Page 3 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests

“No, Gordon, there aren’t many Black people in Wales, but that makes us all the more special,” he chuckles.

And just like that, the tension is defused.

Matthew imagines that Melvin is a good police officer, equally capable of taming flying fists and providing comfort when needed.

It’s not the sort of life that would appeal to Matthew, though.

His more subtle skills are better suited among the traders.

In fact, when he thinks about it, he approaches his work life in much the same way as his personal life: He befriends new, inexperienced traders so that they confide in him when it all inevitably goes wrong.

He offers to help and then swoops their clients away before the poor kids know what’s happening.

The turnover is so high in his company that no one seems to notice Matthew’s predatory approach, except perhaps his boss, who simply gives him a look of admiration when he turns in impressive monthly figures.

“So who do you think the mystery host is?” Janet asks, directing her question straight at Matthew.

He decides to indulge her with his attention once again.

“Simon Cowell, Ryan Gosling, Prince Charles?” He grins, giving her a wink.

“Sounds more like that game, Snog, Marry, Kill,” guffaws Janet, not letting her gaze stray from Matthew’s. He notes with satisfaction that the other guests have fallen quiet as they listen in.

“Go on, then,” he dares, slowly passing the tip of his tongue across his upper lip.

Janet leans back in her chair, clearly loving the spotlight. Matthew’s eyes travel from her face to her neck. Her jugular vein is gently pulsating, sending lascivious blood from her brain to her heart.

“Marry Cowell: I’d never have to work again,” she squeals. “Kill Ryan: Nice guy, but not much fun. And snog Prince Charles: He might appear like Mr. Sensible with his gray suits and cuff links, but I bet he knows how to please a lady.”

“What would your husband say?” Melvin comments with a laugh, but Matthew hears an undercurrent of disapproval. He’s probably the type who doesn’t approve of women talking about sex, Matthew imagines.

“Who cares?” she snorts, turning back to Matthew. “Your go: Beyoncé, Hillary Clinton, and Nicole Kidman.”

He puts his finger to his lips as if considering her question carefully. He lets a few seconds pass, and the table falls silent waiting for his answer.

“Could I kill them all?” he asks, sending Janet into hysterics.

A door on the opposite side of the entrance swings open, and a clutch of bow-tied waiters file in, each holding a small gold tray bearing fresh jugs of red wine.

“Water for me, please,” Gordon pipes up, and Janet rolls her eyes at Matthew, who winks in response.

“Do you know if the host is on his way?” Melvin asks one of the waiters, receiving a small shrug in response before they all disappear back through the door—presumably leading to the kitchen.

“Looks like we’ll have to make our own entertainment,” Matthew says, glancing around the table. It’s time to sprinkle some of his magic around…

“What about you—Vivienne, was it?” He draws the old woman in, deliberately excluding Stella the YouTuber. “Does Prince Charles do it for you?”

“Oh God, no. Benedict Cumberbatch is more my type…” says Vivienne. She takes a sip of her wine, briefly closing her eyes as the rich taste hits her.

“Ew, he’s ancient,” Stella suddenly chimes in, her voice much more refined than Matthew had anticipated.

“Is Justin Bieber more your bag, then?” he asks, finally looking at her, dipping his chin and flashing a stern look.

“Hardly. I like Michael B. Jordan—great actor, and so stylish,” Stella says, and Matthew turns away as if she hadn’t spoken.

“I wonder if they’re bringing my water. It’s getting a little warm in here,” Dr. Gordon cuts in, dabbing at his forehead with a napkin.

“Who needs water when the wine tastes so good?” Matthew says, reaching for the carafe and turning back to Janet.

As he does so, his place setting catches his eye.

Underneath his name is a drawing of a sheep wearing a top hat and monocle, looking down at a ewe.

Shrugging, he pushes it to one side and proffers the carafe to Janet.

“Don’t mind if I do.” She beams, and Matthew carefully pours the dark-red liquid into her glass.

Red wine has always reminded him of blood. Now, in the brooding light of Serendipity’s, even more so.

Stella

Stella looks from gorgeous Matthew to past-her-prime Janet and back again.

WT-actual-F. Why is he bothering with her?

Sure, she’s got huge boobs, but she’s big all over and old enough to be his mother—probably.

Her eyes glide over Matthew’s sculpted cheekbones, his long eyelashes, and she realizes she’s seen him somewhere before.

Then it comes to her: He was featured in an article she recently read—“London’s most eligible hotties” or something equally lame.

But one bachelor, with impossibly dark eyes, stood out.

The writer had clearly been taken with Matthew, too, describing him as “devastatingly dishy” ( please!

). The article featured the net worth of each “hottie,” and Matthew’s was nowhere near her father’s, from what she can recall, but he was definitely going in the right direction.

She takes in his Savile Row suit, the gold signet glinting on his pinkie finger.

She’d sworn off dating for a while, but perhaps she can make an exception for this Matthew.

After all, her father was threatening to cut her off again, and she could really use a backup.

He had definite potential. And yet, he hadn’t looked her way since she’d walked in…

Sighing, Stella wonders if she made a mistake coming along today.

The invitation looked expensive; she anticipated some luxury freebies, a few glasses of champers, and perhaps some exclusive content for her channel.

When all she was getting was a dreary dinner party with gross red wine and a load of weirdos.

Not to mention a racist thrown in. She’s still fuming over what that doctor said to Melvin about being Black and Welsh.

With a mum from Ghana and a white dad, she’d heard it all before she was twelve.

Melvin should have torn a strip off that weedy man, but he just laughed. Infuriating!

She picks her mobile back up and logs on to her YouTube page.

Just before heading out tonight, she uploaded a new video all about where and when to wear cowboy boots and how to find the perfect pair without paying hundreds of pounds.

Already she had dozens of comments from her teen followers thanking her for her insight.

Her subscribers are escalating at a faster rate than her rival Highstreet Heroine’s, and she’s had two recent sponsorship offers, which is what actually matters to her, not finding affordable fashion for broke teenagers.

God knows what makes them think the high street can compare to designer, but they lap up any old nonsense she spouts, and who is she to tell them otherwise?

Looking down at her own Versace cowboy boots—a treat from her dad for her twenty-second birthday—she thanks her lucky stars she doesn’t have to bother with cheap knockoffs.

You could say she fell into fashion vlogging.

After being kicked out of school (as if she’d steal from those stuck-up bitches!), her dad lined up work experience for her at various places, but she’d hated every tea-making, photocopying second, and they weren’t even paying her.

Then one day, a few years ago, Stella started her YouTube page.

What had begun as a bit of a hobby quickly escalated to a phenomenon (to quote the Daily Mirror ) as her views and subscription numbers soared.

Within months, she was being invited to showbiz parties and blogger events, often asked to give presentations about her incredible success.

She received all kinds of freebies thanks to the offer of association with her YouTube page: clothes, accessories, beauty products, first-rate meals in Michelin-starred restaurants, bottles of champers, and so on.

Of course, Stella could easily have paid for it all, but that isn’t the point.

Her thumb moving quickly, Stella logs out of her StellaStylez account and into the other one.

She smiles to herself when she sees the comments she’s clocked up on there—the shouty capital letters, the exclamation marks.

She pictures the tears, the hurt, even the fear that her words have caused, and instantly, she’s exhilarated, as if she can feel the blood racing around her body. She feels so…alive.

“So you’re in fashion?” the old lady suddenly asks Stella, talking across Dr. Gordon.

“Yeah,” Stella murmurs, reluctantly putting her phone face down on the table. “I’ve got a YouTube channel with nearly half a million subscribers.”

Stella glances around the table and sees that the other guests are impressed, apart from geeky Tristan, who appears to be choking on his wine.

“Oh, excellent. Yes, I think my daughter, Louisa, watches those sorts of things. She’s fourteen,” Gordon cuts in.

Please don’t talk to me about your boring teenage daughter…

“And you’re a doctor?” Stella says, trying to sound like she gives a flying F. Boarding school had drilled the importance of small talk into her, along with other useful skills like using the correct cutlery and how to fox-trot.

“You might recognize me.” He clears his throat and touches his powder-blue tie. “I regularly appear on The Morning Show …”

“Oh, right. Well, I’m not much of an early riser.” Stella shrugs, reaching for her phone again. Why had no one told this man that skinny ties are only acceptable at fancy dress parties?

“Not to worry.” He shrinks back into his chair. “I’m a doctor of nutrition and appear quite regularly on television to discuss the latest fad diets, that sort of thing.”