Page 42 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests

“Oh, yes?” Vivienne prompts. Like being a parent or living with a deadly disease, Vivienne always thinks that marriage is something that remains a mystery to you until you do it.

She has friends who have married the unlikeliest of men, becoming couples who grow to seemingly hate each other through the course of their marriage, and yet they stay together.

Vivienne once made the mistake of blurting out to her friend Celia—who was mid-rant about her vile husband, Harry—“Maybe it’s time to speak to a divorce lawyer?

” and Celia had been so horrified, so offended, Vivienne spent the rest of their lunch apologizing and then ordered a bouquet from Interflora the next day.

Even now, years later, she’s not sure Celia has fully forgiven her.

Perhaps it was a generational thing. Cat always seems to be talking about friends of hers who are getting divorced just a few short years after she danced at their weddings.

“They would say, ‘Melvin is so devoted to you.’ He always held my hand, never forgot a birthday or anniversary; he kept the garden immaculate, he was a fantastic cook, he wasn’t a slob or a drunk like some of their husbands.”

“He loved you, Mary.”

“Yes, I suppose he did, in his own way,” she says, nodding, then whispers, “I’ve been thinking about what you said about sins, Melvin’s being sloth.

I suppose there have been times when he’s looked the other way for an easy life.

I remember one occasion when he came back from a night out and told me he’d stopped a gang attacking someone in the street.

He’d taken the poor chap to the hospital to be patched up and promised to write up a report at the station.

A week or so later I asked him about it, and he just shrugged, said he’d forgotten and that the lads probably would never have been charged anyway. ”

Vivienne takes in Mary’s words and gazes out the window at the busy Londoners marching down Bishopsgate.

She thinks back to her last conversation with Melvin.

How he told her that he and Christian had moved in together after their secret had been spectacularly exposed, and Vivienne congratulated him on his “happy ever after,” been impressed that he was no longer living a lie.

But now she sees that he’d just followed the tide once again.

This time, into Christian’s arms. Yet he would have drifted in any direction, depending on the strongest current.

As she watches, she sees Tristan crossing the road and walking slowly toward the club. His head is down, his brow furrowed, his right hand gripping the leather satchel he wears across his body, as if he’s protecting his heart. Vivienne shivers. She hates to see her friend looking so sad.

“Here’s Tristan,” Vivienne says as he pushes open the door and walks toward their small table. He gives Vivienne a quick kiss on the cheek and then crouches down low next to Mary, taking her hand and speaking in a whisper, his words out of Vivienne’s earshot.

As Tristan moves to sit on the stool beside Mary, she is beaming, nodding, tears rolling down her face.

This is what Cat doesn’t see, Vivienne thinks—Tristan in moments like these, when he knows just what to say, just what that person needs to hear.

He insists on ordering them more drinks and heads to the bar just as another police officer walks toward their table.

“Mary, I’m so pleased you came,” the familiar man says.

He’s tall and slim with angular cheekbones jutting against flawless skin, reminding Vivienne of a long-distance runner.

Not an ounce of fat on him. He’s objectively handsome, but Vivienne herself prefers a chunkier chap, hates the idea of feeling large when compared to your other half.

“Oh, hello, Christian,” Mary snaps, then Vivienne remembers where she’d seen him before—in the holiday pictures Melvin had proudly shown her eighteen months ago.

The temperature at the table suddenly drops by about ten degrees. Mary picks up her empty wineglass and pretends to take a small sip.

“I know we can never be friends after everything that has happened. But I want you to know that I am heartbroken too. Like I told my colleagues, I have no idea where that pill came from, but I take full responsibility for Melvin’s…passing.”

Christian delivers the words looking down at the table, takes a breath, and finally looks up at Mary.

His eyes are haunted; it’s the only word Vivienne can think of to describe them.

He is telling the truth, his heart is broken, and even worse, he believes it’s his own fault. Vivienne’s stomach spins.

“Thank you, Christian. I’m sure Melvin would have been touched to hear that,” Mary spits back at him.

Her voice is low, and Vivienne is sure each word is like a bullet in Christian’s side.

Visibly wounded, the man scuttles away from them, nearly knocking into Tristan, who is carrying their drinks over.

“Mary…” Vivienne says, reaching for her hand. Tristan sits down quickly and raises his eyebrows at Vivienne.

“The cheek of the man,” Mary mutters through clenched teeth. “He pretended to be my friend while all the time he was sleeping with my husband. And then he does this. I can’t—I won’t—ever forgive him.”

Vivienne remembers Melvin telling her how Christian and Mary had gotten on famously before the truth came out.

How they’d enjoyed theater trips and art exhibitions, and talked endlessly about their shared passion for dance.

All that was blown apart when Christian told her about his affair with Melvin.

And now, here they are: Melvin is dead, with both Christian and Mary grieving for him.

Two hearts broken but unable to find comfort together.

Melvin—by doing nothing, you created one hell of a mess, thinks Vivienne .

“Oh, Mary,” she sighs.

“You know, Melvin was going to tell me at one point and then the cancer came back, and he had no choice but to stay with me,” she says.

“He had a choice,” Tristan says gently. “We always have a choice. Some are just harder than others.”

“You’re right, and I’m choosing to leave right now.” Mary stands, picks up her handbag, and marches toward the door. Her chin is pushed forward in indignation.

Vivienne opens her mouth to call after her and then closes it again. She can’t blame her for leaving. She can’t blame her for any reaction, really.

“Should we follow her?” she asks Tristan.

“I didn’t hear it all, but I saw Christian’s face afterward. I think Mary has said her piece and probably needs some time alone now,” Tristan says. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Vivienne nods. They quickly polish off their drinks and then head outside.

Without discussing it, Vivienne flags down a black cab, and ten minutes later they’re sitting down at their favorite Italian restaurant on the Strand.

In fact, they don’t speak again until Tristan has a bottle of Peroni in front of him and Vivienne a red wine.

Finally, Vivienne looks over at her friend and takes a big drink of her wine.

“I think I’m the killer,” she tells him.

Tristan

It isn’t until Tristan has taken a sip of his beer that he registers what Vivienne has just said.

“What?” he cries, putting his bottle down a little abruptly, sending a clanging sound through the restaurant. The tourists at the next table look over, eyebrows raised, perhaps hoping for a lovers’ tiff.

“ I think I’m the killer ,” she whispers once they’ve looked away.

“I think you’ve finally lost the plot,” he splutters. “Why on earth would you say that?”

“I’ve been having these fugue states,” she explains.

“What are they?” Tristan asks.

“Periods of time when I’m awake and doing things but my brain sort of checks out. I lose hours and come to with no idea of where I’ve been, what I’ve done,” she babbles, holding her head.

“You didn’t tell me about this,” Tristan says, reaching across to hold her hand. For the first time ever, Vivienne snatches hers back, her eyes on the table. She’s ashamed, Tristan realizes.

“I haven’t told anyone. I didn’t want you or Cat to worry,” she says. “I had my first one years ago. I was eighteen and…pregnant. It was all very traumatic. I went into a fugue state after the baby was born. Later on, my mum broke the news he didn’t survive.”

Tristan watches her carefully, taking in every word.

“I didn’t have another fugue state for years. But they started again, two weeks after Serendipity’s, and I’ve had one before every death.”

“Well, that must be a coincidence,” Tristan says, gathering his errant thoughts. “Just a response to the stressful situation.”

“That’s what I thought, but then I spoke to Mary at the hospital.

She asked about my number, and I suddenly felt so guilty.

It got me thinking—I am a likely suspect.

I love crime novels and detective TV shows, could have picked up ideas from them.

Both Janet and Melvin pointed out that I’m the only one who doesn’t know my number.

And these blackouts. Who knows what I was doing during those missing hours!

“I had one before Melvin died and found a receipt from a bar near where he’d been that night,” she cries. “Another time I came to, I’d badly hurt my hand. If I can hurt myself without knowing, I could just as easily have hurt someone else.”

“Vivienne, it just doesn’t add up,” Tristan says gently. “Take Melvin, for example—there’s no way you could have sourced a dodgy pill and then somehow encouraged him to take it in the space of a few hours during one of these fugue states.”

Vivienne takes a deep breath, in and out.

“I suppose you’re right,” she says. “And with Gordon, I’d have had to bake a pie filled with sesame seeds and deliver it to him without being spotted.”

Tristan nods, passes her a napkin.

“Besides, you’re not capable of murder,” he tells her. “You just don’t have it in you.”

“Do you think?” she asks, finally looking up at him.