The Guest List(82)

He has such confidence in his own story. My own version of it all is falling apart. And I suppose he’s right in saying that he didn’t lie, not really. He just didn’t tell the truth. I don’t seem to be able to hold on to my anger any more, the bright burning energy of it. I can feel it slipping away from me, leaving in its place something worse. A kind of nothingness.

And then, suddenly, I think of Jules, the smile on her face as she stood next to him in the chapel, not having a clue about who he really is. Jules never lets anyone make a fool of her … but he has. I feel angry for her in a way I haven’t been able to for myself.

‘I’ve kept your texts,’ I tell him. ‘I can show them to her.’ It’s the last thing I have over him, the last bit of power I hold. I hold my phone out in front of him, to emphasise it. I should see it coming. But he’s been speaking so softly, so gently, that somehow I don’t. His arm darts out. He grabs my wrist in mid-air. He grabs my other wrist, too. And in one quick motion he’s got my phone off me. Before I can even work out what he’s doing he’s hurled it, far away from us, into the dark water. It makes a tiny ‘plop!’ as it enters.

‘There’ll be back-ups—’ I say, even though I’m not sure how I’d find them.

‘Oh yes?’ he sneers. ‘You want to mess people’s lives up, Olivia? Because you should know that I have some photos on my phone—’

‘Stop!’ I say. The thought of Jules – of anyone – seeing me like that …

I felt so uncomfortable when he was taking them. But he was so good at asking for them, telling me how sexy I looked while I was performing for him, how much it would turn him on. And I was worried that not doing them would make me look like a prude, a child. And he wasn’t in them at all – not his face, not his voice. He could claim I sent them to him, I realise, that I had shot them myself. He could deny it all.

His face is very near to mine, now. For a crazy moment I think he might be about to kiss me. And even though I hate myself for it, a tiny part of me wants him to. Part of me wants him. And that makes me sick.

He’s still got a hold of my other wrist. It hurts. I make a sound and try to pull away but he only grips me harder, his fingers digging into my flesh. He’s strong, so much stronger than me. I realised that earlier, when he carried me out of the water, looking like the big hero, playing to the crowd. I think of my little razor blade, but it’s in my beaded bag, somewhere in the marquee.

Will gives me a yank forward and I trip over my feet. My shoe comes off. It is only now that I realise it’s not all that far to the cliff edge. And he’s pulling me towards it. I can see all the water out there, glossy black in the moonlight. But … he wouldn’t, would he?





NOW


The wedding night


The ushers stare at the mangled gold crown in Femi’s hand. It seemed so out of place where they found it – sitting on the black earth, in the midst of the storm – that it takes all of them a few moments to work out where they have seen it before.

‘It’s Jules’s crown,’ Angus says.

‘Shit,’ Femi says. ‘Of course it is.’

Each wonders silently, what violence it might have taken to so brutally deform the metal.

‘Did you see her face?’ Angus asks. ‘Jules? Before she cut the cake? She looked— really angry, I thought. Or … or maybe really frightened.’

‘Did anyone see her in the marquee?’ Femi asks. ‘After the lights came on?’

Angus quails. ‘But surely you can’t think … you don’t mean you think something really bad could have happened to her?’

‘Fuck.’ Duncan lets out a hiss of breath.

‘I’m not saying that exactly,’ Femi answers. ‘I’m only saying – does anyone remember seeing her?’

There’s a long silence.

‘I can’t—’

‘No, Dunc. Neither can I.’

They look about them in the darkness, eyes straining for any movement, ears pricked for any sound, breath catching in their throats.

‘Oh God. Look, there’s something else over there.’ Angus bends to retrieve the object. They all see how his hand trembles as he lifts it to the light, but none of them mock him for his fear this time. They are all afraid now.

It’s a shoe. A single court in a pale grey silk, a jewelled buckle on the toe.





Several hours earlier


HANNAH


The Plus-One


This guy, Luis, is a great dancer. The band are whipping the guests into a frenzy, forcing us closer together as bodies careen around us. And I find myself thinking about how bloody stressful and lonely my whole day has been. Charlie’s largely responsible for that. I don’t want to think about him right now, though. I’m too angry with him, too sad. Besides, when was the last time I abandoned myself to some music … when was the last time I had a really good dance? When was the last time I felt this desired, this bloody sexy? It feels like I lost that part of myself somewhere along the way. For these few hours I’m going to enjoy having it back. I put my hands above my head. I swing my hair, feel it brush the bare skin of my shoulders. I feel Luis watching me. I find the rhythm of the music with my hips. I was always a good dancer – those years of practice in Manchester clubs in my teens, raving to all the latest anthems from Ibiza. I’d forgotten how much in tune it makes me feel with my own body, how much it turns me on. And I can see how good I look reflected in Luis’ approving expression, his gaze only leaving mine to travel down the length of my body as I move.