Page 21 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests

The only negative has been the cessation of his television appearances.

It seems his momentary lapse knocked the producers’ confidence in him, and the calls have stopped coming.

He even phoned them up to offer his take on the “cotton ball diet” that some silly models had been swearing by lately.

They promised to ring back, but the following morning, Gordon was horrified to see the smug face of Dr. Beverley Booker explaining exactly why the cotton ball diet is ineffective and also dangerous.

Once his indignation passed, Gordon reached the conclusion that, actually, the TV appearances were most likely adding to the stress in his life and that he could use his time more wisely.

Last week, when Melvin emailed with the news about Matthew, Gordon was sitting on his bed in the spare room, his laptop balanced on his knees.

He knew Matthew’s office; he’d been in the area only recently himself to attend a seminar titled Multivitamins: The World’s Greatest Scam.

He’d walked past the tower block on that day, had remembered Matthew proudly telling him the name of his company at the dinner party.

Gordon’s mouth curled into a smile as he read the email, thinking back to Vivienne’s smug theory about Stella’s death.

She’d been so pleased with herself, but she was embarrassingly far off the mark.

Then Gordon stayed sitting on the bed for a good half hour afterward, working his way through the problem.

Until finally, he reached his conclusion.

He agreed to come along to Matthew’s memorial under the guise of paying tribute to him, but actually it would be an information-gathering exercise.

It was crucial he had all the facts at his disposal before he proceeded with his plans.

For Gordon has become convinced that the dinner party was put on by a secret scientific society.

He’d heard whispers of them since university.

You can only join their number by completing an intellectual challenge like no other.

Serendipity’s, the numbers, the envelopes are Gordon’s challenge.

And he’s going to rise to it. In fact, he’s going to do better than that.

He just needs to keep one eye on this group, track their numbers and their reactions to them, and gather all the information he can. Then he will make his move.

He’s about to ask Vivienne about her number when raised voices from the next table put a halt to the conversation. It’s the table belonging to Matthew’s harem, as Gordon has come to think of them.

“What did you just say?” the woman, Robyn, who said she was Matthew’s girlfriend, screeches.

“You don’t care about him. You’re just looking for sympathy—and another rich banker,” an auburn-haired woman responds, wiping a fat tear from her blotchy face.

“So what, you think he loved you?” Robyn hisses through clenched teeth.

“Yes,” the sobbing woman splutters, now dissolving in another torrent of tears.

“He told me he loved me too,” a curly-haired woman says sadly, patting Robyn on the back.

“Come on, Natalia, you met him on Tinder. Didn’t you suspect he was dating other girls?” asks Robyn, indignation dripping from her every word.

“Oh, shut up. You’ve got no idea what Matthew and I had. We did things together I’ve never done with anyone else,” Natalia snaps before turning pink and rushing toward the ladies’ room.

“Don’t worry, love. We all know about his taste for the perverse,” Robyn calls to her back.

Gordon and the others turn their attention back to their own table as Matthew’s boss scuttles over to “comfort” dry-eyed Robyn.

“I do feel that the animal drawings could be a clue,” Vivienne says, looking over the scribblings in her notebook. “I’m pretty sure the image on the wall had been papered on, and they were on each of our place settings…”

Gordon sighs heavily. He really must get this conversation back on course.

“So…I wonder who’s next?” he asks, looking around the table.

“What do you mean, who’s next?” Tristan snaps, turning surprisingly menacing blue eyes on him.

“Well, we know that my number is fifty-three, so that’s at least a year away—two at the most. Janet’s is up to four months.”

At the back of his mind, Gordon can hear Elizabeth’s admonishing tone, but he can no longer concern himself with social faux pas; it’s time to approach this as a scientist, with all the facts in place.

“Gordon,” Melvin groans, glancing at Janet. “I’m sure that Janet…”

“Oh, darling, you don’t need to protect me. Clearly, I’m next, and I’ve decided I’m going to make the most of the time I have,” Janet slurs, then stands up, grabs her half-full bottle of champagne, and marches over to a table of young bankers. Ridiculous woman.

“So what about the rest of you?” He looks from Tristan to Vivienne.

“I opened mine,” Tristan pipes up. “My number is forty-five, if you must know. I’m thirty-eight now.” He doesn’t even look up at Gordon.

“Forty-five? Oh, you’ve got plenty of time…” Gordon says.

“You didn’t tell me that,” cries Vivienne. “I thought you’d lost it too.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he tells her. “It’s years away—nearly twice what Stella had—and I’m not taking it seriously anyway.”

“Forty-five is no age to die!” Vivienne grabs Tristan’s hand.

“Did you find yours, Vivienne?” Gordon cuts in.

“Unfortunately not,” she tells him but doesn’t look away from Tristan. “I searched the house again, but I think I need to accept it’s gone.”

Gordon takes a deep breath and attempts to swallow his irritation.

“Maybe it’s better you don’t know. I haven’t got mine either,” says Melvin. “Must have left it at the restaurant.”

Gordon watches him, and his hand moves to the envelope with Melvin’s name on the front in his jacket pocket. Should he reveal it?

“Personally, I like to have all the facts at my disposal,” he says, checking Melvin’s reaction, but the man is as nonchalant as if he’s watching some sort of reality television show, mildly entertained but ultimately unbothered.

Then Melvin reaches into his pocket for his phone, grins at it inanely, and starts tapping away.

Decision made. Gordon will keep the secret for now.

“Well, I think I’ll be off. I’ve got a busy weekend planned,” he says, shaking Tristan’s and Vivienne’s hands and waving over at Melvin, who is still absorbed in his phone.

Gordon steps down from his stool and walks toward the doors. He has work to do.

Janet

Janet has learned her lesson with the barstools and doesn’t even attempt to mount one again. Instead, she stands by the table, a smidgen too close to the tallest banker there, and places her bottle down in front of him.

“Do you mind if I hide out here for a minute?” she asks, tilting her head to one side when the man turns to face her. “I’m rather bored of my companions this afternoon.”

“Of course we don’t mind,” the man says, adjusting his spectacles as if to get a clearer look at her. “I’m Jonathan.”

He introduces the other three men at the table.

One is small, one is hairy, and one is Matthew’s boss.

She doesn’t take in their names. What’s the point?

Jonathan is the chosen one. She rarely stoops below six feet, and he’s a good six foot two by her estimation.

Glasses and pock-marked skin, but still…

“So I gather you worked with the gorgeous Matthew?” she asks the men, who happily lift their glasses for a top-up of champagne.

“We did,” Small tells her. “He was gorgeous, all right, and knew it. Pretty ruthless when it came to the stock market too.”

“Is that so?” she purrs. “Tell me more. The stock market has always fascinated me.” She’s trying her best to flirt, but even to her own ears, that sounded disingenuous.

“Let’s not talk shop,” Jonathan butts in mercifully. “So how did you know our Matthew? I don’t suppose you were one of his conquests?”

Janet opens her mouth to respond, but the other men burst out laughing. She grits her teeth and tries her best to chuckle along.

“You don’t look like his type, to be honest,” Hairy comments rudely as he gazes over at the table of girlfriends.

“Mate, don’t even bother. They’re well out of your league,” Jonathan says.

“They’re upset; I’m sure I can offer a shoulder to cry on.” Hairy laughs, taking Janet’s bottle and walking over to the table.

“This should be fun to watch,” Matthew’s boss says with a snigger.

Janet doesn’t have time for this. She decides to crank things up a notch with Jonathan.

“So are all you bankers as naughty as Matthew?” she whispers to Jonathan, placing a hand on his.

“You must be joking,” Small cuts in. “All Johnny talks about is his wife and kids. He’s the best behaved of us all.”

Janet tries to let her sigh out slowly. Trust her to pick the wrong one. And she’s lost her drink… Looking over, she sees the banker pouring Robyn a drink of her bubbly and nodding sympathetically at whatever drivel she’s talking.

“Here they are,” Jonathan says, showing her a picture on his phone of three red-haired children.

“Oh, lovely,” she says. “You must be very proud.”

“I am,” he replies, beaming at the picture, apparently not noticing her robotic response.

“Shall we order more champagne?” she suggests, but Jonathan is now flicking through a photo album with more shots of his Weasley-esque kids.

“Do you have children?” he asks. Ah, the question Janet has been batting away for more than twenty years… Which response should she pump out for today: flippant, jokey, earnest, honest, or just flirt and divert?

“No, I don’t,” she says, short and sweet.

“Best thing I ever did,” he tells her. “There’s still time for you. You hear of women having babies in their fifties these days.”

Janet tries to blink away the insult.

“My wife’s talking about a fourth,” Matthew’s boss says, and the two men start debating the merits of an even number of children.