Page 48 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests

Ellie shakes her curls and lets out a long breath. Glancing back up at the picture again, she allows herself a smile, flashing a wide gap between her front teeth (“From kissing too many boys,” Vivienne’s mother used to say).

“That was taken on holiday in Crete,” says Ellie, tilting her head toward the picture. “I’d asked a waiter to take our photo, and Tristan was convinced he had the hots for me…”

“Sounds like Tristan.” Vivienne mirrors her smile.

“He treated me like a princess. Showered me with gifts and attention. We had so much in common, loved the same books, the same music…”

Vivienne nods and smiles. It feels wonderful to be talking about her friend with someone who loved him too.

“It always seemed like he knew what I was going to say before I said it. I’ve never found that since. I mean, my husband looks after us, don’t get me wrong, but it was different with Tristan.”

“Yes, I know just what you mean,” Vivienne says.

“Do you know what happened the night he died?” Ellie asks in a low voice, and Vivienne realizes that Susan probably hasn’t broadcast the details of Tristan’s death.

“We were walking along Hungerford Bridge, and he had one of his panic attacks, ended up falling in,” Vivienne says. “It was an accident.”

“Panic attacks?” says Ellie. “I didn’t know he had those. When we were together, he never seemed anxious. There were other things, but not that.”

“What do you mean?” Vivienne asks.

“He could be…angry sometimes. He hid it well most of the time, but occasionally it burst out of him, like on the day we split up,” she says.

“What did he do?” Vivienne asks, and then, seeing the sorrowful expression on Ellie’s face, wonders if she really wants to know.

“He… Well, he destroyed something very precious to me,” Ellie says haltingly.

“We’d been on holiday in a desperate attempt to salvage our relationship, but it was obvious it was over.

Afterward, he became really controlling, not wanting me to go out without him, insisting we do everything together.

So I told him it was over and started packing my things.

He was furious and ripped up a book that my mother gave me when I was little, Charlotte’s Web .

It was falling apart anyway, but he knew what it meant to me. ”

Vivienne looks at her in open amazement. Tristan, who had always talked passionately about the novels he loved, destroying a treasured book like that.

“I think he must have changed after you broke up. That doesn’t sound like the Tristan I knew at all,” Vivienne says, but she can’t help picturing that black-and-white image from the dinner party, the two dogs fighting, portraying wrath.

“That’s good to hear.” Ellie nods, wiping a tear away from her eye. “Actually, I once suggested he should get checked out for a personality disorder, but he point-blank refused.”

“Oh?” Vivienne murmurs. “He never told me that.”

“I should go and speak to his parents,” Ellie says, standing up and smiling stiffly at Vivienne.

“Ellie,” Vivienne asks, a thought suddenly coming to her. “Did Tristan wear contact lenses when you were together?”

“No, he had perfect vision.” She shrugs and gives a small wave goodbye.

As Ellie shuffles away, Vivienne gets the distinct impression that Ellie deliberately cut their conversation short, perhaps feeling that she’d said too much to a stranger.

Looking around the pub, Vivienne is surprised to see that the place is now half-full of mourners.

Susan and Jim are standing at the bar, nodding gravely at Billy.

Vivienne watches Ellie take small steps toward them.

As soon as Susan sees Ellie, Vivienne notices her purple eyes narrow.

Poor Ellie is greeted with a brief “thank you for coming” before the couple quickly turn away.

Vivienne watches Ellie wrap her coat tightly around herself once more and walk out of the pub.

“Thought you might be ready for another,” Billy says, suddenly in front of her. He adeptly swaps her empty glass for a second large whiskey and dashes back to the bar.

Vivienne doesn’t remember finishing that first glass.

“Do you mind if we sit here?” She looks up to see the three young men from the church. Young has a whole new meaning to her these days, she realizes. The three are balding and gray haired, and yet, to Vivienne, they’re barely adults.

“I’m Dave.” The taller one of the group reaches across to shake Vivienne’s hand.

“Vivienne. I think we met briefly at the university a while ago,” she says, taking his large soft hand. “Are you all Tristan’s university friends?”

Dave nods and introduces Fergus and Eddie, who give Vivienne small waves. They carefully set their purple drinks down on the table.

“Is it so obvious that we’re computer scientists?” Fergus says, raising an eyebrow at Vivienne, who simply shrugs.

“Snakebite and Black,” Eddie says, noticing Vivienne eyeing his drink. “It was always Tristan’s favorite.”

“He made us all try it on our first student union night out, do you remember?” he says, turning to his friends. “I’ll never forget my hangover the next day, but I think Tristan’s was worse.”

Laughter spurts out of Dave’s mouth—along with some purple fluid—and a group of elderly ladies behind them turn around and stare. He covers his mouth and ducks his head down.

“I remember. He wouldn’t speak to us for days. Barely opened his bedroom door. I think it was his first hangover, and he was convinced we’d spiked his drinks. We hadn’t, he just couldn’t handle his booze, and never did learn to,” he says.

While the boys chat about their university days, Vivienne scans the pub and notices Susan and Jim facing each other by the bar.

Susan’s head is bowed over her floral bosom as Jim dabs at her face with a tissue, inadvertently smearing her purple eyeshadow, but she doesn’t notice—or care—as she nods and clutches at his hand.

“He’d found out Emilia liked Jane Austen, walking holidays, and sparkly shoes, so for her birthday, he got her a first edition Pride and Prejudice , a subscription to the Ramblers Association, and some pink, glittery wellies,” Fergus is saying.

“He went into his overdraft for the gifts, thought he’d cracked it, but she freaked out, accused him of spying on her and ditched him. ”

“It was a good idea, but he should have been more subtle about it.” Eddie laughs.

“Sorry, what are you talking about?” Vivienne asks, tuning back in to their conversation.

“Oh, did he tell you about the spy software he developed?”

“I know about Moralia, but it wasn’t spy software—it was for employee profiling,” Vivienne says, thinking of the priest’s comment about Moralia , an old religious text.

“Well, however he explained it, he started work on it at uni. In its early versions, he used it to spy on girls he liked. He’d offer to help with their laptop, secretly install it, and find out everything he could about them before making his move—things like their shopping habits, their music tastes, everything they’d searched online,” explains Fergus, and Vivienne suddenly feels uneasy.

“The software worked perfectly; it was Tristan’s flirting style that let him down in the end,” says Eddie.

“Well, at least you all got together over the last few years,” Vivienne says.

“I think Dave bumped into him once, exchanged a few messages, but I hadn’t seen him since uni,” Fergus says.

“Me neither.” Eddie shrugs. “And because he’d been kicked out after that fight, we didn’t even see him at the graduation.”

Vivienne looks at all three of them, one by one, and sees they’re telling the truth. Why had Tristan told her they’d been meeting every month, even planned to go on holiday together? And how come he never once mentioned that he’d been kicked out of university for fighting, of all things?

“Could I ask you something?” Vivienne says. “Did Tristan wear glasses at university?”

Dave nods. “Yep, couldn’t see a thing without them.”

After draining their pints, the three boys (no, men) stand up and make their excuses.

They explain to Vivienne their plan to catch the train back into London and toast their friend at all their old university haunts.

As she watches them go, she smiles to herself at the thought of three bad headaches tomorrow and then of Tristan’s first—and desperately sad—hangover.

Reaching for her stick, Vivienne stands up and is a little shocked by the sway of her legs.

How had her dad managed to polish off a whole bottle of whiskey on Saturday nights and remain proudly sober?

A quick stop at the loo, and then she would head home, Vivienne decides.

Standing in front of the mirror of the ladies’ room, she fishes out her lipstick from her handbag and carefully reapplies it.

Giving her reflection one last look, Vivienne gasps at the sight of Tristan standing just over her shoulder.

“Oh!” She spins around but sees she’s alone. Looking back in the mirror, there’s nothing but a hand dryer next to her shoulder.

Her hands clutch the sink as she wills her pounding heart to slow down. The doctor had warned her that hallucinations were a side effect of the hypoxia and should eventually ease off. Most likely, two large whiskeys in the afternoon have left her a little squiffy.

“Thank you for your reading,” a voice says, making Vivienne jump again. But this time it’s no hallucination. Susan steps out of a stall. Her eyeshadow is now smudged on one side, giving the impression of a black eye.

“I’m so sorry for the way I behaved when you were in the hospital,” she says, looking at Vivienne’s reflection in the mirror.

“Don’t even think of it; you were in shock.” Vivienne waves away the apology. “What do you suppose Tristan would have made of all of this?”

Susan doesn’t miss a beat.

“Oh, he’d hate all the fuss,” she says. “Never liked parties, even as a child.”

“Is that right? What was he like as a child?”