Page 22 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests

Janet has up to four months… Gordon’s words swim through her mind.

Definitely not long enough to make a baby.

Even if she could. As soon as she’d married Bill, she’d been plagued with well-meaning friends and family quizzing her about pregnancy, raising eyebrows if she asked for a glass of water at a wine bar.

At first, she laughed it off; she was still in her twenties and focused on her job.

Bill had grown-up kids from his first marriage, so he wasn’t pushing it.

When she turned thirty-five, it wasn’t exactly an overwhelming urge, but she felt it was “now or never.” She was pregnant by thirty-six and didn’t dwell too much on her growing bump—until she felt her baby girl kick at twenty weeks.

But just days later, the unthinkable happened: She went into early labor, her uterus ruptured, and everything went black.

When she woke up, Bill was leaning across her sore body, sobbing into her neck: “Thank God you’re alive, Janey!

” It took a midwife to tell her that things had gotten so bad that Bill had been forced to choose between her and the baby.

“He chose wrong,” she told the woman, who shook her head sadly and then delivered the killer blow that, to stop the bleeding, the surgeon had been forced to perform an emergency hysterectomy.

There would be no more children for Janet.

She spent the next three days between wakefulness and sleep, trying to find a place where her baby had survived.

Once, as she slowly started to wake up, she heard Bill talking to a doctor.

“It’s for the best,” he said. “The baby was all her idea, and life is much simpler with just the two of us.”

Janet burned with fury at those words. She’d been filled with hatred ever since, and not just toward Bill but toward the world and everyone who lived in it. If anything, that feeling had grown, not faded, with time.

“It was lovely to meet you, Janet, but it’s time I head home,” Jonathan says, putting his hand out to shake hers.

“And I might see if my colleague needs any help over there,” Small says, eyes back on the beauties at the next table.

“I suppose I should go back to my friends,” Janet responds but the men have already turned away, leaving her alone at the table.

Glancing across at the others, she sees Melvin, Vivienne, and Tristan with their heads close together, serious expressions on their faces.

She considers marching past them and heading home.

Or at least straight to Giles’s place. Their affair has really gained momentum lately.

They see each other three or four nights a week.

“Insatiable” is what he calls her, and that’s how she feels right now.

Funnily enough, Bill used the same word the other day when he was going through the credit card bills: “Your love of shopping is insatiable,” he said, and he hasn’t even seen the rows and rows of clothes and boxes of shoes in their spare room, unworn, still with tags on.

Sex, food, wine, clothes—she can’t get enough, and with her number constantly on her mind, Janet is no longer holding back.

Her time is almost up, after all. Surely there’s no better way to go.

As she marches back to the table, Janet notices that conversation abruptly stops, and the three of them look up at her guiltily.

“Allow me,” Melvin offers and steps off his chair to help her back onto her stool.

She clutches the table to get her balance and then sees that her missing leather glove is lying in front of her.

“Where did that come from?” she asks, picking it up, turning it over, reassured by the soft leather and expensive label that it is indeed hers.

They each exchange awkward glances, and finally Vivienne clears her throat.

“I found it at Matthew’s work,” she says.

A silence falls across the table as Vivienne’s words sink in. It’s broken by a roar of laughter from the weeping widows and beaming bankers.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” Janet says with a shrug. “I had a meeting in Canary Wharf. I didn’t realize he worked there, but I happened to see him standing outside his office.”

It is only a small lie. She hadn’t exactly had a meeting in the area. That’s what she told her colleagues, too, but she’d been thinking about him and googled the company address, went over on her lunch hour hoping she’d see him. It felt like they’d had unfinished business.

“He was arguing with a man wearing a sports cap. He looked upset, was shaking his head over and over again. Then I saw them go inside,” she tells them. “I must have dropped my glove outside his office.”

“When was this?” Vivienne quizzes, in full journalist mode now, scribbling in her notebook.

“Last Thursday, the day he died,” she says, her voice breaking, betraying her.

“Janet, I found it on the roof,” Vivienne says. “The roof that Matthew allegedly jumped from.”

“Well, that’s impossible,” Janet responds, working hard to maintain nonchalance in her tone. “I told you—I stayed outside. He never even saw me.”

The three of them look at her, waiting.

But she’s determined not to crack. She pulls her lipstick from her handbag and paints on a fresh layer. It always makes her feel better, stronger.

“Is there something you want to say?” she asks, aiming her question at Vivienne.

“You do have a motive,” Vivienne says. “You made it clear that you wanted Matthew that night, and Stella got him in the end. I saw the way you looked at her. If looks could kill… Well, she was dead two weeks later.”

“Vivienne, that’s enough!” Melvin booms.

“As if I could be a murderer,” laughs Janet.

“Then, with Stella out of the way, you went to Matthew’s office to have another go at seducing him. He turned you down, you got angry, and you pushed him,” Vivienne goes on.

“This is ridiculous,” Janet says, still chuckling. “So how would you explain the numbers? Did I plan the whole thing in order to seduce Matthew? I’d never met him before. Wish I never had now.”

“You probably saw him in that ‘hot bachelors’ article, set your sights on him,” Vivienne says. “Perhaps this was your PR stunt all along. Your company is no stranger to tacky stunts. It would explain why you were the first to notice your envelope and open it.”

Melvin groans and covers his eyes while Tristan just looks on, his hand covering his mouth in shock.

“I’m not sticking around to listen to this…this fiction ,” Janet says, stepping off her stool and facing up to Vivienne. “You think you’re so clever with your pathetic little notebook, but actually, who’s to say you’re not the killer? It’s very convenient that you’ve lost your own envelope!”

“Are you serious?” Vivienne gasps.

“Just as serious as you,” Janet snaps. “I’d think twice before throwing accusations around. Because your number’s coming too.”

She picks up her hat and offending glove from the table, pushes them into her bag and stalks away. The cheek of that woman! She passes a waiter holding a tray of drinks, takes two glasses, downs them both, and then heads toward the door.

Janet had left the Serendipity’s email group after Stella’s funeral, so she hadn’t seen Melvin’s message about Matthew. She found out about his death when she was in a taxi heading back from Giles’s place. She googled his name, and a series of newspaper articles popped up:

“Respected Banker Dies in Suicide Tragedy”

That’s when Janet knew his number had been twenty-nine. And that she had to be next. That’s when she resolved to make the most of the time she had left.

“Janet, let me walk you out,” Melvin says, his heavy arm suddenly around her shoulder.

“It’s OK. I’m just going to get a taxi,” she tells him.

They step outside and Melvin stops, his hands in his pockets, clearly with something to say.

“What you said in there… Don’t give up. We don’t know for sure…” he mumbles, looking down at his too-trendy brogues.

“Honestly, Melvin, I haven’t given up. I’m going to enjoy every second of the time I have. Actually, I think it’s an approach more people should adopt. Especially you, given what you told me after the dinner party…” Janet says, raising a knowing eyebrow.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Janet,” he snaps, looking right at her.

Janet hails a passing taxi, which slows down in front of them. She pulls the door open and suddenly feels pain in her elbow.

“Ouch,” she gasps.

Melvin is gripping her arm as he guides her into the car. Just as he’s about to close the door, she grabs hold of his hand.

“So we’re still in the closet, then?” she chuckles.

Melvin looks down at her hand, quickly spins his arm around, and squeezes her wrist, hard. He pulls her toward him. The fragile bones beneath her skin ache under his mighty grip.

“That’s none of your business,” he spits into her ear. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

Then he releases her. She sits back in the seat and looks down at the red mark on her arm.

She swallows and turns back to him. She’s not afraid now. Of anything.

“Oh, I won’t say a thing, darling. I’ve embarked on enough affairs to spot one a mile off. Enjoy it. It won’t end well…” she tells him with a smile. She pulls the door closed and waves him off, bejeweled fingers wriggling.

“See you in hell,” she says with a smile.

Melvin