Page 40 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests

That night, lying in bed, Vivienne pictured herself holding Cat’s baby, that first clutch from tiny hands, that first smile, that first word.

So much to look forward to. She crossed her fingers.

Please don’t let my number come before I meet the baby…

Vivienne made a silent promise with herself that, after the baby came, she would make an appointment to see her GP about her aches and pains, even mention the fugue states, and then, if it was nothing serious, of course tell Cat.

But until then, she saw no reason to put a blot on Cat’s happiness—or her own.

Her doctor would no doubt dismiss her symptoms as the usual aches that aging brings, she told herself.

Vivienne eventually drifted off to sleep, having still not shaken the creeping fear that her number was close.

Inevitably, Ziggy’s gain became Vivienne’s loss, and six months into the pregnancy, Cat gently broke it to her that she and Charlie were moving into his place in Blackheath (turns out, Ziggy had a very successful logistics business, and busking was just a hobby—with all proceeds going to charity).

Over the last few weeks, Cat has incrementally deleted herself from Vivienne’s cottage.

The colorful boxes of Charlie’s toys and Cat’s endless supply of shoes, cosmetics, and various animal-print accessories were paraded through Vivienne’s house and out the front door.

Today, Cat’s and Charlie’s last few things would fill these boxes and they’d be saying goodbye.

Not for good, of course. They’d already arranged to take Charlie to watch a film the following weekend and planned a trip to a health spa next month.

But still. Vivienne would never wake up to the feeling of Charlie climbing into her bed, snuggling into her back, and telling her about his dreams of wolves, dark forests, and Peppa Pig.

Or to the smell of coffee, emanating from her own mug plonked on her bedside table by a harried Cat, despite Vivienne insisting she didn’t need to.

She’d never again wake up at 2:00 a.m. on the sofa, head-to-head with Cat after they’d dozed off while drinking their “one for the road.” But she could never deny Cat the hard-won unexpected happiness that has knocked at her door.

And it’s not like Vivienne would be plunged back into her lonely life before they’d moved in.

She has family now, even if they live on the other side of London. And she has Tristan too.

Splashing milk into the mugs, a needle of sadness pierces Vivienne’s heart at the thought of her friend.

After he ran off following Gordon’s tribute lecture, he avoided her calls for a week.

Finally, she managed to coax him back to life, and he opened up about his struggles at work and about the previous string of bad luck he’d endured in his professional life—bosses who’d refused to pay him, a start-up company he’d put everything into that was sold out from under his feet.

Then she got him talking about his university days, and his eyes shone as he spoke about some software he’d worked on back then.

He called it Moralia , a clever-sounding program that helped employers create profiles of their staff members.

Vivienne encouraged him to go back to it, and that led to some interest from a company in Silicon Valley, which they cautiously celebrated over champagne cocktails in Covent Garden.

But over the last few months, he’s retreated once more.

Last week, he failed to show up at Vivienne’s birthday lunch, leaving Cat fuming and Vivienne concerned.

“You know, I’m worried about Tristan,” she says, carefully handing Cat her tea.

“He was so excited about the software. When the company declined in the end, he seemed to take it well, but he’s gone quiet on me again.

I haven’t seen him in weeks. He hasn’t answered my last three phone calls or my umpteen text messages and emails. ”

“He’s probably just licking his wounds,” Cat says with a shrug. “You know what he’s like when he gets in one of his moods.”

Vivienne slowly lowers herself back onto the settee and considers how Cat has never really warmed to Tristan.

To Cat, his quiet thoughtfulness translates as moody, and his occasional directness is “bloody rude.” She just doesn’t understand him, and Vivienne no longer tries to explain.

In her mind, they’ve become her bickering children.

“Well, I’m not giving up. Without Tristan’s advice, I wouldn’t have you, or Charlie, or my website. I can’t let his fortieth birthday pass by without a celebration,” Vivienne insists, sounding more confident than she feels.

“Tristan is lucky to have you—as we all are.” Cat smiles, and Vivienne unexpectedly feels the prickle of tears itching her eyeballs.

“So did you hear back from the caterer?” she asks. Oh, and Cat’s engaged. Six months after the baby comes, she and Ziggy are planning to tie the knot in Richmond Park.

Cat opens her mouth to answer when Vivienne’s mobile starts to ring.

“Who can that be?” she says, picking it up and seeing an unknown number flashing up. She answers.

“Vivienne?”

“Yes, speaking.” She doesn’t recognize the voice.

“I’m so sorry to ring you like this. It’s Mary, Melvin’s wife…ex-wife. I found your card, and Melvin always talks about you. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Mary, hello. So nice to hear from you. I’ve heard so much about you too.”

“Melvin is—” she starts, then Vivienne hears her stop and take a breath—“he’s in the hospital. They said he took some drugs, which I can hardly believe. He’s on a life support machine.”

Vivienne’s legs fail her, and she drops down onto the sofa. The familiar fingers of doom clutch her stomach once again. Melvin’s number has come for him, just as she’d known it would.

“Oh, Mary. I’m so sorry,” she finally splutters as Cat watches her, her teacup frozen halfway to her mouth.

Melvin? she mouths, and Vivienne nods.

“It was his sixty-first birthday yesterday, and I’d dropped a present off at his place,” Mary explains. “He was so excited, had all these plans to go out celebrating with Christian and that lot.” Vivienne hears her spit out the name as if it tastes rotten in her mouth.

“Which hospital are you at?” Vivienne asks.

“St. George’s,” Mary says. “But you don’t need to—”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” Vivienne says and then hangs up.

***

Twenty-eight minutes later, Vivienne marches through the revolving doors at St. George’s Hospital. She said a hurried goodbye to Cat and Charlie, hardly the heart-wrenching, protracted moment she’d been picturing, but she knew she had to get to the hospital.

“You’ve never even met her,” Cat spluttered, but Vivienne just shook her head, like a duck brushing off rain from its feathers. She hadn’t met Mary, but she knew her.

“I’ll see you this weekend. Send my love to Ziggy,” she shouted, heading quickly for the train station.

Cat had suggested calling a taxi, but, on a Saturday night, Vivienne knew the train and tube would be the quickest way.

And she knew she had to get there quickly.

Before heading down to the Underground, she typed a message out for Tristan:

Mary rang. Melvin’s at St. George’s Hospital. Heading there now.

When she came up the escalator at Tooting Broadway, she pulled her phone from her bag to see if he’d responded.

She watched her phone find the signal, then stay silent.

Vivienne wasn’t surprised. Ever since she’d told Tristan about Melvin’s affair with Christian—and then how Mary had found out about it—he’s been cold whenever she mentioned him, mumbling something about “lies teaching him the degradation of the world.”

Vivienne walks into the hospital foyer and stops in front of a large sign listing out the different departments.

Then she spots a petite woman with an elfin haircut and the tiniest wrists she’s ever seen.

Her dainty ankles disappear into pink ballet pumps.

Graceful is the word her mother would have used, or rather the French version: gracieuse.

Vivienne is amazed how French translations pop into her mind all these years after her mother’s death.

In fact, she finds she thinks of her mum more as she gets older. And out of nowhere, she misses her.

“Mary,” Vivienne says, and the woman turns to face her. Small herself, Vivienne is unused to looking down at another person, unless it’s Charlie. Against her six-foot-five-inch husband, Mary must have looked tiny. And yet there’s strength behind her eyes.

“You didn’t need to come, but thank you,” Mary says. “Since the separation, our mutual friends have fallen away, and I’m afraid my own friends and family have no time for Melvin now.”

“Shall we go and find a cup of tea?” Vivienne suggests.

Minutes later, the two women sit opposite each other in the hospital café, stirring sugar into their teas.

“What happened?” Vivienne asks.

“I only know bits. Christian isn’t saying much, unsurprisingly.

They’d been to a nightclub in Chelsea and then back to his flat.

He called an ambulance when he found Melvin lying on the floor.

God knows how long he’d been there. Christian admitted they took ecstasy pills but claims he doesn’t know where they came from. ”

“Must have been from a dodgy batch,” says Vivienne. “Did the doctor say it contained PMA?”

Mary gives her a strange look. “Yes, she said something like that,” she confirms.

“It’s sometimes sold as ecstasy but it’s much more dangerous. There have been a few PMA deaths in the news lately…”

Vivienne realizes she’s babbling.

“Will he be OK?” she asks, fearing she already knows the answer.

“I don’t think so. They say his body isn’t responding. If there’s no change in the next few days, I think they’ll suggest switching off his life support machine.”