I wander round the corners of the marquee. I move between the tables. I pick up half-full glasses, the remains of people’s drinks, and down them. I want to get as drunk as possible.
I pulled away from Will as quickly as I could, after he grabbed me for that dance. It made me feel sick, being so close to him, feeling his body pressed up against me, thinking of the things I’ve done with him … the things he got me to do … the horrible secret between us. It was like he was getting off on it. Right at the end he whispered in my ear: ‘That crazy stunt you pulled earlier … that’s the end of it, OK? No more. Do you hear me? No more.’
No one seems to notice me as I go about minesweeping their discarded drinks. They’re all pretty wasted by now and, besides, they’ve abandoned the tables for the dance floor. It’s absolutely crammed in there. There are all these thirty-somethings slut-dropping and grinding on each other as though they’re in some shit noughties club dancing to 50 Cent, not a marquee on a deserted island with some guys playing fiddles.
The old me might have found it funny. I could imagine texting my mates, giving them a live running commentary on the absolute cringe- fest going on in front of me.
A few of the waiters are watching everyone from the corners of the marquee, sort of hovering on the edges of things. Some of them are about my age, younger. They all hate us, it’s so obvious. And I’m not surprised. I feel like I hate them too. Especially the men. I’ve been touched on the shoulder, on the hip and on the bum tonight by some of the blokes here, Will and Jules’s so-called friends. Hands grabbing, stroking, squeezing, cupping – out of sight of wives and girlfriends, as though I’m a piece of meat. I’m sick of it.
The last time it happened, I turned around and gave the guy such a poisonous stare that he actually backed away from me, making a stupid wide-eyed face and holding his hands up in the air – all mock-innocent. If it happens again I feel like I might really lose it.
I drink some more. The taste in my mouth is foul: sour and stale. I need to drink until I don’t care about that sort of thing. Until I can’t taste or feel any more.
And then I’m seized by my cousin Beth and dragged towards the dance tent. Other than earlier, outside the church, I haven’t seen Beth since last year at my aunt’s birthday. She’s wearing a ton of make-up but underneath you can see she’s still a child, her face round and soft, her eyes wide. I want to tell her to wipe off the lipstick and eyeliner, to stay in that safe childhood space for a while longer.
On the dance floor, surrounded by all these bodies, moving and shoving, the room begins to spin. It’s like all the stuff I’ve drunk has caught up with me in one big rush. And then I trip – maybe over someone’s foot or maybe it’s my own stupid, too-high shoes. I go down, hard, with a crack that I hear a long time before I feel it. I think I’ve hit my head.
Through the fug, I hear Beth speaking to someone nearby. ‘She’s really drunk, I think. Oh my God.’
‘Get Jules,’ someone says. ‘Or her mum.’ ‘Can’t see Jules anywhere.’
‘Oh, look, here’s Will.’
‘Will, she’s pretty drunk. Can you help? I don’t know what to do—’
He comes towards me, smiling. ‘Oh Olivia. What happened?’ He reaches out a hand to me. ‘Come on, let’s get you up.’
‘No,’ I say. I bat his hand away. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Come on,’ Will says, his voice so kind, so gentle. I feel him lifting me up, and it doesn’t seem like there’s much point in struggling. ‘Let’s get you some air.’ He puts his hands on my shoulders.
‘Get your hands off me!’ I try to fight my way out of his grip.
I hear a murmur from the people watching us. I’m the difficult one, I bet that’s what they’re saying to each other. I’m the crazy one. An embarrassment.
Outside the marquee, the wind hits us full-force, so hard it nearly knocks me over. ‘This way,’ Will says. ‘It’s more sheltered round here.’ I feel too tired and drunk to resist, all of a sudden. I let him march me round the other side of the marquee, towards where the land gives way to the
sea. I can see the lights of the mainland in the distance like a trail of spilled glitter in the blackness. They go in and out of focus: pin-sharp, then fuzzy, like I’m seeing them through water.
Now, for the first time in a long time, it’s just the two of us. Me and him.
