Will and I have been away from the melee, having our photos taken beside the cliffs. The wind has definitely picked up. It did so as soon as we stepped outside the protection of the chapel and the handfuls of thrown confetti were whipped away and out to sea before they could even touch us. Thank goodness I decided to wear my hair down, so the elements can only do so much damage. I feel it rippling out behind me, and the train of my skirt lifts in a stream of silk. The photographer loves this. ‘You look like an ancient Gaelic queen, with that crown – and your colouring!’ he calls. Will grins. ‘My Gaelic queen,’ he mouths. I smile back at him. My husband.
When the photographer asks us to kiss I slip my tongue into his mouth and he responds in kind, until the photographer – somewhat flustered – suggests that these photos might be a little ‘racy’ for the official records.
Now we return to our guests. The faces that turn towards us as we walk among them are already flushed with warmth and booze. In front of them I feel oddly stripped bare, as though the stress of earlier might be visible on my face. I try to remind myself of the pleasure of friends and loved ones being here together in one place, clearly enjoying themselves. And that it’s worked: I have created an event that people will remember, will talk about, will try – and probably fail – to replicate.
On the horizon, darker clouds mass ominously. Women clasp their hats to their heads, their skirts to their thighs, with small shrieks of hilarity. I can feel the wind tugging at my outfit, too, flinging up the heavy silk skirt of my dress as though it were light as tissue, whistling through the metal spokes of my headpiece as if it would quite like to rip it from my head and hurl it out to sea.
I glance across at Will, to see if he’s noticed. He’s surrounded by a gaggle of well-wishers and is being his usual, charming self. But I sense that he’s not fully engaged. He keeps glancing distractedly over the
shoulders of the various relatives and friends who come up to greet us as though he’s searching for someone, or looking at something.
‘What is it?’ I ask. I take his hand. It looks different to me now, foreign, with its plain band of gold.
‘Is that – Piers – over there?’ he says. ‘Talking to Johnno?’
I follow his gaze. There, indeed, is Piers Whiteley, producer of Survive the Night, balding head bent earnestly as he listens to whatever Johnno has to say.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that’s him. What’s the matter?’ Because something is the matter, I’m sure of it – I can see it from Will’s frown. It’s an expression I rarely see him wear, this look of slightly anxious distraction.
‘Nothing – in particular,’ he says. ‘I – well, it’s just a little awkward, you know. Because Johnno was turned down for the TV stuff. Not sure who it’s more awkward for, to be honest. Perhaps I should go over and rescue one of them.’
‘They’re grown men,’ I say. ‘I’m sure they can handle themselves.’ Will hardly seems to have heard me. In fact, he’s dropped my hand and is making his way across the grass towards them, pushing politely
but decisively past the guests who turn to greet him as he goes.
It’s very out of character. I look after him, wondering. I’d thought the sense of unease would leave me, after the ceremony, after we’d said those all-important vows. But it’s still with me, sitting like sickness in the pit of my stomach. I have the sense that there’s something malign stalking me, as though at the very edge of my vision, of which I can never get a proper glimpse. But that’s crazy. I just need a moment to myself, I decide, away from the fray.
I move quickly past the guests on the outskirts of the crowd, head down, stride purposeful, in case one of them tries to stop me. I enter the Folly via the kitchen. It’s blissfully quiet inside. I close my eyes for a long moment, in relief. On the butcher’s block in the centre of the kitchen, something – part of the meal for later, no doubt – is covered with a large cloth. I find a glass, run myself a cold drink of water, listen to the soothing tick of the clock on the wall. I stand there facing the sink and as I sip my water I count to ten and back down again. You’re being ridiculous, Jules. It’s all in your head.
I’m not sure what it is that makes me aware I am not alone. Some animal sense, maybe. I turn and in the doorway I see—
Oh God. I gasp, stumble backwards, my heart hammering. It’s a man holding a huge knife, his front smeared with blood.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I whisper. I shrink away from him, just managing not to drop my glass. A beat of pure fear, of racing adrenaline … then logic reasserts itself. It’s Freddy, Aoife’s husband. He’s holding a carving knife, and the blood smears are on the butcher’s apron he wears tied about his waist.
‘Sorry,’ he says, in that awkward way of his. ‘Didn’t mean to give you a fright. I’m carving the lamb in here – there’s a better surface than in the catering tent.’
As if to demonstrate, he lifts the cloth from the butcher’s block and beneath I see all the clustered racks of lamb: the crimson, glistening meat, the upthrust white bones.
As my heartbeat returns to normal, I’m humiliated to think how naked the fear must have been on my face. ‘Well,’ I say, trying to inject a note of authority. ‘I’m sure it will be delicious. Thank you.’ And I walk quickly – but careful not to hurry – out of the kitchen.
As I rejoin my milling guests I become aware of a change in the energy of the crowd. There’s a new hum of interest. It seems that something’s going on out to sea. Everyone is beginning to turn and look, caught by whatever’s happening.
‘What is it?’ I ask, craning to see over heads, unable to make out anything at all. The crowd is thinning around me, people drifting away wordlessly, towards the sea, trying to get a better view of whatever is going on.
Maybe some sea creature. They see dolphins from here regularly, Aoife told me. More rarely, a whale. That would be quite a spectacle, even a nice bit of atmospheric detail. But the noises coming from those at the front of the crowd of guests don’t seem the right pitch for that. I’d expect shrieks and exclamations, excited gesturing. They’re watching whatever it is, intently, but they’re not making very much noise. That makes me uneasy. It suggests it’s something bad.
I press forward. People have become pushy, clustering for position as though they’re vying for the best view at a gig. Before, as the bride, I was like a queen among them, cutting a swathe through the crowd wherever I walked. Now they have forgotten themselves, too intent on whatever it is that is going on.
‘Let me through!’ I shout. ‘I want to see.’
Finally, they part for me and I move forward, up to the front.
There is something out there. Squinting, eyes shielded against the light, I can make out the dark shape of a head. It could be a seal or some
other sea creature, save for the occasional appearance of a white hand.
There is someone in the water. It’s difficult to get a proper glimpse of him or her from here. It must be one of the guests; it’s not like anyone could swim here from the mainland. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were Johnno – although it can’t be, he was chatting to Piers moments ago. So if it’s not him, perhaps it’s one of the other exhibitionists in our number, one of the ushers, showing off. But as I look more closely I realise the swimmer isn’t facing the shore, but out to sea. And they aren’t swimming, I see now. In fact—
‘They’re drowning!’ a woman is shouting – Hannah, I think. ‘They’re caught in the current – look!’
I’m moving forward, trying to get a better look, pushing through the watching crowd of guests. And then finally I’m at the front and I can see more clearly. Or perhaps it’s simply that strange deep knowledge, the way we know those closest to us from a long distance, even if we only see the back of a head.
‘Olivia!’ I shout. ‘It’s Olivia! Oh my God, it’s Olivia.’ I’m trying to run, my skirt catching under my heels and hampering me. I hear the sound of tearing silk and ignore it, kick off my shoes, keep running, losing my footing as my feet sink into wet, marshy patches of ground. I’ve never been a runner, and it’s a whole other issue in a wedding dress. I seem to be moving unbelievably slowly. Will, thank God, doesn’t seem to have the same problem – he tears past me, followed by Charlie and several others.
When I finally get to the beach it takes a few moments for me to work out what’s going on, to understand the scene in front of me. Hannah, who must have started running too, arrives next to me, breathing hard. Charlie and Johnno stand thigh-deep in the water, with several other men behind them, on the water’s edge – Femi, Duncan and others. And beyond them, emerging from the depths, is Will, with Olivia in his arms. She seems to be struggling, fighting him, her arms windmilling, her legs kicking out desperately. He holds on tight. Her hair is a black slick. Her dress is absolutely translucent. She looks so pale, her skin tinged with blue.
‘She could have drowned,’ Johnno says, as he returns to the beach. He looks distraught. For the first time I feel more warmly towards him. ‘Lucky we spotted her. Crazy kid, anyone could see it’s not sheltered here. Could have got swept straight out to the open sea.’
Will gets to shore and lets Olivia go. She launches herself away from him and stands staring at us all. Her eyes are black and impenetrable.
You can see her near-naked body through the soaked dress: the dark
points of her nipples, the small pit of her navel. She looks primeval. Like a wild animal.
I see that Will’s face and throat are scratched, red marks springing up livid on his skin. And at the sight of these a switch is flicked. Where a second ago I had been full of fear for her, now I feel a violent, red-hot solar flare of rage.
‘The crazy little bitch,’ I say.
‘Jules,’ Hannah says gently – but not so gently that I can’t hear the note of opprobrium in her voice. ‘You know, I don’t think Olivia’s OK. I
— I think she might need help—’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Hannah.’ I spin towards her. ‘Look, I get how kind and maternal you are, and whatever. But Olivia doesn’t need a fucking mother. She’s already got one – who gives her a lot more attention, let me tell you, than I ever got. Olivia doesn’t need help. She needs to get her fucking act together. I’m not going to have her ruining my wedding. So … back off OK?’
I see her step, almost stumble, backwards. I’m dimly aware of her expression of hurt, of shock. I’ve gone beyond the pale: there, it’s done. But, right now, I don’t care. I turn back to Olivia. ‘What the hell were you doing?’ I scream at her.
Olivia merely gazes back at me, dully, mute. She looks like she’s drunk. I grab hold of her shoulders. Her skin is freezing to the touch. I want to shake her, slap her, pull her hair, demand answers. And then her mouth opens and closes, open and closes. I stare at her, trying to work it out. It is as though she is attempting to form words but her voice won’t come. The expression in her eyes is intent, pleading. It sends a chill through me. For a moment I feel as though she is trying hard to semaphore a message I don’t have the means to decipher. Is it an apology? An explanation?
Before I have a chance to ask her to try again, my mother is upon us. ‘Oh my girls, my girls.’ She clasps us both to her bony embrace. Beneath the billowing cloud of Shalimar I smell the sharp, acrid tang of her sweat, her fear. It is Olivia she’s really reaching for, of course. But for a moment I allow myself to yield to her embrace.
Then I glance behind me. The other guests are catching up with us. I can hear the murmur of their voices, sense the excitement coming off them. I need to defuse this whole situation.
‘Anyone else fancy a swim?’ I call. No one laughs. The silence seems to stretch out. They all seem to be waiting, now the show is over, for some cue as to where to go now. How to behave. I don’t know what to
do. This is not in my playbook. So I stand, staring back at them, feeling the dampness of the beach soaking into the skirt of my dress.
Thank God for Aoife, who appears among them, neat in her sensible navy dress and wedge shoes, absolutely unflustered. I see them turn to her, as though recognising her authority.
‘Everyone,’ she calls. ‘Listen up.’ For a small, quiet woman, her voice is impressively resonant. ‘If you’ll all follow me back this way. The wedding breakfast will be served soon. The marquee awaits!’
