Kitabı oku: «The Guest List», sayfa 3
‘Thought you’d be the first to get married, mate,’ Femi says to Will. ‘Being such a hit with the ladies.’
‘And I thought you never would,’ Angus says, sucking up like always, ‘too much of a hit with them. Why settle?’
‘Do you remember that girl you shagged?’ Pete asks. ‘From the local comp? That topless Polaroid you had of her? Jesus.’
‘One for the wank bank,’ Angus says. ‘Still think about that photo sometimes.’
‘Yeah, because you never get any action yourself,’ Duncan says.
Will winks. ‘Anyway. Seeing as we’re all together again – even if we’re old and boring, as you so charmingly put it, Femi – I think that deserves a toast.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Duncan says, raising his can.
‘Me too,’ says Pete.
‘To the survivors,’ Will says.
‘The survivors!’ We echo him. And just for a moment, when I look at the others, they look different, younger. It’s like the sun has gilded them. You can’t see Femi’s bald spot from this angle, or Angus’s paunch, and Pete looks less like he only goes out at night. And, if possible, even Will looks better, brighter. I have this sudden sense that we’re back there, sitting on that sports hall roof and nothing bad has happened yet. I’d give a fair amount to return to that time.
‘Right,’ Will says, draining the dregs of his Guinness. ‘I better get downstairs. Charlie and Hannah will be arriving soon. Jules wants a welcoming party on the jetty.’
I suppose once everyone’s here the weekend will kick off in earnest. But I wish for a moment we could go back to just Will and me, shooting the breeze, like we were before the others arrived. I haven’t seen all that much of Will recently. Yet he’s the person who knows more about me than anyone in the world, really. And I know the most about him.
OLIVIA
The Bridesmaid
My room used to be a maid’s quarters, apparently. I worked out pretty quickly that I’m directly below Jules and Will’s room. Last night I could hear everything. I did try not to, obviously. But it was like the harder I tried, the more I heard every tiny sound, every groan and gasp. Almost as if they wanted to be heard.
They did it this morning too, but at least then I could get out, escape the Folly. We’re all under instructions not to go walking around the island after dark. But if it happens again this evening there’s no way I’m going to stay here. I’d prefer to take my chances with the peat bog and the cliffs.
I toggle my phone on to Airplane mode and off again, to see if anything happens to the little NO SIGNAL message, but it does fuck all. I doubt I have any new messages. I’ve sort of lost contact with all my mates. It’s not like we’ve fallen out. It’s more that I’ve left their world since I dropped out of uni. They sent me messages at first:
Hope you’re OK babes
Call if you need to chat Livs
See you soon, yeah?
We miss you! 
What happened????
Suddenly I feel like I can’t breathe. I reach for the bedside table. The razor blade is there: so small, but so sharp. I pull down my jeans and press the razor’s edge to my inner thigh, up near my knickers, drag it into my flesh until the blood wells. The colour’s such a dark red against the blue-white skin there. It’s not a very big cut; I’ve made bigger. But the sting of it focuses everything to a point, to the metal entering my flesh, so that for a moment nothing else exists.
I breathe a little easier. Maybe I’ll do one more—
There’s a knock on my door. I drop the blade, fumbling to get my jeans closed. ‘Who is it?’ I call.
‘Me,’ Jules says, pushing the door open before I tell her she can come in, which is so Jules. Thank God I reacted quickly. ‘I need to see you in your bridesmaid dress,’ she says. ‘We’ve got a bit of time before Hannah and Charlie arrive. Johnno’s forgotten his bloody suit so I want to make sure that at least one member of the wedding party looks good.’
‘I’ve already tried it on,’ I say. ‘It definitely fits.’ Lie. I have no idea whether it fits or not. I was meant to come to the shop to try it on. But I found an excuse every time Jules tried to get me there: eventually she gave up and bought it, on condition I tried it on and told her it fitted straight away. I told her it did but I couldn’t make myself put it on. It’s been in its big stiff cardboard box since Jules had it delivered.
‘You may have tried it on,’ Jules says, ‘but I want to see it.’ She smiles at me, suddenly, like she’s just remembered to do so. ‘You can do it in our bedroom, if you like.’ She says it as if she’s offering some amazing privilege.
‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘I’d prefer to stay here—’
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘We’ve got a nice big mirror.’ I realise it isn’t optional. I go to the wardrobe and lift out the big duck-egg blue box. Jules’s mouth tightens. I know she’s pissed off I haven’t hung it up yet.
Growing up with Jules sometimes felt like having a second mother, or one who was like other mums – bossy, strict, all that stuff. Mum was never really like that, but Jules was.
I follow her up to their bedroom. Even though Jules is super tidy and even though there’s a window open to let the fresh air in, it smells of bodies in here, and men’s aftershave and, I think (I don’t want to think), of sex. It feels wrong being in here, in their private space.
Jules closes the door and turns to me with her arms folded. ‘Go on then,’ she says.
I don’t feel like I have much choice. Jules is good at making you feel that. I strip down to my underwear, keeping my legs pressed together in case my thigh’s still bleeding. If Jules sees I’ll have to tell her I’ve got my period. My skin prickles into goosebumps in the slight breeze coming through the window. I can feel her watching me; I wish she’d give me a bit of privacy. ‘You’ve lost weight,’ she says critically. Her tone is caring, but it doesn’t quite ring true. I know she’s probably jealous. Once, when she got drunk, she went on about how kids had got at her at school for being ‘chubby’. She’s always making comments about my weight, like she doesn’t know I’ve always been skinny, ever since I was a little girl. But it’s possible to hate your body when you’re thin, too. To feel like it’s kept secrets from you. To feel like it’s let you down.
Jules is right, though. I have lost weight. I can only wear my smallest jeans at the moment, and even they slip down off my hips. I haven’t been trying to lose weight or anything. But that feeling of emptiness I get when I don’t eat as much … it matches how I feel. It seems right.
Jules is taking the dress out of the box. ‘Olivia!’ she says crossly. ‘Has this been in here the whole time? Look at these creases! This silk’s so delicate … I thought you’d look after it a bit better.’ She sounds as though she’s talking to a child. I guess she thinks she is. But I’m not a child any more.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I forgot.’ Lie.
‘Well. Thank goodness I’ve brought a steamer. It’ll take ages to get all of these out, though. You’ll have to do that later. But for now just try it on.’
She has me put out my arms, like a child, while she shrugs the dress down over my head. As she does I spot an inch-long, bright pink mark on the inside of her wrist. It’s a burn, I think. It looks sore and I wonder how she did it: Jules is so careful, she’s never normally clumsy enough to burn herself. But before I can get a better look she has taken hold of my upper arms and is steering me towards the mirror so both of us can look at me in the dress. It’s a blush pink colour, which I would never wear, because it makes me look even paler. The same colour, almost, as the swanky manicure Jules made me get in London last week. Jules wasn’t happy with the state of my nails: she told the manicurist to ‘do the best you can with them’. When I look at my hands now it makes me want to laugh: the prissy princess pink shimmer of the polish next to my bitten down, bleeding cuticles.
Jules steps back, her arms folded and eyes narrowed. ‘It’s quite loose. God, I’m sure this was the smallest size they had. For Christ’s sake, Olivia. I wish you’d told me it didn’t fit properly – I would have had it taken in. But …’ she frowns, moving around me in a slow circle. I feel that breeze through the door again, and shiver. ‘I don’t know, maybe it works a little loose. I suppose it’s a look, of sorts.’
I study myself in the mirror. The shape of the dress itself isn’t too offensive: a slip, bias cut, quite nineties. Something I might even have worn if it was another colour. Jules isn’t wrong; it doesn’t look terrible. But you can see my black pants and my nipples through the fabric.
‘Don’t worry,’ Jules says, as though she’s read my mind. ‘I’ve got a stick-on bra for you. And I’ve bought you a nude thong – I knew you wouldn’t have one yourself.’
Great. That will make me feel a lot less fucking naked.
It’s weird, standing together in front of the mirror, Jules behind me, both of us looking at my reflection. There are obvious differences between us. We’re totally different shapes, for one, and I have a slimmer nose – Mum’s nose – while Jules has better hair, thick and shiny. But when we’re together like this I can see that we’re more similar than people might think. The shape of our faces is the same, like Mum’s. You can see we’re sisters, or nearly.
I wonder if Jules is seeing it too: the similarity between us. Her expression is all odd and pinched-looking.
‘Oh, Olivia,’ she says. And then – I see it happen, in the mirror in front of us, before I actually feel it – she reaches out and takes my hand in hers. I freeze. It’s so unlike Jules: she is not big on physical contact, or affection. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I know we haven’t always got along. But I am proud to have you as my bridesmaid. You do know that – don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. It comes out as a bit of a croak.
Jules gives my hand a squeeze, which for her is like a full-blown hug. ‘Mum says you broke up with that guy? You know, Olivia, at your age it can feel like the end of the world. But then later you meet someone who you really click with and you understand the difference. It’s like Will and me—’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘It’s fine.’ Lie. I do not want to talk about any of this with anyone. Jules least of all. She’s the last person who would understand if I told her I can’t remember why I ever bothered to put make-up on, or nice underwear, or buy new clothes, or go and get my hair cut. It seems like someone else did all those things.
Suddenly I feel really weird. Sort of faint and sick. I sway a bit, and Jules catches me, her hands gripping my upper arms hard.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, before she can even ask what’s wrong. I bend down and unfasten the over-fancy grey silk courts Jules has chosen for me, with their jewelled buckles, which takes ages because my hands have become all clumsy and stupid. Then I reach up and drag the dress over my head, so hard that Jules gives a little gasp, like she thinks it might tear. I didn’t use her pillow.
‘Olivia!’ she says. ‘What on earth has gotten into you?’
‘Sorry,’ I say. But I only mouth the words, no actual sound comes out.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘Just for these few days I’d like you to try and make a bit of an effort. OK? This is my wedding, Livvy. I’ve tried so hard to make it perfect. I bought this dress for you – I’d like you to wear it because I want you there, as my bridesmaid. That means something to me. It should mean something to you, too. Doesn’t it?’
I nod. ‘Yeah. Yeah, it does.’ And then, because she seems to be waiting for me to go on, I add, ‘I’m OK. I don’t know what … what that was before. I’m fine now.’
Lie.
JULES
The Bride
I push open the door to my mother’s room into a cloud of Shalimar perfume and, possibly, cigarette smoke. She better not have been smoking in here. Mum is sitting at the mirror in her silk kimono, busy outlining her lips in her signature carmine. ‘Goodness, that’s a murderous expression. What do you want, darling?’
Darling.
The strange cruelty of that word.
I keep my tone calm, reasonable. I am being my best self, today. ‘Olivia is going to behave herself tomorrow, isn’t she?’
My mother gives a weary sigh. Takes a sip of the drink she’s got next to her. It looks suspiciously like a martini. Great, so she’s already on the strong stuff.
‘I made her my bridesmaid,’ I say. ‘I could have picked from twenty other people.’ Not quite true. ‘But she’s acting as though it’s this big drag. I’ve hardly asked her to do anything. She didn’t come to the hen do even though there was a room free in the villa for her. It did look odd—’
‘I could have come instead, darling.’
I stare at her. It would never have occurred to me that she might have wanted to come. Besides, no bloody way was I ever going to invite my mother to the hen do. It would, inevitably, have morphed into the Araminta Jones show.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘None of that really matters. It’s in the past now, I suppose. But is she at least going to try and look happy for me?’
‘She’s had a difficult time,’ Mum says.
‘You mean because her boyfriend broke up with her or whatever it was? They were only going out for a few months according to what I’ve seen on Instagram. Clearly a romance of epic proportions!’ A note of petulance has crept in, despite my best intentions.
My mother is now concentrating on the more precise work of outlining her Cupid’s bow. ‘But, darling,’ she says, once she has finished, ‘when you think about it, you and the gorgeous Will haven’t been together all that long, have you?’
‘That’s rather different,’ I say, nettled. ‘Olivia’s nineteen. She’s still a teenager. Love is what teenagers think has happened when actually they’re just stuffed full of hormones. I thought I was in love when I was about her age.’
I think of Charlie at eighteen: the deep biscuit-tan, the white line sometimes visible beneath his board-shorts. It occurs to me that my mother never knew – or cared to know – about my adolescent affairs of the heart. She was too busy with her own love life. Thank God; I’m not sure any teenager wants that kind of scrutiny. And yet I can’t help but feel that this all proves she and Olivia are much closer than we ever were.
‘When your father left me,’ Mum says, ‘you have to remember that I was about the same age. I had a newborn baby—’
‘I know, Mum,’ I say, as patiently as I can. I’ve heard more times than I ever needed to about how my birth ended what definitely, probably, maybe would have been a highly successful career for my mother.
‘Do you know what it was like for me?’ she asks. Ah, here it comes: the same old script. ‘Trying to have a career and a tiny baby? Trying to make a living, to make something of myself? Just so I could put food on the table?’
You didn’t have to continue trying to get acting jobs, I think. If you’d really wanted to put food on the table that probably wasn’t the most sensible way to do it. We didn’t have to spend your tiny income on an apartment off Shaftesbury Avenue in Zone One and not be able to afford to eat as a result. It’s not my fault you made some bad decisions when you were a teenager and got yourself knocked up.
As usual, I don’t say any of this. ‘We were talking about Olivia,’ I say, instead.
‘Well,’ Mum says, ‘let’s just say that there was a little more to Olivia’s experience than a bad break-up.’ She examines the glossy finish of her nails – carmine, too, as though her fingers have been dipped in blood.
Of course, I think. This is Olivia, so it had to be special and different in some way. Careful, Jules. Don’t be bitter. Best behaviour. ‘What, then?’ I ask. ‘What else was there?’
‘It’s not my place to say.’ This is surprisingly discreet, coming from my mother. ‘And besides,’ she says, ‘Olivia’s like me in that – an empath. We can’t simply … smother our feelings and put a brave face on it like some people can.’
I know that in a sense this is true. I know that Olivia does feel things deeply, too deeply, that she does take them to heart. She’s a dreamer. She was always coming home from school with playground scrapes, and bruises from bumping into things. She’s a nail-biter, a hair-splitter, an over-thinker. She’s ‘fragile’. But she’s also spoiled.
And I can’t help sensing implied criticism in Mum’s reference to ‘some people’. Just because the rest of us don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves, just because we have found a way of managing our feelings – it doesn’t mean they’re not there.
Breathe, Jules.
I think of how Olivia looked so oddly at me when I told her I was happy to have her as my bridesmaid. I couldn’t help feeling a small pang as, trying on the dress, she slipped out of her clothes and revealed her slender, stretch-mark-free body. I know she felt me staring. She is definitely too thin and too pale. And yet she looked undeniably gorgeous. Like one of those nineties heroin-chic models: Kate Moss lounging in a bedsit with a string of fairy lights behind her. Looking at her, I was caught between those two emotions I always seem to feel when it comes to Olivia: a deep, almost painful tenderness, and a shameful, secret envy.
I suppose I haven’t always been as warm towards her as I might. Now she’s older, she’s wised up a little – and of late, since the engagement party especially, she has been noticeably cool. But when Olivia was younger she used to trail around after me like an adoring puppy. I got quite used to her displays of unrequited affection. Even as I envied her.
Mum turns around on her chair now. Her face is suddenly very sombre, uncharacteristically so. ‘Look. She’s had a difficult time, Jules. You can’t possibly begin to know the half of it. That poor kid has been through a lot.’
The poor kid. I feel it, at that. I thought I’d be immune to it by now. I’m ashamed to find that I am not: the little dart of envy, under my ribs.
I take a deep breath. Remind myself that here I am, getting married. If Will and I have kids their childhood will be nothing like mine was – Mum with her string of boyfriends, all actors, always ‘on the verge of a big break’. Someone finding me a place to sleep on the coats at all the inevitable Soho afterparties, because I was six years old and all my classmates would have been tucked up hours before.
Mum turns back to the mirror. She squints at herself, pushes her hair one way, then the other, twists it up behind her head. ‘Got to look good for the new arrivals,’ she says. ‘Aren’t they handsome, all of Will’s friends?’
Oh Christ.
Olivia doesn’t know how good she had it, how lucky she was. To her it was all normal. When her dad, Rob, was around, Mum became this proper mother figure: cooked meals, insisted on bed by eight, there was a playroom full of toys. Mum eventually got bored of playing happy families. But not before Olivia had had a whole, contented childhood. Not before I had begun half hating that little girl with everything she didn’t even know she had.
I’m itching with the need to break something. I pick up the Cire Trudon candle on the dressing table, heft it in my hand, imagine how it would feel to watch it splinter to smithereens. I don’t do this any more – I’ve got it under control. I definitely wouldn’t want Will to see this side of me. But around my family I find myself regressing, letting all the old pettiness and envy and hurt come rushing back until I am teenage Jules, plotting to get away. I must be bigger than this. I have forged my own path. I have built it all on my own, something stable and powerful. And this weekend is a statement of that. My victory march.
Through the window I hear the sound of a boat’s engine guttering. It must be Charlie arriving. Charlie will make me feel better.
I put the candle back down.
