The Dinner Guest

by B P Walter

  ‘Weren’t you?’ he asked, turning to me. ‘And wasn’t I yours?’ He asked it as if it were a genuine question. As if he really expected an answer. I wasn’t used to this. For years, we’d been able to socialise very happily without ever really digging into the past.

  ‘I … well, because you were older, and more experienced, I just presumed … I don’t know what I presumed. You seemed so close to your little group of friends. When I was fourteen I even saw you kissing Ernest Kellman around near the stables.’

  His face looked pained at the mention of the name. ‘I’d prefer not to talk about him, or any of that. I’m just saying that I think you underestimated what an important part of my life you’ve been. And I’m always here. If ever you need me.’

  Now I felt irritated. ‘Well, I’m flattered, but what use is that information to me now? I’m married; I have a son. I’m happy.’

  He noticed the pause before the last word. The slight hesitation in my voice. He sighed, then took in a deep breath, as if building up to saying something. ‘There are things I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. Things I’ve been wrestling with. But I don’t know how much you know already. Or how much you’ve suspected…’

  I twisted round to face him properly. ‘What? What do you mean?’

  Rupert avoided my gaze and looked at the floor. ‘I … I should have told you something. I’ve known it for a little while now. Something that happened…’

  He broke off, his eyes now staring in the direction of the house. I followed his gaze and saw Matthew strolling purposefully over the lawn. He wasn’t carrying any drinks. In fact, as he came closer, I was alarmed at his appearance. His previously crisp, neat shirt was now crumpled and askew, partially untucked, and a button had come undone at the top, causing it to flap in the wind. The colour had drained from his face. He looked ill, as if he may faint at any moment.

  Had he seen us together? Had he been watching, listening to me and Rupert? I dismissed the thought immediately. He couldn’t have heard anything from so far away, and all he could have seen was us talking quite normally.

  As he drew up, he barked four words in my direction. ‘We need to go.’

  It was an instruction, not a request. I felt both embarrassed and confused. ‘What do you mean, “go”? We’ve only just arrived.’

  He bent down and practically dragged me off the bench by my arm. ‘Come on. It’s really important we leave. Right now.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Rachel

  Less than a week to go

  I looked at the guests as I passed them. Nobody made an effort to talk to me. Maybe they could sense how different I was, how I was from another world, another life, one that involved scavenging through the reduced section of the local Morrisons or trawling through company comparison websites to find train tickets at prices that didn’t cause me to faint. Things these people had probably never done and probably never would.

  Eventually, I ended up walking round to the south side of the garden, following a little path along a stone wall that snaked round and opened out on a little square. It was dotted with benches on each side, walled in by the perfectly manicured hedges. An ornately carved fountain tinkled away in the middle. It took me almost a full minute to realise I wasn’t alone. In the corner of one of the benches, obscured by the fountain when I’d walked in, was a woman. She looked middle-aged – maybe fifteen or twenty years older than me – and not only had a glass of champagne but a whole bottle beside her. Her long, dark-blonde hair fell in waves out of its artfully-messy bun, with one strand knocking against her glass. I was about to turn away and go, embarrassed to see her eyes clock me, but she spoke, freezing me to the spot.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said. Although the words were simple and brief, her voice was low and drawn out in a slow, almost bored, way.

  I smiled and walked around the fountain to go over to her. ‘Hi,’ I said, then added, ‘I’m Rachel.’ I regretted it as soon as I’d said it, worried I sounded too eager to please.

  ‘Hello Rachel,’ she said, her eyes squinting a little, as if she was having trouble focussing on me. Her words sounded the same as before, but were a little too slow and slurred into each other to sound anything other than drunk. ‘Sit down, if you’d like,’ she said, scooping up the bottle into her arms and cradling it, almost as one would an infant. ‘How are you finding the party?’ She emphasised the last word in a strange way, as though it was amusing to her one could refer to this gathering in such a way.

  ‘It’s … it’s nice,’ I said, unsure of what tone to strike. ‘It’s very grand.’ Again, instant regret filled me as I said this. Once again, I was showing myself up to be the naïve outsider.

  ‘Oh, sure, it’s grand all right.’ She didn’t seem very impressed with this, and I was about to try and say something more interesting when she carried on. ‘I find it hard to be here, I must say. Too many memories. I played around these gardens as a child, you see.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, a little taken aback by this insight into this woman’s past. ‘And were these not, um, happy times?’

  She made a sound of disbelief. ‘Those days were fine, I suppose. This place was a bit like a second home at times. Me, my brother, and Rupert and Elena. Do you know Rupert and Elena?’

  I remembered Meryl mentioning Rupert and, pleased I had something to add, I said, ‘Oh yes, Lord and Lady Ashton’s son. I don’t know him, or Elena, but I … know of them.’

  ‘Both unspeakably lovely people,’ she said, hiccupping a little, ‘even if Elena does have an unfortunate habit of going after other people’s husbands. And Rupert hasn’t been settled for a while now. He deserves a good life, Rupert. Probably the most decent person among us.’

  I nodded along to this, as if I thoroughly agreed, and then something popped into my mind. ‘Do you know the Allerton-Joneses? Matthew and Charlie?’

  The woman sighed and nodded. ‘Oh yes. Rupert and Charlie used to be a thing, once upon a time, but then Rupert wanted to go to the States, I think. Long-distance relationships can be so tricky, can’t they?’

  I replied to this with a ‘Hmm’, even though I’d never had one.

  ‘So how do you know them, then?’ she said, straightening up.

  ‘I … er … I’m part of their book club.’ I left a little pause, wondering if she was going to comment on this, but she didn’t jump in so I continued, ‘I actually work for their friend Meryl. I’m … sort of her live-in assistant.’

  ‘An assistant? That’s exciting. I would love to be organised enough to be someone’s assistant, but I fear I’d have to hire one to be my own assistant just to survive at the job. Would spoil the fucking point of it.’ She let out a short laugh at her own joke, then grabbed my hand, as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘I know. How about I introduce you to some people? I know heaps of the guests here. I’ll make you some connections.’ She seemed excited by the idea. Part of me wanted to say yes, but the other part didn’t fancy following this woman around like a little lost puppy.

  As a compromise, I suggested we take a little wander around the quiet part of the garden, and she agreed with a little shrug, saying, ‘Suit yourself. People are generally overrated, anyway.’ We’d wandered away from the little fountain square to another area along the stone wall, and she spent a good ten minutes describing how there was a hidden garden here that was enclosed and never opened to the public – a sign of respect to Lord Ashton’s first wife who died very young and apparently loved spending time there. On our way back round towards the house, the path opened out onto a large outdoor swimming pool, surrounded by little huts. She walked up to one, pushed open the French-window style doors and walked in. The inside was more comfortable and homelier than my old flat. There was even a chaise longue, which she parked herself on with her heaviest sigh yet, letting her empty glass fall to the floor. ‘God, I’m exhausted,’ she said.

  Instead of awkwardly hovering, I chose to sit down in a little single-seater armchair and tried to arrange
my face into an expression that hopefully showed both empathy and pity. ‘It’s the heat,’ I said. ‘It makes me quite lethargic, too.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that. It’s more that I’m just tired of bothering, if you know what I mean. I try to be nice and smile and be friendly but it doesn’t work. I enjoyed our little chat though, my dear. A nice little walk does one good.’

  ‘Yes, me too,’ I said.

  ‘I haven’t always been kind, you know. I was at a party once, years ago, when I was young. At this very house,’ she flapped a hand towards the manor behind us. ‘I spent the whole time swanning around as if I owned the place. Not caring who I offended or left out. I was rather careless, you know. Young people are quite often, I think. And so I wanted to be kind to you and try to make you feel welcome.’

  There was something in her tone. The wistful note was back, and I got the feeling she was sharing something quite deep and personal. I almost felt embarrassed for listening.

  ‘I did. Thank you for … for taking me under your wing.’

  She made another little sound, half hiccup, half hollow laugh, then swung her legs over the chaise longue so she was lying down on her back. ‘My brother Ernest and I used to play hide and seek around here. This was one of my favourite hiding spots. Then we’d fight and squabble endlessly.’

  I started to feel a bit wobbly and I grasped hold of the sides of the chair. I could feel a rush of emotion rising up from somewhere deep within me. In a small voice I asked, ‘Are you and your brother still close?’

  She didn’t reply for a few moments, and I wondered if she’d fallen asleep. But then she took a deep breath and said, ‘Not so much now. We used to be. We both lived in the same apartment block for a while. He and his wife at the top, me some floors underneath. It was … it was nice.’

  I nodded, unsure of where this was leading. I felt we were treading on heavy territory. ‘Whereabouts did you live?’

  ‘Charlwood Street,’ she said, ‘in Pimlico.’

  This made me sit up a little, pleased to find a topic I at least had something to add to. ‘Oh, I live in Pimlico. Or, lived, I should say, until I moved in with Meryl on Eaton Square.’

  ‘And what do you think of it?’

  I wasn’t quite sure what she meant. ‘Think of what?’

  ‘The area. Eaton Square. SW1.’ She said the postcode as if it were a disease.

  ‘Erm … well … it’s all very smart-looking.’

  ‘It’s a mirage. A charade. Stacks of money in concrete form, that’s all. Rows of houses filled with people who haven’t a clue about the horrors of this world. People who don’t know what it’s like to be on the outside, looking in. I was like that too, once. Many of the houses are empty now, with their owners using them to make their dubiously acquired cash that little bit more palatable.’

  I felt myself become excited by her words. She was putting into words the feelings and suspicions I’d long had but hadn’t been able to express. I tried to think of something clever to add to her comments, but before I could she leaned up on her elbows and said, ‘Don’t be taken in. Do what you need to do, and get out. That’s what I say. Go and do something real. Be around real people. Don’t waste your life on this insufferable bunch. They may all look pretty and friendly out there, but trust me, it’s all a lie. Take my advice and run for the hills – and don’t be afraid to burn the whole street down as you go.’

  She was drunk and tired and probably unaware of what she was saying. But a fire was stirring within me. It was as if a match had been lit and pressed up against the kindling of all the rage and resentment and hot bloody fury I’d been feeling for so, so long. I got up and said, as calmly as I could, ‘I’m going to go now. Thank you for being nice and showing me around. And … I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name?’

  While I was speaking, the woman had leant back down again and closed her eyes. ‘Very welcome,’ she said in a muffled voice, clearly already on her way to her alcohol-fuelled sleep. ‘And my name … my name’s Aphrodite. Mother loved the Greeks, you see, but my friends … they call me…’

  But I never found out what her friends called her. Her words had started to slur together and she drifted off to sleep before she could finish her sentence. I watched her for a couple of seconds, then left. I had somewhere I needed to be.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Charlie

  Three days after the murder

  My mother is standing at the kitchen doorway, carrying an old cardboard box, still staring at me. I need to think of something to say, so I settle for the blindingly obvious. ‘I’m burning the flowers,’ I reply.

  ‘I can see that, but why?’

  I can’t help it. The tears I managed to just about hold in in front of Titus now flow from within me, causing me to gasp and sob. My mother doesn’t see at first, and instead carries on talking to me. ‘I’ve got something to show you…’ Then she sees, and puts the box she’s carrying down on the table and takes me into her arms, as if I were still eight years old.

  ‘Darling, what’s wrong?’ she asks, then, probably realising that’s a stupid question, says, ‘Why have the flowers made you cry?’

  Between my gasps and sobs I flick my hand at the table. ‘The card,’ I half whisper.

  My mother extricates herself from our embrace and reaches out to pick the card up.

  ‘Ah,’ she says at last, ‘I see.’

  I rub my eyes, then look at her, puzzled. ‘You do?’

  She nods, then puts the card down. ‘I do. It’s from her.’

  A few tears slip down my face as the name hits me all over again. The emphasis she puts on her tells me all I need to know.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ she says, putting an arm on me. ‘Go through into the library,’ she says, gently, ‘I’ll bring you some tea.’

  I do as I’m told, and take a seat on the settee facing the fireplace. I don’t move. I don’t do anything. I just sit there very still, the last of my tears still cold on my face. When my mother comes in with the tea, she sets it down and takes one of the seats to the side.

  ‘You don’t seem surprised,’ I say in a quiet voice, not looking at her.

  ‘No,’ she says, with a sigh.

  ‘You knew?’ I look at her now, unable to keep the accusation from my voice.

  ‘I found out a few days ago. The day before Matthew … before Matthew died. I didn’t think you knew.’ She nudges one of the cups of tea towards me. ‘Drink some of that. It will help.’

  I take some of the tea, but it’s too hot to drink so I set it back down and look at my trembling hands in my lap.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ my mother asks, her voice low and understanding.

  ‘I think … I think I’ve had a bit too much talking for today already.’ I lie back, letting the sofa take my weight and draw a slow breath in through my nose, then out through my mouth. Then something occurs to me. ‘What was in that box you were carrying?’

  My mother straightens up. ‘Oh, goodness, yes, hold on.’ She sets down her cup, gets up, and walks out of the room. Returning a few seconds later with the grey cardboard box in her arms, she sits back down in her chair and takes off the lid. I can’t see its contents from my angle on the sofa, and she doesn’t show me immediately.

  ‘I would understand if you’d prefer not to go into this now, what with … everything. But I think this could be important.’

  My interest is piqued. ‘What is it?’ I ask, leaning forward.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘I think I’ve worked out who Rachel really is. Or at least, I know where I’ve seen her before.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Charlie

  Less than a week to go

  I stared around, at both him, then at Rupert, who looked just as puzzled as I felt.

  ‘Is everything all right, Matthew?’ he asked. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No,’ Matthew said, so bluntly it sounded almost aggressive. ‘We just need to leave. Where’s Titus?’<
br />
  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know. Somewhere around, I guess.’ I gestured my free hand vaguely at our surroundings. The grounds were extensive and far-reaching, with a whole other garden area, like something from a children’s fairy tale, stretching into the distance behind a stone wall that snaked around the property. If Titus had gone in there, I thought, it could take hours to find him, although it was more likely we’d find him chatting to Pippa round near the pool or helping himself to champagne.

  ‘We need to look for him. Now.’

  He started walking, dragging me along. I could see Rupert wasn’t sure if he should follow or not. He chose to leave us to it, bidding me goodbye with a small nod as I struggled to stop myself tripping up.

  ‘Let go of me,’ I snapped at Matthew. ‘You’re being ridiculous. I don’t understand why…’

  We’d reached a cluster of people, standing around the swimming pool and I realised one of them was my mother. ‘I wondered where both of you were,’ she said, smiling at us. ‘Your father’s talking to that journalist you like in The Times. The one who comments on the media. If you like, we can go over and join—’

  ‘Have you seen Titus?’ Matthew cut across her, rather rudely in my opinion. My mother looked understandably taken aback.

  ‘Er … no. Oh yes, hang on, he was talking to Pippa. I think they went off over towards the stables.’

  Matthew didn’t offer any sort of reply or explanation, just marched off in the direction of my mother’s suggestion, one hand now glued to his phone as he tried to reach Titus on his mobile.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ she asked me. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, I … I think he might be unwell or something. I’ll see you later.’