Hannah, who must have started running too, arrives next to me, breathing hard. Charlie and Johnno stand thigh-deep in the water, with several other men behind them, on the water’s edge – Femi, Duncan and others. And beyond them, emerging from the depths, is Will, with Olivia in his arms. She seems to be struggling, fighting him, her arms windmilling, her legs kicking out desperately. He holds on tight. Her hair is a black slick. Her dress is absolutely translucent. She looks so pale, her skin tinged with blue.

‘She could have drowned,’ Johnno says, as he returns to the beach. He looks distraught. For the first time I feel more warmly towards him. ‘Lucky we spotted her. Crazy kid, anyone could see it’s not sheltered here. Could have got swept straight out to the open sea.’

Will gets to shore and lets Olivia go. She launches herself away from him and stands staring at us all. Her eyes are black and impenetrable. You can see her near-naked body through the soaked dress: the dark points of her nipples, the small pit of her navel. She looks primeval. Like a wild animal.

I see that Will’s face and throat are scratched, red marks springing up livid on his skin. And at the sight of these a switch is flicked. Where a second ago I had been full of fear for her, now I feel a violent, red-hot solar flare of rage.

‘The crazy little bitch,’ I say.

‘Jules,’ Hannah says gently – but not so gently that I can’t hear the note of opprobrium in her voice. ‘You know, I don’t think Olivia’s OK. I— I think she might need help—’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Hannah.’ I spin towards her. ‘Look, I get how kind and maternal you are, and whatever. But Olivia doesn’t need a fucking mother. She’s already got one – who gives her a lot more attention, let me tell you, than I ever got. Olivia doesn’t need help. She needs to get her fucking act together. I’m not going to have her ruining my wedding. So … back off OK?’

I see her step, almost stumble, backwards. I’m dimly aware of her expression of hurt, of shock. I’ve gone beyond the pale: there, it’s done. But, right now, I don’t care. I turn back to Olivia. ‘What the hell were you doing?’ I scream at her.

Olivia merely gazes back at me, dully, mute. She looks like she’s drunk. I grab hold of her shoulders. Her skin is freezing to the touch. I want to shake her, slap her, pull her hair, demand answers. And then her mouth opens and closes, open and closes. I stare at her, trying to work it out. It is as though she is attempting to form words but her voice won’t come. The expression in her eyes is intent, pleading. It sends a chill through me. For a moment I feel as though she is trying hard to semaphore a message I don’t have the means to decipher. Is it an apology? An explanation?