The Guest List(74)

‘That’s – horrible,’ I say. ‘That’s like bullying, Charlie. I mean, it is bullying.’

Charlie has a fixed, faraway expression. I can’t read it. The arrogance of having always assumed I know my husband inside out. We’ve been together for years. But it has taken less than twenty-four hours in this strange place to show that assumption up for the illusion it is. I’ve felt it ever since we made that crossing over here. Charlie has seemed increasingly like a stranger to me. The stag do is one more confirmation of this: the discovery of a horrific experience that he has kept from me, that I now suspect might have changed him in some complex, invisible way. The truth is, I don’t think Charlie is quite himself at the moment: or not the self I know. This place has done something to him – to us.

‘It was all his idea,’ Charlie says. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Whose idea? Duncan’s?’

‘No. He’s an idiot. A follower. Will. He was the ringleader. You could tell. And Johnno too. The others were all acting on instructions.’

I can’t quite imagine Will making the others do that. Anyway, the stags are normally the ones to call the shots, not the groom. Yeah, I can see Johnno being behind it, no problem, especially after that stunt just now. He has that slightly wild air about him. Not malicious, but like he might push things too far without really meaning to. Definitely Duncan. But not Will. I think Charlie prefers to hang the blame on Will simply because he doesn’t like him.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Charlie says, his expression darkening. ‘You don’t think it was Will.’

‘Well,’ I say. ‘If I’m honest, not really. Because—’

‘Because you want to screw him?’ he snarls. ‘Yeah, did you think I hadn’t noticed? I saw the way you looked at him last night, Hannah. Even the way you say his name.’ He does a horrible little falsetto. ‘Oh Will, tell me about that time you got frostbite, oh, you’re so masculine …’

The ferocity of his tone is so unexpected that I recoil from him. It’s been so long since Charlie’s been drunk that I’d forgotten the extent of the transformation. But I’m also reacting to the tiny element of truth in it. A flicker of guilt at the memory of how I found myself responding to Will. But it quickly transforms itself to anger.

‘Charlie,’ I hiss, ‘how … how dare you speak to me like that? Do you realise how offensive you’re being? All because he made some effort to make me feel welcome – which is a hell of a lot more than you did.’

And then I remember last night, that flirting with Jules. That slinking into our bedroom in the small hours when he definitely hadn’t been drinking with the men.

‘Actually,’ I say, my voice rising, ‘you haven’t got a leg to stand on. That whole horrible charade with you and Jules last night. She’s always acting like she has you wrapped around her little finger – and you play along. Do you know how it makes me feel?’ My voice cracks. ‘Do you?’ I’m caught between anger and tears, the pressure and loneliness of the day catching up with me.

Charlie looks slightly chastened. He opens his mouth to speak but I shake my head.

‘You’ve had sex with her, haven’t you?’ I’ve never wanted to know before. But now, I’m feeling brave enough to ask it.

There’s a long pause. Charlie puts his head in his hands. ‘Once,’ he says, voice muffled through his fingers. ‘But … ages and ages ago, honestly …’

‘When? When was it? When you were teenagers?’

He lifts his head. Opens his mouth, as though to speak, then closes it again. His expression. Oh my God. Not when they were teenagers. I feel as though I have been punched in the stomach. But I have to know now. ‘Later?’ I ask.

He sighs, then nods.

My throat seems to close up so that it’s a struggle to get the words out. ‘Was it … was it when we were together?’

Charlie folds over into himself, puts his face in his hands again. He lets out a long, low groan. ‘Han … I’m so sorry. It didn’t mean anything, honest. It was so stupid. You were … it was, well, it was when we hadn’t had sex for ages. It was—’

‘After I had Ben.’ I feel sick to my stomach. I’m suddenly certain. He doesn’t say anything and that’s all the confirmation I need.

Finally, he speaks. ‘You know … we were going through a rough patch. You were, well … you were so down all the time, and I didn’t know what to do, how to help—’

‘You mean, when I had borderline post-natal depression? When I was waiting for the stitches to heal? Jesus Christ, Charlie—’

‘I’m so sorry.’ All the bluster has gone out of him now. I could almost believe he’s completely sober. ‘I’m so sorry, Han. Jules had just broken up with that boyfriend she had at the time – we went out for drinks after work … I had too much. We both agreed it was a terrible idea, afterwards, that it would never happen again. It didn’t mean anything. I mean, I barely remember it. Han – look at me.’

I can’t look at him. I won’t look at him.

It’s so horrible I can barely begin to think about it clearly. I feel like I’m in shock, like the full hurt of it hasn’t sunk in yet. But it throws all that flirting, all that physical closeness, into a new, terrible light. I think of all the times I have felt Jules has purposefully excluded me – cordoning off Charlie for herself.