I bite down on a tissue to blot my lipstick. This place seems worthy of lipstick. Our room here is huge, twice the size of our bedroom back home. Not a single detail has been forgotten: the ice-bucket with a bottle of expensive white wine in it, two glasses; the antique chandelier in the high ceiling; the big window looking out to sea. I can’t go too close to the window or I’ll get vertigo, because if you look straight down you can see the waves smashing on the rocks below and a tiny wet sliver of beach.
This evening the dying glow of the sunset lights the whole room rose gold. I’ve had a big glass of the wine, which is delicious, while getting ready. On an empty stomach and after the cigarettes I smoked with Olivia I already feel a bit light-headed.
It was fun smoking in the cave – it felt like a blast from the past. It’s inspired me to go for it this weekend. I’ve felt jittery and sad all month: now here’s a chance to cut loose a bit. So I’ve squeezed myself into a pre-kids black silky dress from & Other Stories; I’ve always felt good in it. I’ve blow-dried my hair smooth. It’s worth the effort, even if it comes into contact with the moist air from outside and turns into a massive ball of frizz again, like a hairdo version of Cinderella’s pumpkin. I thought Charlie would be waiting for me, crossly, but he only returned to the
room a couple of minutes ago himself, so I’ve had time to brush my teeth and remove any scent of cigarettes, feeling like a naughty teenager. I’d half hoped he would be here though. We could have had a bath together in the claw-footed tub.
I’ve barely seen Charlie since we got off the boat, in fact: he and Jules spent the early evening cosied up together, going through his duties as
MC. ‘Sorry, Han,’ he said, when he got back. ‘Jules wanted to go through all this stuff for tomorrow. Hope you didn’t feel abandoned?’
Now he does an appreciative once-over as I emerge from the bathroom. ‘You look—’ he raises his eyebrows. ‘Hot.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, doing a little shimmy. I feel hot; I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve gone all out. And I know I shouldn’t mind that I can’t remember the last time he said that.
We join the others in the drawing room, where we’re having drinks.
It’s as well put together as our room: an ancient brick floor, a candelabra bristling with candles, glass boxes on the walls holding vast glistening fish, which I think may be real. How on earth do you taxidermy a fish, I wonder. Small windows show rectangles of blue twilight and everything outside now has a misty, slightly otherworldly quality.
Standing surrounded by a cluster of guests, Jules and Will are lit by candlelight. Will seems to be telling some anecdote: the others all listening to whatever he’s saying, hanging off his every word. I notice that he and Jules are holding hands, as though they can’t bear not to be touching. They look so good together, impossibly tall and elegant, she in a tailored cream jumpsuit and he in dark trousers and a white shirt that makes his tan appear several shades darker. I’d been feeling good about myself but now my own outfit feels inadequate by comparison: while for me & Other Stories is a wild extravagance, I’m sure Jules hardly ventures into high street chains.
I end up standing quite near to Will, which isn’t a total accident – I seem to be drawn to him. It’s a heady experience, being so close to someone you’ve seen on your TV screen. This feeling of familiarity and strangeness at the same time. I can feel my skin tingling, being in such close proximity. I was aware when I walked over of his gaze raking my face, quickly up and down my person, before he went back to finishing his anecdote. So I am looking good. A guilty thrill goes through me. In the years since I’ve had kids – probably because I’m always with the kids – I’ve apparently become invisible to men. It only dawned on me, when I stopped feeling them on me, that I had taken men’s glances for granted. That I enjoyed them.
‘Hannah,’ Will says, turning to me with that famous, generous smile of his. ‘You look stunning.’
‘Thanks.’ I take a big gulp of my champagne, feeling s*xy, a little bit reckless.
‘I meant to ask, on the jetty – did we meet at the engagement drinks?’
‘No,’ I say, apologetically. ‘We couldn’t make it up from Brighton, sadly.’
‘Maybe I’ve seen you in one of Jules’s photos then. You seem familiar.’
‘Maybe,’ I say. I don’t think so. I can’t imagine Jules displaying a photo that includes me; she’s got plenty of just her and Charlie. But I know what Will’s doing: helping me feel welcome, one of the gang. I appreciate the kindness. ‘You know,’ I say, ‘I think I’m getting the same feeling about you. Might I have seen you somewhere before? You know
… like on my TV set?’
It was corny but Will laughs anyway, a rich, low sound, and I feel as though I’ve just won something. ‘Guilty!’ he says, raising his hands. As he does I get a gust of that cologne again: moss and pine, a forest floor via an expensive department store perfume hall. He asks me about the kids, about Brighton. He seems fascinated by what I’m saying. He’s one of those people who makes you feel wittier and more attractive than normal. I realise I’m enjoying myself, enjoying the delicious glass of chilled champagne.
‘Now,’ Will says, palm on my back as a gentle steer, warm through my dress, ‘let me introduce you to some people. This is Georgina.’
Georgina, thin and chic in a column of fuchsia silk, gives me a wintry smile. She can’t move her face much and I try hard not to stare – I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Botox in real life. ‘Were you on the hen do?’ she asks. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘I had to give it a miss,’ I say. ‘The kids …’ Partly true. But there’s also the fact that it was on a yoga retreat in Ibiza and I could never in a million years have afforded it.
‘You didn’t miss much,’ a man – slender, dark red hair – swoops into the conversation. ‘Just a load of bitches burning their tits off and gossiping over bottles of Whispering Angel. Goodness,’ he says, giving me a once-over before bending in to kiss my cheek. ‘Don’t you scrub up well?’
‘Er – thanks.’ His smile suggests it was meant kindly, but I’m not totally sure it was a compliment.
This man is Duncan, apparently, and he’s married to Georgina. He’s also one of the ushers, along with the other three guys. Peter – hair slicked back, a party-boy look. Oluwafemi, or Femi – tall, black, seriously handsome. Angus – Boris Johnson blond and similarly pot- bellied. But in a funny way they all look quite similar. They’re all wearing the same striped tie plus crisp white shirts, polished brogues and
tailored jackets that definitely don’t come from Next, like Charlie’s. Charlie bought his especially for this weekend and I hope he’s not feeling too put out by the comparison. But at least he looks fairly dapper next to the best man, Johnno, who despite his size somehow reminds me of a kid wearing clothes from the school lost property cupboard.
On the face of it they’re so charming, these men. But I remember the laughter from the tower as we walked up to the Folly. And even now there’s definitely an undercurrent beneath the charm. Smirks, raised eyebrows, as though they’re having a secret joke at someone’s expense – possibly mine.
I move over to chat to Olivia, who looks ethereal in a grey dress. It felt like we bonded a bit earlier in the cave but now she answers me in monosyllables, darting her eyes away.
A couple of times my gaze snags with Will’s over her shoulder. I don’t think it’s my fault: sometimes I’ll have the impression that his eyes have been on me for a while. It shouldn’t be, but it’s exciting. It reminds me – I know it’s totally inappropriate to say this – but it reminds me most of that feeling you get when you start to suspect that someone you’re attracted to fancies you back.
I catch myself in the thought. Reality check, Hannah. You’re a married mother of two and your husband is right there and you’re talking to a man who is about to get married to your husband’s best friend, who is standing looking like Monica Bellucci, only better dressed. Probably ease off the champagne a little. I’ve been knocking it back. It’s partly nerves, surrounded by this lot. But it’s also the sense of freedom. No babysitter to embarrass ourselves in front of later, no small people to have to wake up for in the morning. There’s something exotic about being all dressed up with only other adults for company, a plentiful supply of booze, no responsibility.
‘The food smells incredible,’ I say. ‘Who’s cooking?’
‘Aoife and Freddy,’ Jules says. ‘They own the Folly. Aoife’s our wedding planner, too. I’ll introduce you all at dinner. And Freddy is doing the catering for us tomorrow.’
‘I can tell it’s going to be delicious,’ I say. ‘God, I’m hungry.’
‘Well your stomach’s completely empty,’ Charlie says. ‘Got rid of it all on the boat, didn’t you?’
‘Had a vom?’ Duncan asks, delighted. ‘Fed the fish?’
I shoot Charlie an icy look. I feel like he’s just undone some of the effort I made this evening. I feel like he’s playing for laughs, trying to get in on the joke at my expense. I swear he’s put on a different voice –
posher – but I know if I called him out on it he’d pretend he hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘it’ll make a nice change from chicken nuggets, which I seem to end up eating every other night with the kids.’
‘Do you have any good restaurants in Brighton, these days?’ Jules asks. Jules always acts like Brighton is the sticks.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘there are—’
‘Except we never go to them,’ Charlie says.
‘That’s not true,’ I say. ‘We went to that new Italian place …’ ‘It’s not new now,’ Charlie counters. ‘That was about a year ago.’ He’s right. I can’t think of the last time we ate out, other than that.
Money has been a bit tight and you have to add the cost of a babysitter on top of the meal. But I wish he hadn’t said it.
Johnno tries to top up Charlie’s champagne and Charlie quickly puts his hand over his glass. ‘No thanks.’
‘Oh come on, mate,’ Johnno says. ‘Night before the wedding. Got to get a little loose.’
‘Come on!’ Duncan chides. ‘It’s only bubbly, not crack. Or are you going to tell us you’re pregnant?’
The other ushers snigger.
‘No,’ Charlie says again, tightly. ‘I’m taking it easy tonight.’ I can tell he’s embarrassed saying it. But I’m glad he hasn’t forgotten himself on this front.
‘So Charlie boy,’ Johnno says, ‘tell us. How did you two first meet?’
I think at first he means Charlie and I. Then I realise he’s looking between Charlie and Jules. Right.
‘A millions years ago …’ Jules says. She and Charlie raise their eyebrows at each other in perfect unison.
‘I taught her to sail,’ Charlie says. ‘I lived in Cornwall. It was my summer job.’
‘And my dad has a house there,’ Jules says. ‘I hoped if I learnt he might take me out on his boat with him. But it turns out taking your sixteen-year-old daughter for a sail along the South coast wasn’t quite the same as having your latest girlfriend sunbathe on the prow in St Tropez.’ It comes out more bitterly than I think she might have intended. ‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘Charlie was my instructor.’ She looks at him. ‘I had a big crush on him.’
Charlie smiles back at her. I laugh along with the others but I’m not really feeling it. It’s hardly the first time I’ve heard this story. It’s like a
double act they do together. The local boy and the posh girl. Still, my stomach twists as Jules continues.
‘You were mainly concerned with trying to sleep with as many girls of your own age as possible before you went to uni,’ Jules says to Charlie. It’s suddenly like she’s speaking only to him. ‘It seemed to work for you, though. That permanent tan and the body you had back then probably helped—’
‘Yes,’ Charlie says. ‘Best body of my life. It was like having a gym membership with the job, working out on the water every day. Sadly you don’t get quite as ripped teaching Geography to fifteen-year-olds.’
‘Let’s have a look at those abs now,’ Duncan says, leaning forward and grabbing the bottom of Charlie’s shirt. He lifts the hem to show a few inches of pale, soft stomach. Charlie steps back, reddening, tucks himself in.
‘And he seemed so grown-up,’ Jules says, heedless of the interruption.
She touches Charlie’s arm, proprietary. ‘When you’re sixteen, eighteen seems so much older. I was shy.’
‘That’s hard to believe,’ Johnno mumbles.
Jules ignores him. ‘But I know at first you thought I was this stuck-up princess.’
‘Which was probably true,’ Charlie says, raising an eyebrow, getting back into his stride.
Jules flicks him with champagne from her glass. ‘Oi!’ They’re flirting. There’s no other word for it.
‘But no, I realised you were actually quite cool in the end,’ he says. ‘Discovered that wicked sense of humour.’
‘And then I suppose we just stayed in touch,’ Jules says. ‘Mobiles had started to become a thing,’ Charlie says.
‘You were the shy one the next year,’ Jules said. ‘I’d finally got some boobs. I remember seeing you do a double-take when I walked down the jetty.’
I take a big swig of my champagne. I remind myself that they were teenagers. That I am feeling envious of a seventeen-year-old who no longer exists.
‘Yeah and you had that boyfriend and everything,’ Charlie says. ‘He wasn’t my biggest fan.’
‘Yes,’ Jules says, with a secretive smile. ‘He didn’t last very long. He was very jealous.’
‘So did you ever fuck?’ Johnno asks. And just like that: it’s the question I’ve never been able to ask outright.
The ushers are delighted. ‘He went there!’ they cry. ‘Holy shit!’ They crowd in, excited, gleeful, the circle growing tighter. Maybe that’s why I’m suddenly finding it harder to breathe.
‘Johnno!’ Jules says. ‘Do you mind? This is my wedding!’ But she hasn’t said they didn’t.
I can’t look at Charlie. I don’t want to know.
Then, thank God, there’s an interruption: a big bang. Duncan has opened the bottle of champagne he’s been holding.
‘Christ, Duncan,’ Femi says. ‘You nearly took my eye out!’ ‘How do you guys all know each other?’ I ask Johnno, keen to
capitalise on the distraction.
‘Ah,’ Johnno says, ‘we go back years.’ He puts a hand on Will’s shoulder, and somehow this gesture sets him and Will apart from the others. Next to him Will looks even more handsome. They’re like chalk and cheese. And there’s something a bit weird about Johnno’s eyes. I spend a while trying to work out exactly what’s off about them. Are they too close together? Too small?
‘Yup,’ Will says. ‘We were at school together.’ I’m surprised. The other men have that public schoolboy polish, while Johnno seems rougher – no cut-glass accent.
‘Trevellyan’s,’ Femi says. ‘It was like that book with all the boys on a desert island together, killing each other, oh Christ, what’s it called—’
‘Lord of the Flies,’ Charlie says, the faintest trace of superiority in his tone. I might have gone to state school, it says, but I’m better read than you.
‘It wasn’t as bad as all that,’ Will says quickly. ‘It was more … boys running a bit wild.’
‘Boys will be boys!’ Duncan chips in. ‘Am I right, Johnno?’ ‘Yeah. Boys will be boys,’ Johnno echoes.
‘And we’ve been friends ever since,’ Will says. He slaps Johnno on the back. ‘Johnno here used to drive up in his ancient banger while I was at Edinburgh for uni, didn’t you, Johnno?’
‘Yeah,’ Johnno says. ‘I’d take him out into the mountains for climbing and camping trips. Make sure he didn’t get too soft. Or spend all his time shagging around.’ He pretends to look contrite. ‘Sorry, Jules.’
Jules tosses her head.
‘Who do we know who went to Edinburgh, Han?’ Charlie says. I stiffen. How can he possibly have forgotten who it was? Then I see his expression change to one of horror as he realises his mistake.
‘You know someone?’ Will says. ‘Who?’
‘She wasn’t there for very long,’ I say quickly. ‘You know, Will, I’ve been wondering. That bit in Survive the Night, in the Arctic tundra. How cold was it? Did you really nearly get frostbite?’
‘Yep,’ says Will. ‘Lost all the feeling in the pads of these fingers.’ He holds up one hand towards me. ‘The fingerprints have gone from a couple of them.’ I squint. They don’t actually look all that different to me. And yet I find myself saying, ‘Oh yes, I think I can. Wow.’ I sound like a fangirl.
Charlie turns to me. ‘I didn’t realise you’d seen the show,’ he says. ‘When did you watch it? We’ve never watched it together.’ Oops. I think of those afternoons, setting the kids up with CBeebies, and watching Will’s show on my iPad in the kitchen as I heated up their dinner. He looks to Will. ‘No offence, mate – I do keep meaning to catch it.’ This isn’t true. You can tell from the way he says it that it isn’t true. He hasn’t made any attempt to sound genuine.
‘No offence taken,’ Will says mildly.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’ve never watched the whole thing. I … caught the highlights, you know.’
‘Methinks the lady does protest too much,’ Peter says. He takes hold of Will’s shoulder, grinning. ‘Will, you’ve got a fan!’
Will laughs it off. But I can feel the heat prickling up my neck into my cheeks. I’m hoping it’s too dark in here for anyone to see that I’m blushing.
Fuck it. I need more champagne. I hold my glass out for a top-up. ‘At least your wife knows how to party, mate,’ Duncan says to
Charlie. Femi pours for me, filling the flute close to the top. ‘Whoa,’ I say, as it reaches the rim, ‘that’s plenty.’
Suddenly there’s a loud ‘plink!’ and a little splash up over my wrist. I look in surprise to see that something has been dropped into my drink.
‘What was that?’ I say, confused.
‘Have a look,’ Duncan says, grinning. ‘Pennyed you. Have to drink it all now.’ I stare at him, then at my glass. Sure enough, at the bottom of my very full glass sits the little copper coin, the Queen’s stern profile.
‘Duncan!’ Georgina says, giggling. ‘You’re too awful!’
I don’t think I’ve been pennyed since I was about eighteen. Suddenly everyone’s looking at me. I look to Charlie, for agreement that I don’t have to drink it. But his expression is oddly pleading. It’s the sort of look Ben might give me: Please don’t embarrass me in front of my friends, Mum.
This is crazy, I think. I don’t have to drink it. I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman. I don’t even know these people, they have no hold over me. I won’t be made to do it—
‘Down it …’ ‘Down it!’
God, they’ve started to chant. ‘Save the Queen!’
‘She’s drowning!’
‘Down it down it down it.’
I can feel my cheeks reddening. To get their eyes off me, to stop their chanting, I knock the glass back and gulp it all down. I’d thought the champagne was delicious before but it’s awful like this, sour and sharp, stinging my throat as I cough mid-swallow, rushing up inside my nose. I feel some of it spill out over my bottom lip. I feel my eyes tear up. I’m humiliated. It’s like everyone has understood the rules of whatever is happening. Everyone but me.
Afterwards, they cheer. But I don’t think they’re cheering me. They’re congratulating themselves. I feel like a child who’s been surrounded by a ring of playground bullies. When I glance in Charlie’s direction he gives me a kind of apologetic wince. I suddenly feel very alone. I turn away from the others to hide my face.
As I do I catch sight of something that makes my blood run cold. There is someone at the window, looking in at us out of the blackness,
observing silently. The face is pressed against the glass, its features distorted into a hideous gargoyle mask, its teeth bared in a horrible grin. As I continue to stare, unable to look away, it mouths a single word.
BOO.
I’m not even aware of the champagne glass leaving my hand until it explodes at my feet.
