Page 25 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests

Tristan let out a long, long sigh, his shoulders sagging and his head drooping toward the table, deflating like a bouncy castle after a raucous birthday party.

When he looked up, his face was the color of wax and the scar on his cheek an angry red, like a poker burn.

Then he talked. The words spilled from him, gushing across their little circular table and filling the floor of the stuffy café.

He admitted that, yes, he’d suffered from panic attacks since he was at school.

Terrifying, overwhelming moments of anxiety that his mother had dismissed as “Tristan’s funny little turns,” so he’d stopped telling her about them, but they’d increased in intensity and frequency as he got older.

Two traumatic events he endured in the last year had escalated his anxiety: breaking up with his girlfriend Ellie last summer, closely followed by a horrendous attack by a gang on a night bus, leaving him badly injured and not helped by the police officer who’d witnessed it doing nothing to catch the thugs.

The thought of Matthew standing on top of that building had set it off this time.

“Every time I have an attack, it makes me scared to even leave the house again. I’m sorry if I’ve let you down,” he said.

Vivienne was silent for a while, taking in his words, making her own calculations.

“You haven’t let me down at all. Listen, Tristan, you’re not alone,” she told him finally, taking one of his hands. “You need to let other people in, and they can help you.”

He nodded, and she put a plan in place. Tristan promised to keep up with their Sunday meetups no matter what.

On Monday, he would go and see his doctor and tell her about the panic attacks, afterward ringing Vivienne to report back.

The doctor suggested antianxiety medication, which Tristan refused, and a counselor, which he reluctantly agreed to.

Over the last few months, Tristan opened up about his regrets over his relationship with Ellie, how he ignored messages from his old university mates, so Vivienne encouraged him to try to reconnect (as the young people say) with them, even invited Tristan over for rowdy dinners with Cat and Charlie.

He still had his quiet moments, but on the whole, he seemed happier.

Vivienne was tempted to discuss the numbers with him, but she kept quiet on that front, sensing it could spark another panic attack.

Despite everything he was going through, Tristan continued to help Vivienne with her blog, which became a surprising success and spawned a website.

It was a mixture of her own ponderings, news stories that interested her, and real-life features about incredible women who happened to be over forty, as well as books and films that took Vivienne’s fancy.

Her following soared, with regular emails from “women of a certain age” who felt they’d found an outlet that really spoke to them.

To her surprise, Vivienne was even approached by advertisers and started bringing in some money.

For the first time in years, she was infused with purpose, and her phone and inbox were constantly demanding her attention.

She even ordered fancy business cards to give out at networking events, proudly declaring her the founder of the website.

Every Sunday, she thanks Tristan for what he brought her.

She also makes sure to hug him goodbye, knowing that human contact is something he needs now more than ever.

***

Later, while Cat is putting Charlie to bed, Vivienne pours two glasses of wine—red for herself and rosé for Cat. She’s still recovering from her latest fugue experience and could do with an early night, but she senses Cat wants to talk about her new job.

“Join me?” she asks when she comes back down.

“Thank you, I will,” Cat says, taking the wine and perching on the edge of the sofa.

“So was she in a better mood today?” Vivienne asks, settling into the battered leather armchair opposite.

When Cat and Charlie had first moved in, Cat would put Charlie to bed and then scuttle away to hide in her loft room, terrified of invading Vivienne’s space.

So lately, Vivienne has been encouraging her to chat.

She’s found she wants to know more about Cat and hear about her new job at a magazine website, aimed at “the thinking thirtysomething child-free woman” (Vivienne couldn’t help an eye roll when she first heard that particular description).

It turns out the editor is an old foe of Vivienne’s.

Sally Jenson-Bell was lazy, arrogant, and prone to playing favorites.

And let’s just say Cat isn’t one of the chosen ones.

“A bit,” Cat sighs, looking sorrowfully into her drink.

“Did I tell you about the time the publisher sent a crate of champagne to the office to congratulate the team on great sales figures?”

Cat shakes her head.

“Well, do you know what Sally did? She asked one of the writers to carry the box down to a taxi so she could take it all home for herself.”

Vivienne chooses not to tell Cat about the revenge she took out on Sally. It got a bit out of hand, and the memory fills her with shame.

Then the doorbell rings. Vivienne glances at her watch: It’s just after 9:00 p.m., late for anyone to call.

“I’ll just go and check on Charlie,” Cat says, scooping up a Spider-Man costume and a handful of LEGO bricks as she goes.

Vivienne opens the front door and is pleased to see Tristan standing there—until she notices the expression on his face.

“Have you heard?” he asks, walking inside holding his mobile phone in front of him with both hands.

“‘Tributes paid as underwear chief dies suddenly,’” Vivienne reads aloud, then drops down onto the sofa as the words sink in.

“So it looks like Janet is no longer a suspect,” Tristan says.

“Oh God,” Vivienne cries, covering her face with her hands. “What happened?”

“She was knocked over by a taxi in Notting Hill,” says Tristan. “Just three days before her forty-fifth birthday.”

Vivienne gazes up at Tristan and then tries to focus on breathing. But all she can see is Janet’s envelope:

You will die aged forty-four.

***

Later still, Vivienne is lying in bed but is unable to sleep.

She can’t help remembering her words to Janet at Matthew’s memorial: He turned you down, you got angry, and you pushed him…

Janet had laughed it off, hadn’t seemed to take anything seriously that afternoon, but Vivienne’s words must have hurt.

And now Janet is dead and Vivienne is no closer to finding the killer.

Because now, no matter what Melvin says, she’s sure their party host is a murderer and won’t stop until they are all dead.

Then she has a thought: that strange black-and-white picture on the wall at Serendipity’s, their matching table settings…

She grabs her notebook from her bedside table, pulls her laptop onto her knee, and searches cat smoking a pipe .

Hundreds of cartoon drawings pop up, some trendy posters and apron designs, and she gasps when she finds the very image from the wall of the dinner party.

The devilish face peers at her once more, the seven anthropomorphic images around him.

Underneath, there’s a brief description.

“The seven deadly sins,” Vivienne reads.

She looks at the pig image, remembers Janet saying, Mine was a pig, charming! Next to the picture is the word gluttony . Thinking of Janet stuffing her face with that greasy burger, downing the champagne, Vivienne realizes Janet was gluttonous.

The leering sheep was on Matthew’s place setting, depicting lust. Well, that makes sense too.

Working her way around the image, she notes that the pipe-smoking cat on Melvin’s place setting is for sloth.

Gordon’s was the peacock, for pride. Tristan’s was wrath, and Vivienne’s was envy.

Which means Stella’s must have been greed.

So if each of them represent a “sin,” who is the “devil” in the middle orchestrating it all?

It dawns on Vivienne that perhaps she’s been looking in the wrong direction.

Rather than pointing her finger inward to the table of guests, she should turn her accusations outward.

Who is the devil? she scribbles in her notebook.

***

A week later, Tristan and Vivienne walk into the Royal Oak pub in High Holborn. Vivienne cringes as her heels stick to the carpet.

“Well, this isn’t what I expected for Janet’s wake,” she says, glancing at the 2-4-1 DRINKS ON SEXY SATURDAYS posters on the wall.

The pub is dark and has the vague odor of stale beer mixed with old socks.

Two tables are taken up with people of various ages, including an elderly lady in a wheelchair and a frazzled-looking mum rocking a baby.

Presumably Janet’s family. Then a couple more tables dotted around are taken up with mostly middle-aged, mostly red-faced and rotund men in suits. Janet’s colleagues, Vivienne guesses.

“Me neither. I don’t think Janet would be impressed,” Tristan says.

They walk to the bar, where an older chap leans heavily on his elbows. The end of his tie dangles into a puddle of spilled drink, which he seems oblivious to.

“You here for Janet’s memorial?” he splutters, his cheap-whiskey breath creeping into Vivienne’s nostrils.

“Yes, we’re so sorry—” Vivienne starts, but the man interrupts her.

“Worked with her for years. Bit of a ballbreaker, but all right, really,” he slurs, stuffing a piece of paper into her hand and swaying off in the direction of the mens’ room. They both peer at the paper. A folded piece of A4 with a blurry picture of Janet on the front.

RIP Janet Tilsbury 1971–2016

She skims over the brief bio and well-worn poems without enthusiasm.

“ Stop all the clocks ? What a cliché!” she says, sighing and tossing the paper back onto the bar. “Is this really what forty-four years of life adds up to?”