The Guest List(69)
He threw me off at the beginning. When I arrived he gave me a big grin. ‘Olivia!’ he said. ‘I hope you’re feeling better. It was such a shame we didn’t get to meet properly, last time.’
I was so shocked I couldn’t say anything. He was pretending we’d never met, right to my face. It made me even start to doubt myself. Was it really him? But I knew it was. There was no doubt about it. Closer up I could see how the skin around his eyes creased the same, how he had these two moles on his neck, below the jaw. And I remembered, so clearly, that split second’s reaction, when he’d first seen me.
He knew exactly what he was doing: making it harder for me to get my own version of the truth out. And he’d also banked on me being too pathetic to say anything to Jules, too scared that she wouldn’t believe anything I said.
He was right.
HANNAH
The Plus-One
There was something weird about Will’s speech just now. Something that felt strangely familiar, a sense of déjà vu. I can’t quite put my finger on it but while everyone around me cheered and clapped I was left with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
‘Here we go,’ I hear someone at the table whisper, ‘is everyone ready for the main event?’
Charlie’s not on my table. He’s on the top table, right there at Jules’s left elbow. It makes sense, I suppose: I’m not one of the wedding party after all, while Charlie is. But everywhere else husbands and wives seem to be seated next to one another. It occurs to me that I have barely seen Charlie since this morning, and then only outside at the drinks – which somehow made me feel more disconnected from him than if we hadn’t seen one another at all. In the space of a mere twenty-four hours, it feels as though a gulf has opened up between us.
The guests sitting near me have done a poll on how long the best man’s speech is going to last. Fifty quid for a bet, so I declined. They’ve also designated our table ‘the naughty table’. There’s a manic, intense feeling around it. They’re like children who have been cooped up for too long. Over the last hour or so they’ve knocked back at least a bottle and a half each. Peter Ramsay, who’s sitting on the other side of me – has been speaking so quickly that it’s starting to make me feel dizzy. This might have something to do with the crusting of white powder around one of his nostrils; it’s everything I can do not to lean over and dash it off with the corner of my napkin.
Charlie rises to his feet, resuming his MC role, taking the mic from Will. I find myself watching him carefully for any sign that he might have had too much to drink. Is his face drooping slightly in that tell-tale way? Is he a little unsteady on his feet?
‘And now,’ he says, but there’s a scream of feedback as people – especially the ushers, I notice – groan and jeer and cover their ears. Charlie flushes. I cringe inwardly for him. He tries again: ‘And now … it’s time for the best man. Everyone give a big hand for Jonathan Briggs.’
‘Be kind, Johnno!’ Will shouts, hands cupped around his mouth. He gives a wry smile, a pantomime wince. Everyone laughs.
I always find the best man’s speech hard to watch. There’s so much expectation. There’s that tiny, hair-thin line between being too vanilla and causing offence. Better, surely, to stay on the PC side of it than to try and nail it completely. I get the impression Johnno’s not the sort to worry about offending anyone.
Maybe I’m imagining it, but he seems to be swaying slightly as he takes the mic from Charlie. Beside him, my husband looks sober as a judge. Then, as Johnno makes his way round to the front of the table, he trips and nearly falls. There’s lots of heckling and catcalling from my table companions. Next to me Peter Ramsay puts his fingers in his mouth and lets out a whistle that leaves my eardrums ringing.
By the time Johnno gets out in front of us all it’s pretty clear he’s drunk. He stands there silently for several seconds before he seems to remember where he is and what he’s meant to be doing. He taps the mic a few times and the sound booms around the tent.
‘Come on, Johnners!’ someone shouts. ‘We’re growing old waiting here!’ The guests around my table start drumming with their fists, stamping with their feet. ‘Speech, speech, speech! Speech, speech, speech!’ The hairs on my arms prickle. It’s a reminder of last night: that tribal rhythm, that sense of menace.
Johnno does a ‘calm down, calm down’ motion with his hand. He grins at us all. Then he turns and looks towards Will. He clears his throat, takes a deep breath.
‘We go a long way back, this fella and I. Shout out to all my Old Trevellyans!’ A cheer goes up, particularly from the ushers.
‘Anyway,’ Johnno says as the sound dies down, sweeping a hand to indicate Will. ‘Look at this guy. It would be easy to hate him, wouldn’t it?’ There’s a pause, a beat too long, maybe, before he picks up again. ‘He’s got everything: the looks, the charm, the career, the money’ – was that pointed? – ‘and …’ – he gestures to Jules – ‘the girl. So, actually, now I think about it … I suppose I do hate him. Anyone else with me?’
A ripple of laughter goes around the room; someone shouts: ‘hear hear!’
Johnno grins. There’s this wild, dangerous glitter in his eyes. ‘For those of you who don’t know, Will and I were at school together. But it wasn’t any normal school. It was more like … oh, I don’t know … a prison camp crossed with The Lord of the Flies – thanks for giving us that one last night, Charlie boy! See, it wasn’t about getting the best grades you could. It was all about survival.’