One bride. Four hens. A deadly secret.
SHE STARTED IT
‘The
perfect summer read’ Glamour
What readers are saying about
She Started It
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‘This was such a fun and thrilling read! Perfect to read before your next weekend getaway with the girls’
‘I was hooked from the first page. This book is so perfectly written that I didn’t want to stop reading’
‘All I can says is “wow!” I read this book in one sitting . . . it was so good!’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sian Gilbert was born in Bristol, UK. She studied history at the University of Warwick, before teaching at a comprehensive school in Birmingham for almost five years. She now lives in Cambridge with her partner.
SHE STARTED IT SIAN GILBERT
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First published in the United States of America by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins 2023
First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books 2024 001
Copyright © Sian Gilbert, 2023
Title page art © Chansom Pantip/Shutterstock, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN : 978–1–405–96604–7
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For my Granny, Marie Blackmore. Your love of books inspired my own.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for choosing to read my debut novel She Started It. Th is book is a fun summer thriller but to ensure you have the best reading experience, I wanted to provide content warnings for bullying as well as struggles with mental health, including self-harm and suicide. It is so important that openness, honesty and removal of stigma around mental health are a priority. With this in mind, at the back of the book you will fi nd several resources which include information on how to deal with these issues and where to seek help.
Thank you, Sian
PROLOGUE Robin
MAY 22, 2023
There’s only the bride waiting for me, and she’s covered in blood.
Normally at the end of a holiday on this island the whole party is ready with their suitcases, sunburned but cheerful. As I power across to them in my deck boat, they’re o en not looking at me but taking nal glances around the island: its white sandy beaches, clear water, palm trees.
It’s a perfect day to be on the sea this morning. e sun is warm on my back and the tide is on my side.
But the bride waiting for me has changed everything.
I wouldn’t call myself an easily shaken person. When you run a private island, you prepare for every possibility. Just thirty minutes by speedboat from the mainland, I’m always there if something does go wrong. e guests have the island to themselves, but I’ve not le them stranded. ere’s an emergency phone, ares, and a fully stocked rst aid kit.
Crises have happened before, of course they have.
Someone thought they’d climb the edge of the cli side and ended up breaking their leg. Another woman insisted her pregnancy wouldn’t be a bother and went into labour on the rst night. I guess I thought I’d seen it all.
I haven’t seen this.
e boat reaches the pier and I’m able to cut the engine and secure it before the bride hurries over.
“What’s happened?” I ask, amazed by how forceful my voice sounds. “Is everyone okay? Do I need to call an ambulance?”
Now that she’s reached me, the bride seems to be in a state of shock. ere are deep gashes in her hands, but I’m not sure they’re enough to cause the devastation on her thin white dress. All across the front are huge blood stains, grown dark with time. Scratches cover one side of her face. A slight bruise is forming underneath her le eye.
I reach out a tentative hand and she jerks backwards.
“Sorry!” I look around, trying to nd signs of the others.
It’s too quiet here. I think back to only days ago, the happy loud group of women I took to this island, leaving them ready for the hen party of a lifetime. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
“Where are the others?” I ask.
e bride’s eyes nally focus on me, wide and fearful.
“Your bridesmaids?” I persist. “Where are they?”
“It all went wrong,” she says.
I’m about to speak, but the bride isn’t nished. She draws herself into a hunch, grabbing both arms, wrapping herself in an embrace despite the scorching weather.
Her next words leave me cold.
“She started it.”
Annabel
Itake out the invitation again, its creamy thick card with embossed lettering somehow more impressive than the rst-class plane ticket to the Bahamas. ere are a few minutes before my taxi arrives for the airport, so I sit on the velvet armchair by the window and study everything once more.
Dear Annabel, it reads. I hope this invitation comes as a pleasant surprise. I am getting married in the summer next year, and would love it if you could be a bridesmaid. I have organised the hen party to take place on a completely private island in the Bahamas, and you don’t need to spend a penny. Further details will follow about the wedding when you all arrive! Please write back to me to let me know you can make it. Full instructions are underneath and I have included your plane tickets. Love, Poppy Greer Poppy Greer, of all people. e invitation was a surprise, that was for sure. I haven’t seen her in almost ten years, haven’t even spoken to her. Not since the end of our A levels. Nor was she my favourite person. It’s safe to say the four of us—that is, me, Chloe, Esther, and Tanya—didn’t like Poppy that much and teased her for it. Harmless teasing, nothing serious. But still, it’s a shock that she’s invited us, let alone asked us to be her bridesmaids.
“I’m not going to turn down a free rst-class ight and stay on a private island,” Chloe said, when we all discovered we’d had the same letter. “Especially if it’s all four of us.”
ere’s a brochure in the envelope with the invitation and plane tickets. e island is called Deadman’s Bay, an ominous rst impression but easily forgotten at the sight of the clear ocean water. ere’s a small wooden whitewashed pier that peeks out into the waves, showcasing a strip of the faraway mainland and the blue skies above. Inside the brochure, there are a couple of photographs of the island itself. rough lush thick greenery is a tended lawn; palm trees are dotted about like streetlamps, some curving and others rod-straight, bound together by hammocks, and a re pit sits in the middle surrounded by deck chairs. In the background there’s a glimpse of the white beach, sun loungers and a small red-and-whitestriped open gazebo. e beachfront home, the biggest accommodation ahead of four tiny huts at the rear of the island, is hidden behind four large palm trees that ght for space, a small single-storey white building with pink windows and a pink front door. Next to it, almost out of sight, a decking area complete with barbecue.
It wasn’t hard to say yes. I didn’t even have to change any of my plans; I had none, and I don’t work. Andrew, my husband, didn’t have a problem with me being away for four days either.
e other three all have jobs. Esther Driscoll is an investment banker at a top rm and had to beg, borrow, and steal to get the time o . She’s much more serious than the rest of us. Even when out of work she’s constantly on her phone, responding to emails. It’s a far cry from the wild spirit she was at school and university, always the last to leave a party. But I know her mother got her the interview for her current job and she feels under a lot of pressure to perform, although she’d never admit that to us. e last one to leave a party these days is Tanya Evesham, but that’s because she’s the one who organises them. She’s an events planner, from arranging celebrity features to high-class birthday parties. When she rst
started, she used to invite us along to whatever bash she’d put together that night, guaranteeing us free cocktails and the ability to rub shoulders with the social elite. ere’s a certain charm to Tanya. She can capture a room’s attention and thrives on it, always leaving people wanting more. Tanya’s events were the social occasions everyone put on their calendar.
Until they suddenly weren’t, a few months ago. Tanya stopped inviting us to parties, and we stopped hearing about them, though that hasn’t stopped her throwing them and she seems busier than ever. She and her boyfriend, Harry—a professional bodyguard to a politician—bought a place last year on the outskirts of London and she’s been busy redecorating, so the three of us have barely seen her, nor has she invited us for a housewarming.
For Chloe, this trip counts as work. She’s the most delighted of us all.
Chloe Devine (real name Chloe Smith, a hopelessly ordinary surname she never could have done well with, she tells us) is an Instagram sensation: just y thousand followers away from one million. Inundated with various sponsorship deals she advertises in di erent posts, Chloe loves nothing more than an opportunity to aunt her wealth to her followers. But a rst-class ight to a private island is a whole new level, and she’s bought seven di erent bikinis for the occasion. Something as simple as a photo of her sipping co ee in a café gets hundreds of thousands of likes.
If I’d known all it took to get rich and famous was a nose job, I’d have done it before her. But I’m not jealous. Chloe is still single, despite the numerous relationships she’s had. If you can call them relationships.
I’m happily married. I’m the lucky one.
As if he’s read my mind, Andrew comes into the living room and nds me curled up by the window, slotting everything safely back into the envelope and then my Prada handbag. Chloe isn’t the only one who has nice designer gear.
“Have you seen my keys?” Andrew asks, picking up the sofa cushions and inging them back down. “I swear you always move them.”
I sigh. Andrew loses his keys every single time he is about to go out, and every single time it’s my fault. “Have you checked your coat pocket?”
“My coat pocket?” he echoes, as if I’ve gone mad. “Why on earth would it—” e rest of his sentence disappears along with him through the door, and I hear a jangle of keys. He comes back in with a frown on his face. “Did you put them in here? I could have sworn I took them out a er work yesterday.”
“Why would I move your keys?” I try to laugh and make light of it, but Andrew’s expression darkens.
“You’re always moving my things.” He stands in front of the replace, adjusting his tie in the mirror that hangs above.
“Have you got something on at work today?”
He startles at my voice, but the tie is nally xed into place. “Nothing in particular. Why do you ask?”
“You just seem very preoccupied with your tie today. And you’ve shaved.”
is makes him sigh. “Honestly, Annabel, don’t you have anything better to do than observe my morning routine?”
“Well, it’s my trip today,” I say, because he doesn’t seem to be mentioning it. I wasn’t expecting him to drop me to the airport, that would be ridiculous. But I had expected perhaps an early wake-up, breakfast together, some morning sex to say goodbye. Instead, Andrew pressed the snooze button and I had avocado on toast on my own in the kitchen. “I’ll be gone for four nights.”
“Right, your hen party,” he says. “What time do you leave?”
“Any minute,” I say, checking my phone. “ e taxi should be arriving soon.”
“You look like you’re all ready to go.” He nods at the suitcase next to me, then checks his watch. “I can’t be late, babe.”
“No problem.” Because it’s not a problem. He has to work, he’s the one who earns the money around here, though he can be quite stingy with it,
rarely allowing me to go shopping as much as I would like. But I have my ways around that. I stand and walk over to him. “I’ll miss you.”
“You’ll be having too much fun,” he replies, removing himself from the embrace I wrapped him in.
I fasten a smile on my face. “I love you. Hey, give me a kiss goodbye.”
He laughs. “I’ll be seeing you in a few days.”
I’m about to plant a kiss on his lips before he can protest any further when my phone rings, the sudden noise breaking any romantic moment we might have had. inking it’s the taxi, I hurry to answer it without even checking the caller.
“Hello?” As I put the phone to my ear, Andrew gives my shoulder a squeeze and heads out. e front door shuts behind him before the person on the other end is even able to respond.
“Annabel, darling, is that you? I can’t believe you’ve actually answered one of my calls. You’re normally so busy.”
My mother.
I groan inwardly. Perhaps it’s not too late—I can just hang up now and pretend there was a signal issue.
“Mum,” I say, deciding to get it over with.
“Well, how are you, for God’s sake? It’s been months since I last heard from you.”
To say I have a fractured relationship with my mother would be putting it delicately. ere was no dramatic fallout, no deep dark secret for why I moved to the other side of Bristol and never came back. It’s natural, really, that a er university I would want to reinvent myself a bit. I became a better person, not someone content with working in a shop like Mum.
e tiny two-bedroom house on the edge of Hartcli e where I grew up is where she’s always been, even a er Dad le long ago. When I met Andrew, and he introduced me to his own parents—his father an ex-MP and his mother a dermatologist, living in their ve-storey Georgian mansion in the centre of Cli on—it felt natural to break away from Mum.
Andrew’s only met her the once, at the wedding, when I had to invite her. I spent the whole day in a state of constant panic that she would say something ignorant, repeatedly talking over her and laughing immediately whenever she tried to crack a joke so the attention would come o her. She had tried, she really had, but her too-tight dress from Next and the potted plant wedding present couldn’t compete with Andrew’s family’s sophistication. Not when Andrew’s mother arrived in a Givenchy dress with Chantilly lace and gi ed us not only a diamond decanter and glasses “so there was something for you to unwrap” but also a seven-night stay in a ve-star spa resort in Iceland. eir taste is just more elevated. I was relieved when Mum le , and Andrew hasn’t asked to see her since, so I assume the feeling is mutual. She’s better o in Hartcli e and we’re better o here, in a Georgian house identical to the one Andrew’s parents live in a couple of streets away.
“I’m actually about to go on holiday,” I say, hoping the taxi will pull up at any moment and give me an excuse to get o the phone. “I’m going to a hen party.”
“Who’s getting married?” Mum asks, always straight to the point. I wonder when the last time she went on holiday was. We certainly never went when I was a child, because I was always jealous hearing about everyone else’s fantastic summers.
“ at’s the funny thing.” For a second I’m not sure whether to tell her, but what harm can it do? “It’s Poppy Greer’s wedding.”
“Poppy Greer?” Mum says, sounding surprised. “Poppy Greer from your school?”
“Yeah, that Poppy,” I say. “It’s a bit strange, isn’t it? But she invited us to join her on a private island in the Bahamas. We couldn’t exactly say no to that.”
ere’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “ at would be hard to refuse, I agree. You’ve seen her recently, then?”
“Uh—no,” I admit, realising that sounds odd. “She sent the plane
tickets with the invitation. But we’ve seen her on Instagram, posting about her wedding. She followed us all a few months back.”
“Who’s this ‘we’?”
“Me, Chloe, Esther, and Tanya.” Why does it sound weird now that I’m explaining it to her? Mum always has this way of twisting things to seem worse than they are. “We’re all going to be her bridesmaids.”
“But I thought . . .” Her voice trails away.
“What?”
“Never mind, I must have been mistaken.” She clears her throat. Her tone lightens. “Well, this will be an opportunity for the four of you to make it up to Poppy, a er everything. I hope you’re thinking of that and not just a free holiday. How lovely that she’s getting married.” is again. Whenever there’s a chance to have a dig at me, she’s straight in there with a shovel.
“We don’t need to make anything up to her,” I say. “ at was all ten years ago. And it was silly teenage stu , nothing serious. I’m going through more problems right now than she ever did!”
“ e problem with you, Annabel, is you’ve always felt like the past doesn’t matter because it’s over. You don’t think about how actions always have consequences. You’re too focused on yourself and not focused enough on other people.”
It’s the same old message. As if I don’t have enough going on.
Maybe she senses me drawing away, because she continues without waiting for a response.
“I mean it. Take this opportunity to make it up to Poppy for the past. You’ll regret it if you don’t. Perhaps that’s what she’s intending with this trip, a chance to clear the air.” She sighs again, a deep exhalation. “I do worry about you, love. But not because your social schedule is packed, or Andrew is too busy at work. I worry that you’re not living up to your potential. What happened to those degrees of yours? First in our family to go to university and you haven’t even used them.”
e taxi nally, mercifully, pulls up on our drive, and I can see the driver getting out, calling my phone. I give him a wave in the window and start gathering everything together.
“I have to go now, Mum, the taxi driver is here.”
“ ink about what I said. I miss you. It would be nice to see you more o en than at Christmas. Maybe a er your holiday you could come and see me for a few days?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Bye now.”
“Bye, darling. I love you. Have a great hen party.”
She waits for me to hang up. She does it every time. I’m not sure why, when she has the last word. But I end the call and shove my phone in my handbag, doing one nal check of everything before heading out the door.
It’s nothing I haven’t heard from her before, this insistence that I have to do something with my education. It’s also not like I haven’t thought about it. I chose to do Psychology because, at the time, I was passionate about understanding the human mind, and I still am today. When Andrew isn’t around, I’m o en at his computer researching di erent studies I nd interesting. It’s a side of me I don’t show anyone, not since Mum used to sit on the end of my bed and listen to me wa e on about my revision for my A levels.
But there’s no reason to use my degrees now. Yes, degrees, plural. I did a master’s degree in Psychology too, specialising in the biological side. ere’s something so fascinating about the way several psychological disorders can be seen through scans and tests, physical proof of the genuine impact they can have. I’m not one for Freudian psychology— discussing feelings and connecting them to past trauma seems a load of rubbish to me.
e taxi driver helps me with my bags as I knew he would a er I ashed him my brightest smile, and he even opens the car door. I know
he’s a er a big tip because he’s seen the size of our house, but it still makes me proud, knowing he’s gone to that extra e ort.
As he pulls out of the drive, I take a last look back at our home. It’s in Andrew’s name, and it’s his money that paid for it, but I still call it “our.” From the outside it reminds me of my childhood dentistry, which had converted a huge Georgian house to suit its needs. e inside had been hollowed out, each room turned cold and clinical, white-washed with awful linoleum oors.
I check my phone, but Andrew hasn’t sent me a goodbye message even though he’s never o his mobile, a constant presence near his right hand whether he’s watching television or in the shower.
To take my mind o Andrew, I open the envelope with the tickets and brochure inside again, lea ng through the pictures of the island once more.
I don’t feel guilty about the past. Mum hasn’t got to me. ere’s nothing to make up for with Poppy, and this invitation proves it. We’re going to have a brilliant time and forget about the real world we’ve le behind.
If Poppy’s still harbouring any grudges she wouldn’t have invited us. I can just relax now. is is going to be fantastic.
MAY 18, 2023
Okay, I think I might nally have enough pictures. is plane journey is insane.
I wasn’t going to go until I saw Poppy was paying for it all. Since when is Poppy Greer of all people a rich bitch? I would say I’m not jealous but that would be a complete lie. If I had her money I’d be on a plane at least twice a week, enjoying all of this luxury. Who knows, though? If my sponsorships continue to do well and people enjoy the pictures from my holiday . . . oh, what’s that? A high-end airline company like—I don’t know, let’s say Emirates—wants to sponsor you to enjoy rst-class travel anywhere you want in the world? It’s such a tall order, but you know what, I’ll do it.
Simply arriving at the airport lounge was unreal. We had our own area where breakfast was being o ered. Proper breakfast, complete with fresh fruit smoothies, and a whole variety of pastries, yoghurts, cheeses, and granola. Even though Esther ended up eating most of it I created the most beautiful plate of everything on o er, even the high-end wine with nuts and olives to the side. ere were a few businessmen eating a small breakfast near us who certainly didn’t appreciate the impromptu photoshoot next to them but this is work too, sorry, gentlemen.
I’m so close to a million followers now, it’s within touching distance. My agent, a thin woman called Carla who I’m pretty sure lives on a diet of celery sticks and stress, has told me if things keep going the way they are it could happen within the month. She was delighted when I told her about Poppy’s little getaway and insisted I take photos of every step of the journey. I wish I could have brought my proper lighting kit with me, but some of my followers have already said they prefer the “natural” look I have going on right now.
Meeting up with everyone again was actually a bit awkward at rst. It’s been so long since it’s been the four of us all together. And I’m somewhat avoiding Annabel lately, for obvious reasons. Nor is it much fun seeing Tanya at the moment.
She’s not looking much better. She didn’t even make an e ort for the plane journey—I mean, we’re in rst class, for God’s sake, at least try and look like you belong—just wearing leggings and an oversized jumper. I think she was trying to hide how thin she’s gotten, but you can’t hide it in your face. ere’s a gaunt expression to her now, and these huge bags under her eyes. Maybe I should give her some tips on how to cover that up, because she’s doing a pretty terrible job at hiding that there’s something wrong.
Not that Annabel or Esther seemed to notice. Annabel gave a great big squeal when she arrived, rushing around and kissing our cheeks and telling us all how beautiful we looked. Annabel at least can be counted on to look the part, though how she can a ord a Prada handbag when she doesn’t work I’ll never know.
“How long has it been since the four of us were together like this?” Annabel asked, in that stupid breathy voice she has when she’s putting on a show.
“We all met up to discuss the invitations,” Esther pointed out with a grin.
Come to think of it, Esther’s dressed like she’s hiding something too.
Esther enjoys exercise (which if you ask me is something super- t people say just to have some superiority over normal people like us who su er through it just to have a nice ass) so really she should be showing o her toned legs and arms, but instead she’s completely covered up with baggy trousers and a long-sleeved turtleneck. While we were waiting for Annabel to arrive at the airport, she barely spoke to me and Tanya, instead distracted by constant messages on her phone from her boyfriend. She’s chewed her lip so much she’s broken through the skin, and there’s a eck of lipstick on her teeth, but I’m quite enjoying guessing how long it will be until she notices so I’ve decided not to tell her.
Annabel waved her hand dismissively at her. “Oh, you know what I mean. Not just a short lunch or whatever. We’re all spending time together. Isn’t it great?”
“Oh it’s just fabulous,” I said, but she didn’t seem to realise I was making fun of her because she beamed at me in response.
We were escorted to our seats on the plane, and when I say seats, I mean suites, which is pretty incredible. ere’s a separate bed and sitting area, all in these cool neutral greys and whites, with a statement orange pillow on the leather armchair. With six suites on the plane, we’ve taken up four of them. Out of the last two, one is empty and the other is at the back, containing a rather stern-looking man in a suit with a shining bald head that made me giggle and Esther roll her eyes at me.
I’ll admit takeo made me a little nervous, that slight dip as the plane levels o never failing to send me into a panic that we’re about to fall.
ere’s something wrong with people who enjoy takeo ; it’s not natural for us to just be oating around in the sky and any minute now I’m certain the laws of physics are going to remember and send us plummeting.
Orange juice and a hot towel helped take my mind o my fears. I pressed the towel into my face, knowing I had my backup makeup in a bag near my feet, and closed my eyes. When we nally levelled and the seatbelt signs went o , I sighed with relief.
Now, everyone is gathered in my suite. All of us are still in disbelief, I think, that we’re here and about to join Poppy Greer on an island in the Bahamas. A part of me wondered whether our plane tickets would scan through and come up as duds when we rst arrived, a nal bit of payback for before, and the airline sta would laugh at us and send us away.
Esther said as much when we all went to lunch together a few months ago, when the invitations rst arrived. We’d all brought them and laid them out on the table alongside our Caesar salads, taking in the exact same information Poppy had given us, the only di erence being our names.
“I don’t think we should go,” Esther had said, shaking her head at the thought of it. “ is seems a bit suspicious to me.”
“How is it suspicious?” I asked, twirling a piece of chicken on my fork. My followers, my “family” as I like to call them (which is easy to do when your own family are a dad in prison and an alcoholic mum), love how into healthy eating I am (I got over a hundred thousand likes for a picture of this meal). “She’s the one paying for it all.” is, I felt, was the most important point.
Esther wasn’t convinced. “But why would she pay for it? For us? Why has she chosen us to be her bridesmaids when she hasn’t even seen us for however long?”
“On that note,” Annabel said, frowning, “we don’t actually know anything about the wedding yet. Like, where is it? When exactly is it? All we have is the invitation to the hen party and a promise of further details.”
“So we’ll nd out when we get there. No biggie. She clearly wants to see how we’re all doing.” I shrugged, taking my phone and scrolling to her Instagram. “Ever since she followed us she’s been liking all our pictures. In fact, she’s even liked the photo I just took of this salad.”
We were all stunned when Poppy followed us on Instagram a while back. First it had been me, obviously, but soon enough she had found the others’ accounts and liked our pictures and stories whenever we
posted them. Even Esther’s, and Esther is hopeless at Instagram and only posts a photo about once every three months and has less than a thousand followers. Poppy’s account isn’t much better than hers in terms of followers, but she has plenty of posts. e rst few were mainly of London nightlife, blurred images of cocktails and clubs, and then of course there were some of what must have been her artwork or ones she admired (Poppy is an art nut), but we all saw the one of her le hand with its sparkling diamond ring.
It was Annabel’s idea to follow her back, just for a laugh. I mean, I only follow celebrities but the other three all did and we were able to see what she was doing. I know I wasn’t the only one insanely jealous of that ring—how did Poppy Greer of all people bag herself a man with that kind of money?
A er that it was a urry of bridal pictures, from dresses she was trying on to her exploring various potential venues. Her shortlist for her wedding dress was fun. We all got drunk one night at mine and voted for which dress we liked best out of her posts. I went for a clingy silky Versace number personally, but everyone else preferred her more traditional options. It actually turned into a bit of a game for us—what has Poppy posted next, and would any of the photos show us what she looked like now? Because not one of these many wedding posts had her face in them.
A couple of months before we got our invites, Poppy had posted a story in front of some fancy-looking wedding invitations wondering about who to include in her wedding.
It’s been so many years since I’ve seen some people, she wrote. Wouldn’t it be fun to have some kind of school reunion?
“She’ll be calling you up, Tanya,” I joked at the time. “You’ll be her maid of honour.”
“As if she’d ever include us,” Tanya had replied, rolling her eyes. “I’m shocked she’s even thinking of inviting people from school.”
Imagine our surprise then when the invites for the hen party came through the door. Not just for Tanya, but for each and every one of us.
I grinned at them all as we discussed what to do. “Hey, if she’s willing to pay for holidays to the Bahamas, I think Poppy Greer can nally be one of us.”
Annabel smiled at that, but even she was still reluctant. “I’m not sure any of us would be quite as generous with each other if it were our own hen parties.”
“Mainly because she wouldn’t be invited to them!” I laughed.
Tanya, who up until this point had been lost in thought, frowned. “Maybe it’s not about that. Maybe we should think about going to . . . you know, see how she is. A er everything.”
“Is someone missing their old friend?” I teased. “Trust you to be feeling bad for her.”
“I’m just saying.” Tanya pushed her half-eaten plate of food away from her. “We were pretty rough to her, especially at the end. is could be our chance to wipe that slate clean. Not carry anything around with us anymore.”
“Who’s carrying anything around?” Esther asked. “I’m not.”
“We should all go,” Tanya said. “I think it’s important.”
“And even if Poppy is still a weirdo, the four of us will be on a private island living the life of luxury for four days,” I added, ignoring Tanya’s irritated sigh.
Esther gave in, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, ne, I’ll come. We’ll all go.”
Annabel nodded. “Yes, alright. But I’m going for the sandy beaches and cocktails, not the childhood therapy session.”
“Hoorah!” I li ed my glass of wine. “Let’s toast to that.”
“As long as I can get the time o ,” Esther muttered, but she grinned and raised her glass too. “To the Bahamas!”
“To the Bahamas!” we chanted.
Now, conversation returns to Poppy. I’m sitting in the armchair, whilst Esther and Annabel sit on the bed and Tanya stands near the opening. A ight attendant comes over and o ers us all co ees a er the meal we’ve just nished, and we accept. A er she leaves again, co ees delivered, we can talk properly.
“I wonder what she’s like now,” I say, remembering the Poppy from long ago. “Her Instagram never had any photographs of her.”
You know how there’s always that one child at school who never seems to t in, despite by all appearances being quite an ordinary kid? Nothing majorly wrong with them, no laughable features. And yet they are always on the precipice, never quite able to join the group and get what the joke is about, because odds are the joke is on them. at was Poppy Greer. Sure, she was a bit overweight, and we all never hesitated to call her on it (I remember one time back when we were about twelve or thirteen Poppy Greedy was her nickname for months and months), but there was just something about her that meant no one wanted to be her friend. She had this odd, obsessive personality, where she’d xate on certain topics and never shut up about them, like Star Wars or even e Great British Bake O . Most weird of all were her creepy paintings. She loved art and was constantly putting hers on display at school. She still wore braces even when she was sixteen. She actually got on with the teachers and consistently came top of the class. You know, one of those kids.
I never imagined she’d be successful, because as much as the world wants to pretend otherwise, it rewards con dent, attractive people. I mean, look at me. I unked out of sixth form with three Ds but it doesn’t matter because my double Ds make me thousands every month through bikini pictures. Look at Annabel too: beautiful, blonde, a better nose than me even though I’ve had mine done and she’s with the delicious Andrew and doesn’t need to earn anything. Meanwhile Esther’s much more
average, though she dresses well and has a killer body, so she has to do her boring banker job. As for Tanya, the less said about her the better at the moment, but she’s not a dog. It’s why her job in high-end events worked. You can’t be the life and soul of a party and look like the back end of a bus.
“She was always brainy,” Esther says. “Maybe she’s in investment banking too.”
“Maybe she actually earned her way there without connections,” Annabel says with a grin.
Esther chooses to ignore the jibe, sipping her co ee. “I don’t even know what happened to her a er sixth form. Didn’t she and her family move away?”
“I remember something like that,” I say. “Wasn’t her younger sister even smarter than she was? Maybe they moved so she could go to some swanky sixth form out in the country for geniuses.”
“It’s going to be so strange seeing her,” Annabel says. “My mum tried saying it would be a good opportunity to make amends, if you can believe it.”
“I didn’t know you still spoke to your mum,” Tanya says, and Annabel blushes.
“She managed to call me just as I was waiting for the taxi this morning,” she mumbles. “I didn’t realise it was her on the phone, I thought it was them getting lost nding the place.”
“Easy to do with all those magni cent houses,” Esther concedes. “What does she mean though—make amends? Amends for what?”
Annabel and Esther in particular have a tendency to pretend like nothing ever happened at school. I take a more honest approach. I mean, we’re all twenty-eight this year, and if we can’t acknowledge something as little as what happened with Poppy Greer, I think that’s a bit immature.
“I tried saying this at the lunch. We could say we’re sorry for how we acted,” Tanya proposes. “ at we’re excited to be her bridesmaids.”
“Who apologises for something that happened ten years ago?” Annabel says. “No, I think we just don’t mention it. at’s always easier.”
“Agreed,” Esther says. “Don’t mention anything at all. Especially you, Chloe.”
I frown. She would be stunned if she knew some of the things I’m hiding from them.
“ e real question is who she’s getting married to,” Annabel says.
“True,” I say with a giggle. “Who on earth would marry Poppy Greedy?”
We all laugh and the tension is broken.
Poppy is meeting us on the island itself, so I’m not sure if she’s been out there longer or taken a di erent ight. It feels like she’s deliberately adding an air of suspense to us seeing her a er all these years, but I don’t blame her. It would have been a bit awkward if we’d all shared this ninehour ight and the journey to where we’re staying.
I also think, not for the rst time, that maybe we’re her bridesmaids because she doesn’t have any other friends. We might just be the closest she ever got to them.
And that’s quite sad really. e others go back to their own suites, Tanya proclaiming she is going to sleep the rest of the way and not to disturb her, whilst Esther plans to catch up on some work emails and respond to her boyfriend, Brad, who has already texted her a dozen times. Only Annabel and I actually enjoy the ight the rest of the time; I can faintly hear her watching a lm and ordering more food, and I plan to do the same a er I’ve nished uploading another photograph of myself.
I’m lying on the bed and holding the phone far above my face, seeing my hair has spread sexily around my head like a bleached halo. Much nicer way to join the Mile High Club than the airplane bathroom, I write underneath, knowing it’s borderline too cheeky but also knowing these occasional posts get me a lot more likes. Sure enough, there are already
hundreds, along with desperate comments from sad old men about how they’d like to join me up here. As if.
A er a lm and another ridiculous meal with a few glasses of wine, the attendant comes round with a nal drink and cake.
“We should be arriving soon,” she says to me, as I admire how tightly put together her bun is, the dewy freshness of her makeup despite being on her feet nonstop this whole time. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your ight.”
“It’s been magical,” I tell her, but as soon as the seatbelt signs come back on for landing I get that tight, nervous feeling in my stomach once more.
MAY 18, 2023
The brochure Poppy included with the invitations couldn’t capture the beauty of this place.
Even just standing on the mainland pier puts into perspective how much brighter and sharper everything seems to be over here. Far out across the ocean I can see the island where we’re going to stay, a small dark space on the horizon amidst all the blue. e journey from the airport has taken almost an hour, the four of us crammed in an uncomfortably hot taxi, and I spent most of it with my eyes closed trying to avoid the onset of a migraine from the stu ness. Not to mention how rough I feel anyway. Now that I’m out, the air seems much fresher, vastly di erent from the fumes and pollution back in England.
Part of me still wants to go home, not wanting to face the inevitable. But another part of me wants to stay here forever, living an island life away from everything and not having to think about what’s waiting for me when I get back. It’s hard though. Every so o en my heart beats in my chest like it’s trying to escape, and my hands keep shaking. Constant reminders, determined to make me crack.
At the end of the pier, standing next to a boat, a middle-aged woman raises her hand in greeting, gesturing us to come forward. She’s not quite
what I imagined, picturing some gorgeous leggy athletic blonde dressed in hippie clothes with sun-kissed skin. Instead she’s rather ordinary, in oral-patterned leggings and thick boots, her mouth breaking into a wide smile and revealing wrinkles.
“Not coming to help us with our bags then,” Annabel murmurs, hitching her handbag up onto her shoulder. “So much for rst-class service.”
We’re barely twenty metres from her, I want to say, and you’ve got wheels on your suitcase. But I hold my tongue, which is o en the best thing to do with Annabel.
As we approach, I wonder what the woman thinks of us, four overdressed women struggling along with our cases in our high heels. I’m the most dressed down out of any of us in my big jumper, but even that feels too much, especially in this heat. Not the best idea for someone who is trying desperately not to sweat as it is, but I can’t exactly take it o now. She’s immensely more practical, and I think I catch a hint of amusement in her expression once we’re in front of her.
“You must be the hen party,” she says, and her voice is unexpected too. Seeing her up close, leathery and shiny from the sun, hair pulled back into an un attering low ponytail, I thought she’d sound gru , almost manly. Again she surprises me, with a so , lilting Welsh accent. I hadn’t realised she wasn’t native. “Welcome. I hope your journey here was okay.”
“Wonderful,” Esther says. “It’s so beautiful here.”
“You never get used to it,” the woman says with a nod, allowing us another moment to take in the scenery. “I’m Robin, by the way. I’ll be getting you safely to where you’re staying.” She li s her hand and points across to the dark shape on the horizon I’d spotted before. “ at’s the island you’ll be on. Deadman’s Bay.”
e name still gives me shivers. Robin notices and sends me a small smile.
“Don’t worry, the name makes it sound spookier than it is,” she says.
“It’s a historical site, rst settled on by a sailor who got shipwrecked. He married a woman from the mainland and they built a house together, though it hasn’t survived. e owner’s new house, where you’ll be staying, is built on that same site. No scary deaths, I promise you.”
“You don’t own the island?” Chloe asks, nally listening a er snapping a picture of the end of the pier.
Robin laughs. “I wish. Just the glori ed taxi lady between the mainland and island. But the owners live in America, so I’m here running the day to day.”
Sounds like a nice job to me. I study Robin, this pleasant and polite woman who clearly used to be from Wales. Why has she moved all the way out here?
Maybe I need to stop imagining everyone is getting away from something. But I feel like I’ve been running my whole life.
She steps forward to help us out, taking each of our bags in turn and loading them onto the boat. She does it expertly; one foot on the pier, the other on the boat, no fear or imbalance as the boat shi s with the gentle tide. Once the bags are loaded, she o ers a hand to each of us to help us in.
“I get horribly seasick,” Annabel says uncertainly, hovering at the edge. “How long is the journey?”
“We’ve got a good tide this a ernoon,” Robin tells her. “It shouldn’t take more than half an hour, forty minutes at most. If the wind’s against us it can take double that time.”
“ at long?” Annabel glances back at us, face pale. “And we’ll be all alone out there?”
“ ere’s an emergency phone connected by landline,” Robin says, “and if that fails there are ares that are easy to spot from here. But no one’s ever had to use them.”
Brusque, she o ers her hand again. Annabel admits defeat and boards the boat, teetering in her heels until she sits down on the long seat at the
back. Esther goes next without complaint, joining Annabel and even giving her hand a squeeze to comfort her.
Chloe seems eager to get going; she doesn’t even need assistance but instead steps into the boat and gets herself seated. But just as I’m about to take Robin’s hand, Chloe pipes up, as if the thought has just occurred to her.
“What if there’s a storm?”
“A storm?” Robin pauses to consider this, leaving my hand dangling. “At night there’s o en thunder and lightning, but it’s nothing to worry about.”
“But would you still be able to get out to us if there was a bad one?” Chloe persists, a glint in her eye that tells me she’s just trying to scare Annabel. It’s working; Annabel is gripping Esther tight.
Robin holds her hands up in surrender. “I’d have to get some outside help if that happened, I’ll admit. If the storm was that bad. But again, that’s never happened. You’re going to be ne. is is a holiday, remember, ladies! Not a boot camp!”
I look across at the island, taking in how far away and small it seems. e sky above is clear, not a single cloud. e wind is calm.
Still. I turn my head towards the mainland, the comfort of knowing help should be immediate.
“It’s Tanya, isn’t it?”
I startle at my name. Robin is waiting for me.
“I was given an information docket with all your names,” she says by way of explanation. “Are you ready to come aboard?”
Something about that makes me uncomfortable, but I shake the thought away and take her hand. e four of us nally settled, Robin takes to the front, the roar of the engine being woken from its doze making Annabel and even Chloe jump.
As the boat pulls out into the ocean, picking up speed, the wind pushes us backwards, the breeze much more powerful out here. I’m glad
to be moving, inhaling the fresh air. My head feels heavier than Chloe’s suitcases and before we set o I was worried I was going to be the one throwing up over the side.
“I should warn you,” Robin calls over the sounds of the engine and the waves. “In about ve minutes you’re going to lose any Wi-Fi connection. ere’s signal on the island, but it can be patchy. I’m afraid Deadman’s Bay hasn’t reached the twenty- rst century in terms of easy internet access quite yet.”
Now it’s Esther’s turn to look horri ed. “No Wi-Fi? I can’t rely on mobile data getting me through the next four days.”
Chloe protests as well. “How am I meant to upload photos and videos of my holiday if there’s no internet?”
“It’s an adventure!” Robin says. “You’re here for the bride anyway.”
Chloe’s already urgently uploading to her Instagram, Esther typing away at her phone.
Here for Poppy. It’s what I tried saying to the others, but it’s strange now that it’s actually happening. All these years, and we’ll nally be face to face again.
For me, all I can think of is the girl we le behind ten years ago. It seems strange to think of her as an adult like the rest of us, living a life independent of our in uence.
Has she forgiven us? Forgiven me, in particular?
Sometimes I look at the others and I want to scream in their faces. Do they even care what we did in the past? Do they ever still think about it? Because there are days, especially since receiving the invitation, when I nd that’s all I can do.
ere’s no one else out on the water as we power towards the island, just the big empty expanse of ocean to surround us. I think of my tiny at, the mould in the bathroom because there’s no window and an extractor fan will never do a good enough job no matter what the landlord says.
I’m starting to wonder if Robin wouldn’t mind a job share.