Page 9 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests

Two weeks later

Vivienne

A single tear trickles down Cat’s flushed cheek and lands on the paper in front of her, leaving a muddy mascara splotch.

Slowly letting out a sigh, Vivienne wonders when Cat will realize that the waterworks have no effect on her.

Oh yes, Cat’s tears are like liquid kryptonite to the editor, leaving him falling over himself, contorting his portly frame into whatever shape might stop the flow.

The chief subeditor had been powerless when Cat sobbed after being pulled up for spelling a celebrity’s name wrong.

He’d ended up dashing over the road to get her a fancy latte, which he delivered with a flourish and one of those tiny chocolate brownies.

Vivienne had worked with the old sod for fifteen years, and he’d barely thrown her a kind word, let alone an overpriced coffee shop snack.

Vivienne sees Cat’s crying for what it is: a desperate attempt to get herself out of a tough spot.

A pathetic show of weakness that reminds her male colleagues she isn’t quite up to the job, but she is pretty and makes a decent brew.

When Vivienne had started at the magazine, the only other woman in the office was the high-heeled, tight-skirted secretary.

The then-editor made it abundantly clear that Vivienne was lucky to be given the chance to write.

He knotted his unruly eyebrows and warned her she’d have to work “even harder than the boys.” And by God, she’d done that.

At her desk a full hour before her colleagues, compiling long lists of features ideas.

When an interview came her way, she’d fill her notebook with spidery shorthand notes and carefully craft the article together like an artist painting a masterpiece.

Yet she was repeatedly overlooked and talked over.

Every Friday at lunchtime, the editor rounded up the (male) writers for a “quick loosener” in the Golden Eagle pub on the corner.

Two hours later, they’d roll back into the office, chuckling about some in-joke and raving about a feature idea that, to Vivienne, sounded utterly unoriginal and undeniably misogynistic.

Cat’s sniffles cut through her thoughts.

“Here,” Vivienne snaps, handing her a tissue.

Cat takes it but doesn’t look up, just continues to stare with dismay at the paper, which is covered in red strikes and angry exclamation marks.

Cat should be grateful to have her as a boss instead of that caterpillar-eyebrowed bully Peter Patten.

In fact, it was in this very room that he’d witnessed the one and only time Vivienne let her emotions get the better of her at work.

She’d spent the morning waiting to present her features ideas to the department.

The editor and her colleagues had enjoyed a particularly lengthy liquid lunch that day, and it didn’t take long for the meeting to descend into an old boys’ club.

Every idea of Vivienne’s was greeted with silence, barely concealed snickers, and once, an audible yawn.

By the end, Vivienne felt her cheeks burn as a single tear rolled down her cheek.

“She’s crying,” the deputy editor spat out.

“No, she’s not,” Patten snapped back, then quickly concluded the meeting.

As the others filed out, he laid a hand on Vivienne’s shoulder and closed the office door.

“Don’t make me regret hiring you,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “I want to see ten workable ideas by the morning, and don’t let me ever see you crying again. This is a place of work.”

Vivienne stepped out of that meeting knowing emotion equaled weakness and must be avoided at all costs.

So she’d never cried at work again. Instead, she’d let her tears—of frustration, sadness, loneliness, and occasionally joy—flow while she lay in the bath at home.

They’d roll freely and abundantly down her face and plop into the soapy water. But never, never at work.

Now here was this young woman, around the same age Vivienne was when she’d started.

Cat had everything on her side: an equal opportunity employer, a university degree no doubt bankrolled by wealthy parents, and (let’s not pretend it doesn’t help) a beautiful face.

And yet here she is, crying again . Time to wrap this meeting up.

“You’ve worked here for two years now, Cat,” she sighs, her words heavy with disappointment. “I expect better than this.”

“I’m so sorry Vivienne,” Cat splutters. “I started a bar job last week, and I’ve had to stay until 2:00 a.m. to clean up.”

Vivienne has to admit, Cat’s usually porcelain skin has an unhealthy gray sheen today, and she looks like she got dressed in the dark.

But we all have busy lives—and we’ve all had to get on with the terrible pay that media jobs bring.

Hell, Vivienne has lived in the same poky cottage in Teddington for twenty years now.

“Read through my notes carefully. I want this rewritten by first thing tomorrow. If it’s no better, I’ll have to pass the Travel section on to Lauren,” Vivienne barks, standing up.

A surge of wicked joy shoots through her as she observes Cat’s look of horror. Lauren is the office intern, has made it abundantly clear she has ambitions to write, has already started a charm offensive on the editor.

“Yes, of course. I’m working again tonight, but I’ll find the time.”

“Remember, in this industry, there’s a queue of people after our jobs—younger, with more enthusiasm and less expectation,” Vivienne says.

With that dark warning, Vivienne marches out of the office back to her desk.

She doesn’t need to know that the article’s deadline isn’t for another week.

Vivienne just wants to teach her a valuable lesson and make her feel some of the pressure that she herself is always under.

Cat should consider herself lucky to have such an experienced mentor.

Sitting down, Vivienne brings up her emails.

She flicks past the spam messages, some PRs trying to promote their inane products, news agencies sending their story ideas—then one email catches her eye.

She frowns at the sender’s name, Melvin Williams, from a metropolitan police email address.

It’s vaguely familiar. Then she remembers: Melvin the police officer from that odd dinner party two weeks ago.

She hesitates before clicking on the message.

From: Melvin Williams

To: Serendipity’s group

Subject: Some sad news

Hello everyone,

Following the dinner party of November 26, 2015, I ran some searches through Land Registry and discovered that a Serendipity’s restaurant is not registered on Salvation Road or anywhere else in London.

So we can only assume that we dined at a pop-up restaurant as part of a PR stunt, or practical joke, and put that night behind us.

On a separate note, a report came into the station late last night of the passing of a young woman after she accidentally fell in front of a London Underground train. I’m sorry to inform you that the woman was Stella Cooke, who we all had the pleasure of meeting at the dinner party.

I have added below a news report about the accident in case this is of interest.

Kind regards,

Melvin

Vivienne clicks on the link to a news website.

YouTube Sensation StellaStylez Dead at 23

Popular fashion vlogger Stella Cooke has tragically died after falling in front of a London Underground train on Friday night.

Twenty-three-year-old Stella had been attending a celebrity-studded fashion label launch earlier that evening—from where she posted a series of videos and pictures—before leaving around 10 p.m. and falling in front of the train at Sloane Square Station.

Tributes have flooded in for the young fashionista, known online as StellaStylez, who was famous for her YouTube videos advising teenagers on affordable alternatives for designer clothes and accessories.

One tribute, from JBFan98, reads: “RIP StellaStylez!! I’ll always love you and will never take off my pink cowboy boots in your memory.”

Stella’s father is the controversial barrister Lord Arthur Cooke, with a reputation for helping celebrities dodge speeding fines. He has yet to comment on his daughter’s passing.

In the past, Stella has spoken out about her “inhumane experience” attending a ￡30,000-a-year Sussex boarding school and swore that she would never send her own children away.

Stella’s funeral will be held at Our Lady’s Church in Kensington on Saturday. Her family has requested donations to the Lambeth Homeless Shelter in lieu of flowers.

Vivienne hits reply and types:

To: Serendipity’s group

From: Vivienne Holmes

Re: Some sad news

Hello Melvin,

This is very tragic news about Stella. She was a very beautiful and apparently successful young woman.

It strikes me as odd that she fell in front of a tube train, given how often she must have traveled on the underground and didn’t appear to be a big drinker (from what we saw at the dinner party). Were there any witnesses?

Thank you for consulting Land Registry about Serendipity’s. Who is listed as the owner of that building, incidentally?

Best wishes,

Vivienne

Seconds later, an email pops up from Janet Tilsbury. The lingerie boss in the too-tight red dress, Vivienne remembers.

From: Janet Tilsbury

To: Serendipity’s group

Re: Some sad news

Oh my God! What was Stella’s number? Was it 23? I’ve had nightmares ever since that horrid dinner party. I’ve hardly slept. Does anyone want to put money toward a private investigator? We need to get to the bottom of this before it’s too late!

Then a message pops up from Dr. Gordon, with a university email address.

From: Dr. Gordon MacMillan

To: Serendipity’s group

Re: Some sad news

Dear Melvin,

I appreciate you passing on the details of Stella Cooke’s demise.

I am compelled to inform the group that I hold some information that is significant in light of Miss Cooke’s death.