The Guest List(66)
Everyone already seems to have forgotten about Olivia’s crazy stunt; it could have happened on another day entirely. They are throwing back the wine, guzzling it down … growing increasingly loud and animated. The atmosphere of the day has been recaptured and is following its prescribed track. But I can’t forget. When I think about Olivia’s expression, about that pleading look in her eyes when she tried to speak, all the little hairs on the back of my neck prickle to attention.
The plates are cleared away, every one practically licked clean. Alcohol has given the guests a real hunger and Freddy is a great talent. I’ve been to so many weddings where I’ve had to force down mouthfuls of rubbery chicken breast, school canteen style vegetables. This was the most tender rack of lamb, velvet on the tongue, crushed potatoes scented with rosemary. It was perfect.
It’s time for the speeches. The waiters fan out about the room, carrying trays of Bollinger, ready for toasts. There’s a sourness in the pit of my stomach and the thought of yet more champagne makes me feel slightly queasy. I’ve drunk too much already, in an effort to match the bonhomie of my guests, and feel strange, untethered. The image of that dark cloud on the horizon during the reception drinks keeps playing upon my mind.
There’s the sound of a spoon on a glass: ding ding ding!
The chatter in the marquee subsides, replaced by an obedient hush. I feel the attention of the room shift. Faces swivel towards us, to the top table. The show is about to begin. I rearrange my expression into one of joyful anticipation.
Then the lights in the marquee shiver, going out. We are plunged into a twilit gloom that matches the fading light outside.
‘Apologies,’ calls Aoife, from the back of the marquee. ‘It’s the wind, outside. The electricity’s a bit temperamental here.’
Someone, one of the ushers, I think, lets out a long, lupine howl. And then others join in, until it sounds as though there is a whole pack of wolves in here. They’re all drunk by now, all getting looser and more wild. I want to scream at them all to shut up.
‘Will,’ I hiss, ‘can we ask them to stop?’
‘It’ll only encourage them,’ he says soothingly. His hand closes over mine. ‘I’m sure the lights will come on again in a second.’
Just when I think I can’t bear it any longer, that I really will scream, the lights flicker on again. The guests cheer.
Dad stands, first, to give his speech. Perhaps I should have banished him at the last minute as a punishment for his earlier behaviour. But that would look odd, wouldn’t it? And so much of this whole wedding business, I have realised, is about how things appear. As long as we can make it through with all seeming joyful, jubilant … well, perhaps then we can suppress any darker forces stirring beneath the surface of the day. I bet most people would guess that this wedding is all down to my dad’s generosity. Not quite.
Everyone’s been asking me what made me decide to hold the wedding here. I put a shout out on social media. ‘Pitch me your wedding venue.’ All part of a feature for The Download. Aoife answered the call. I admired the level of planning in her pitch, the consideration of practicalities. She seemed so much hungrier than all the rest. It knocked spots off the competition, really. But that’s not why this place won our business. The whole unvarnished truth of why I decided to hold my wedding here was because it was nice and cheap.
Because Daddy dearest, standing up there looking all proud, turned off the tap. Or Séverine did it for him.
No one’s going to guess that one, are they? Not when I’ve got a cake that cost three grand, or solid silver engraved napkin rings, or Cloon Keen Atelier’s entire year’s output of candles. But those were exactly the sort of things my guests expected from me. And I could only afford them – and a wedding in the style to which I am accustomed – because Aoife also offered a 50 per cent discount if I held it here. She might look dowdy but she’s savvy. That’s how she clinched it. She knows I’ll feature it in the magazine now, knows it’ll get press because of Will. It’ll pay dividends in the end.
‘I’m honoured to be here,’ Dad says, now. ‘At the wedding of my little girl.’
His little girl. Really. I feel my smile harden.
Dad raises aloft his glass. He’s drinking Guinness, I see – he’s always made a point of not drinking champagne, keeping true to his roots. I know that I should be gazing back adoringly but I’m still so cross about what he said earlier that I can barely bring myself to look at him.
‘But then Julia has never really been my little girl,’ Dad says. His accent is the strongest I’ve heard it in years. It always gets more pronounced at times of heightened emotion … or when he’s had a fair amount to drink. ‘She’s always known her own mind. Even at the age of nine, always knew exactly what she wanted. Even if I …’ He gives a meaningful cough, ‘tried to persuade her otherwise.’ There’s a ripple of amusement from the guests. ‘She went after whatever she wanted with a single-minded ambition.’ He smiles, ruefully. ‘If I were to flatter myself I might try to say that she takes after me in that respect. But I’m not the same. I’m not nearly so strong. I pretend to know what I want but really it’s whatever has taken my fancy. Jules is absolutely her own person, and woe betide anyone who gets in her way. I’m sure any employees of hers will agree.’ There’s some slightly nervous laughter from the table of The Download crowd. I smile at them beatifically: none of you are going to get in trouble. Not today.