Page 23 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
“Hmm, that’s strange,” Tristan mumbles, trotting along beside her.
“Is there something else you’d like to add?” Vivienne asks, suddenly stopping and turning to face him.
“Well…I must admit…when we first met, you didn’t strike me as the warmest of people—although I know differently now,” Tristan says, looking down at his feet. “I can understand Cat perhaps not feeling that she could confide in you.”
Following Stella’s funeral, Vivienne asked Tristan about his area of expertise and whether he knew much about creating blogs. He admitted he did, and she persuaded him to meet her the followingSunday at a lovely little café near Waterloo. Admittedly, she was hoping to pick his brains without paying for IT-consultation fees, but she got more than she’d bargained for.
When he shuffled into Café Bleu wearing a stained T-shirt and pushing back unwashed hair from his face, the group of elegantly dressed ladies at the next table openly stared, and Vivienne wondered if she’d done the right thing. But once they ordered their drinks and he started talking, her doubts began to fade. His instructions were intelligent and clear; he answered her questions patiently, without a hint of condescension. Two hours flashed by, and when Vivienne commented that she had to get home forDownton Abbey, they chatted for another half hour about which season had been the best (the second one, they agreed, although Vivienne has a soft spot for series six when Edith finally gets her happy ending). They ended up meeting every Sunday for the last three months. Tristan even visited Vivienne’s cottage to give her computer a “spring clean” after she’d complained of its snaillike loading times. Thanks to Tristan’s tutorage, Vivienne’s new blog is taking shape.
Vivienne opens her mouth to object but then closes it again, shakes her head, and continues marching along.
“Where are we going?” Tristan asks, but she’s still thinking of Cat.
“I found an old article she’d written. I’d torn it apart, thinking I was being helpful, but perhaps she didn’t see it that way,” she admits.
“Well, there’s time to make it up to her.”
Vivienne crosses the road in front of one of the towering buildings and then turns left, skirting around its shiny side. She stops in front of a metal door, glancing all around her, then reaches for the handle.
“Vivienne!” Tristan cries. “I don’t think you’re supposed to go in there.”
“Shhh… And I think you meanwe’renot supposed to go in here. Come on.”
Tristan looks shocked but follows her anyway. Just as she thought, the door opens onto the emergency staircase at the side of the building. She looks up and sees at least twenty staircases above. Good thing she’s wearing her flats today.
“Are we going all the way up?” Tristan whispers.
She doesn’t answer, just leads the way, up and up. At the fifteenth floor, her legs are aching and a stitch cuts into her side.
“Just need a minute,” she says to Tristan, leaning against the railing. His cheeks are red, and trickles of sweat roll down his temples.
“This is Matthew’s office building, isn’t it?” he splutters between heavy breaths.
“I just had to see it for myself,” she says, nodding.
“Might be easier if I wasn’t wearing this today,” he mutters, tugging at the collar on his new white shirt.
“I noticed you’ve made an effort,” she says. He’s also wearing navy trousers and brown shoes in place of his customary jeans and trainers.
“Well, I couldn’t miss your not-so-subtle hints,” Tristan tellsher, rolling his eyes.
“Matthew would approve, I think. He did always wear the sharpest of suits,” she says, suddenly feeling tears threaten.
***
Vivienne was daydreaming at her desk last week when the email came through. She’d just taken two paracetamol for a throbbing headache, the remnant of a fugue state from the previous day. It hadn’t lasted so long this time; she’d popped out of work on her lunch hour to take a parcel to the post office, had come around at just after 6:00 p.m., sitting on her train home. She’d had to ring the editor to tell him she’d taken ill. Her weak and shaky voice had sounded convincing, at least. Vivienne tried to find reassurance in the fact that this fugue state hadn’t felt so violent, hadn’t lasted so long. She hoped it meant they’d ease off now. But the message from Melvin only made her head pound more.
From: Melvin Williams
To: Serendipity’s group
Subject: More bad news
Hello everyone,
I am so sorry to be the bearer of bad news once again. But I feel obliged to let you know that this news story is about Matthew. Please do not read too much into this. The stress of his job clearly became too much. His company is hostinga memorial this weekend. Details to follow. Hope to see you all there.
Yours sincerely,
