Page 17 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about him,” Cat says. “I didn’t expect to get the job; then I swore I’d mention it on my first day, but the opportunity never seemed to come up because—”
“Because I was such an evil cow,” Vivienne finishes.
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Cat gasps, her hand rushing to her mouth.
“Well, it’s true.” Vivienne sighs. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I’ve treated you terribly these past two years.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” says Cat. “You’ve taught me so much. I just hope I can find another job soon.”
A look of such concern crosses Cat’s face that Vivienne finds herself reaching across and touching her hand.
“Do you have any help with Charlie?” A question that feels two years too late in the asking.
Then tears roll down Cat’s cheeks and something strange happens: Vivienne doesn’t feel the usual combination of frustration and anger. She just feels sad. She pulls a tissue from her bag and hands it to Cat.
“My mum passed away just before Charlie was born. His dad lives in Australia. I’ve got a friend with a little girl who takes him when I’m at work, but she’s moving away, too, and I’m already behind on my rent…”
“Deep breaths,” Vivienne coaches.
“I’m so sorry. I know you hate tears at work,” splutters Cat.
“We’re not at work, though, are we? And this really is something worth crying over. Never mind a tired old magazine closing down.”
Cat looks up at Vivienne and smiles.
***
“Two years she’s worked for me and never once mentioned that she’s a mother,” Vivienne says as she marches along the pavement.
“Hmm, that’s strange,” Tristan mumbles, trotting along beside her.
“Is there something else you’d like to add?” Vivienne asks, suddenly stopping and turning to face him.
“Well…I must admit…when we first met, you didn’t strike me as the warmest of people—although I know differently now,” Tristan says, looking down at his feet. “I can understand Cat perhaps not feeling that she could confide in you.”
Following Stella’s funeral, Vivienne asked Tristan about his area of expertise and whether he knew much about creating blogs.
He admitted he did, and she persuaded him to meet her the following Sunday at a lovely little café near Waterloo.
Admittedly, she was hoping to pick his brains without paying for IT-consultation fees, but she got more than she’d bargained for.
When he shuffled into Café Bleu wearing a stained T-shirt and pushing back unwashed hair from his face, the group of elegantly dressed ladies at the next table openly stared, and Vivienne wondered if she’d done the right thing.
But once they ordered their drinks and he started talking, her doubts began to fade.
His instructions were intelligent and clear; he answered her questions patiently, without a hint of condescension.
Two hours flashed by, and when Vivienne commented that she had to get home for Downton Abbey , they chatted for another half hour about which season had been the best (the second one, they agreed, although Vivienne has a soft spot for series six when Edith finally gets her happy ending).
They ended up meeting every Sunday for the last three months.
Tristan even visited Vivienne’s cottage to give her computer a “spring clean” after she’d complained of its snaillike loading times.
Thanks to Tristan’s tutorage, Vivienne’s new blog is taking shape.
Vivienne opens her mouth to object but then closes it again, shakes her head, and continues marching along.
“Where are we going?” Tristan asks, but she’s still thinking of Cat.
“I found an old article she’d written. I’d torn it apart, thinking I was being helpful, but perhaps she didn’t see it that way,” she admits.
“Well, there’s time to make it up to her.”
Vivienne crosses the road in front of one of the towering buildings and then turns left, skirting around its shiny side. She stops in front of a metal door, glancing all around her, then reaches for the handle.
“Vivienne!” Tristan cries. “I don’t think you’re supposed to go in there.”
“Shhh… And I think you mean we’re not supposed to go in here. Come on.”
Tristan looks shocked but follows her anyway. Just as she thought, the door opens onto the emergency staircase at the side of the building. She looks up and sees at least twenty staircases above. Good thing she’s wearing her flats today.
“Are we going all the way up?” Tristan whispers.
She doesn’t answer, just leads the way, up and up. At the fifteenth floor, her legs are aching and a stitch cuts into her side.
“Just need a minute,” she says to Tristan, leaning against the railing. His cheeks are red, and trickles of sweat roll down his temples.
“This is Matthew’s office building, isn’t it?” he splutters between heavy breaths.
“I just had to see it for myself,” she says, nodding.
“Might be easier if I wasn’t wearing this today,” he mutters, tugging at the collar on his new white shirt.
“I noticed you’ve made an effort,” she says. He’s also wearing navy trousers and brown shoes in place of his customary jeans and trainers.
“Well, I couldn’t miss your not-so-subtle hints,” Tristan tells her, rolling his eyes.
“Matthew would approve, I think. He did always wear the sharpest of suits,” she says, suddenly feeling tears threaten.
***
Vivienne was daydreaming at her desk last week when the email came through.
She’d just taken two paracetamol for a throbbing headache, the remnant of a fugue state from the previous day.
It hadn’t lasted so long this time; she’d popped out of work on her lunch hour to take a parcel to the post office, had come around at just after 6:00 p.m., sitting on her train home.
She’d had to ring the editor to tell him she’d taken ill.
Her weak and shaky voice had sounded convincing, at least. Vivienne tried to find reassurance in the fact that this fugue state hadn’t felt so violent, hadn’t lasted so long.
She hoped it meant they’d ease off now. But the message from Melvin only made her head pound more.
From: Melvin Williams
To: Serendipity’s group
Subject: More bad news
Hello everyone,
I am so sorry to be the bearer of bad news once again.
But I feel obliged to let you know that this news story is about Matthew.
Please do not read too much into this. The stress of his job clearly became too much.
His company is hosting a memorial this weekend.
Details to follow. Hope to see you all there.
Yours sincerely,
Melvin
The news story reported that a twenty-nine-year-old banker had committed suicide by jumping off the thirty-second floor of a Canary Wharf building. It included a list of three other young male bankers who had died the same way in the previous six months.
In a daze, Vivienne read over Melvin’s words and then the news story. But no matter how many times she went over them, the outcome didn’t change. Matthew was dead. Handsome, charismatic, young Matthew. Gone.
After half an hour Gordon responded:
From: Dr. Gordon MacMillan
To: Serendipity’s group
Subject: Re: More bad news
Dear Melvin,
Well, this news totally discredits Vivienne’s theory that Stella was killed as revenge for her trolling. While we cannot confirm it, we can only presume that Matthew’s number was 29 and thus his is the second prediction to come true. What theory do you have now, Vivienne?
I will see you all at Matthew’s memorial.
Regards,
Dr. Gordon
Vivienne’s back teeth crunched together at Gordon’s flippancy over Matthew’s death, but she refused to be drawn into an online debate and merely responded that she would see the four other guests (Janet had left the email group following Stella’s funeral) at the memorial.
Over the next hour, she printed off all the news reports about both Stella’s and Matthew’s deaths, as well as a naff article called “London’s Hottest Bachelors” Matthew had recently appeared in and some profile pieces about Stella, then pushed them into a plastic folder.
That night, once she got home, she shifted her coffee table and armchairs against the wall of her little lounge and laid out all the articles across the floor.
Vivienne then carefully worked her way through each one, armed with her highlighter pen.
Afterward, she sat back on her heels and surveyed her work.
An accident and a suicide—Melvin had insisted, but something hadn’t felt right to Vivienne.
If Matthew had been feeling that way, would he really do that in front of his colleagues, in the middle of a workday?
The articles reported a “suspected suicide,” but surely his building, right in the middle of Canary Wharf, was covered in security cameras, even on the roof.
Why was there any doubt about what had happened that afternoon?
That’s when she decided to take a look for herself.
Once she updated her notebook with these latest suspicions, Vivienne searched her bedroom again for her envelope.
After pulling out all her drawers, checking behind them, and clearing out the bottom of her wardrobe, she flopped back onto the bed, exhausted and defeated.
Spotting her handbag on the back of her dressing table chair, she was gripped with an idea.
Using nail clippers, she carefully picked apart the lining of her bag.
Finally, there was space enough to wiggle her finger into it and then feel around for anything that could have somehow fallen into that space.
But there was nothing. She threw her bag down in disgust. Why hadn’t she opened her envelope when she’d had the chance?
All she could do now, she decided, was pour her anger into the investigation.
***
Vivienne sighs and then sets off again up the stairs.
“Which floor are we stopping at?” Tristan asks, trudging behind her.
“The top—thirty-two,” she calls over her shoulder and chuckles at Tristan’s groaned response.