Page 34 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
Walking back to the table, Melvin finds Vivienne and Tristan in a deep discussion, their two fair heads almost touching, opposite elbows on the table, like a mirror image.
“So, Vivienne, are you pleased with yourself?” Melvin asks. “Janet was quite upset when I put her in the taxi.” He pours himself another glass of champagne. “One more for the road.”
“No expense has been spared on the catering front,” Vivienne murmurs as another two waiters appear from the kitchen, laden with trays of more smoked salmon blini and delicate vol-au-vents.
“Only the best for Matthew,” says Tristan, helping himself to a flaky hors d’oeuvre. The table goes quiet as the three disappear into their own thoughts.
“You know, before all of this, I never believed in destiny or ‘writings on the wall.’ I have always believed that we are in control of our lives,” says Vivienne.
“I don’t know, Vivienne,” sighs Melvin, suddenly aware of how loud the room has become. “Sometimes I feel that my life will continue on a certain track no matter what I do.”
“I can’t help but wonder about my envelope. I’m so cross with myself for losing it! Sometimes I imagine it’s my age now; sometimes it’s five or even ten years away,” Vivienne says. “My death age wasn’t something I’d ever thought about before, but lately it’s on my mind all the time.”
“I’m sure it will turn up, and then you’ll have to decide whether you actually want to open it,” he tells her. “I bet Matthew wished he hadn’t.”
Then his phone beeps with a message.
Mary:
Are you on your way? The meeting’s at 6. x
“That’s my cue,” Melvin says, standing up and throwing his jacket back on. His bow tie falls out of his pocket onto the floor, but he just steps over it and heads for the door.
The Pub
August 2016
Six months later
Vivienne
Pushing open the front door of her cottage, Vivienne’s senses are immediately assaulted. Her nostrils are hit by a mixture of fried onion and garlic, with a pinch of char. Cat is “cooking” again. Music blares from the direction of the kitchen, accompanied by two out-of-tune backup singers. Stepping into her lounge, she can see the place is in chaos, LEGO bricks scattered like confetti, several fancy neon-colored dress costumes just stepped out of, and miniature vehicles of every color and size on every surface. Despite the mess, she smiles to herself and considers how her life has changed in the last few months. Since Cat and Charlie had moved in.
In the same week that the magazine closed its doors for the final time, Cat’s landlord increased her rent. Over the years,Vivienne had toyed with the idea of getting a lodger in her loft conversion. It had a large bedroom with an en suite shower and bath. She’d rather liked the idea of a young (male) Italian or Spanish student moving in; she’d help him with his English, offer herself up as a London tour guide. It had all seemed like too much effort in the end, too little return at the cost of her privacy. Yet there she was, suddenly offering up the loft to Cat, a coworker whom she’d only just really gotten to know. Following Matthew’s memorial, the discussion of the numbers, and Janet’s words as she’d stormed out—Your number’s coming—Vivienne found herself looking at her life differently. What if her number was sixty? That would give her three months to live. Sixty-one would be fifteen months. Whatever her number, her time was ticking down with every second. She’d had years of living alone, years of sitting quietly reading her books, watching her detective programs. Now was the time for a new phase in her life. Cat’s immediate response was “No thank you, we’ll find somewhere.” But Vivienne insisted that she at least come and look at the place. Once Cat climbed up the steps into the airy attic room, scanned the large space as Vivienne pointed out where Charlie’s bed might go, it was clear she was won over.
“Vavi!” a voice yells, and a bright-orange dragon bursts out of the kitchen and charges toward her, hopping easily over the various obstacles and propelling itself into Vivienne’s middle. She flops back onto the sofa, giving in to the bear hug. A bolt of pain shoots up her spine and spreads out to her shoulders, closely followed by a feeling of dread. She’d noticed these new aches in her back and hipslately; could they be a sign that her number had come knocking? She bites her lip until it passes.
“Well, hello, Charles,” she says finally. “I’m pleased to see you too.”
Charlie turns his head and presses his ear against Vivienne’s chest. Lately, he’s become interested in how the human body works and loves to “check heartbeats.”
“Your heart is fast today, Vavi,” he whispers, his long, blond lashes fluttering over eyes the exact same shiny brown of conkers. When they’d first met, the nameViviennewas quite a mouthful for Charlie’s three-year-old mouth, and so he called herVavi, which she’d come to like. Vivienne dips her nose into his soft hair and breathes in the combination of baby shampoo, garlic, and the toffee-apple essence of Charlie. Feeling his strong little arms squeezing her, she wonders yet again how she’d gone for so long without properly touching another human. There would be the odd handshake at meetings, a brief hug when she met old friends, but she hadn’t held someone close in years. Within minutes of meeting her, Charlie climbed onto her knee, handing her a worn copy ofThat’s Not My Lion.The sudden closeness of him disoriented her for a moment, but his own nonchalance brought her back, and by the end of the story, his weight was reassuring and his little moist hand on her dry, older one felt right. She was sorry when he climbed off and went back to Cat.
Living with Charlie had been a crash course in raising children. Up until then, it was something Vivienne had craved for a number of years, and then a vague and general annoyance in shops, restaurants,and at weddings and parties. But never a living, breathing, shouting, and mess-creating reality until now. Charlie was an impatient teacher, demanding Vivienne understand his garbled words, hold him when he needed it, and entertain him with whatever whim held his attention in that moment. It was all at once draining and life-enhancing. He would throw his arms open and ask for a “ruddle” over the smallest thing, like if she told him no, he couldn’t have another biscuit, or if he’d seen something scary on a cartoon. Or just because he felt like it. She marveled at the toddler’s ability to express his emotions and tell her what he needed back from her.
“What’s Mummy cooking?” she asks Charlie, booping his freckled nose.
“She burned it,” he says, his eyes wide with horror and humor. “It smellsex-gusting.”
Then he jumps off her knee, picks up a small red car, and races back into the kitchen, announcing Vivienne’s arrival. Vivienne chuckles to herself as she takes off her coat and throws it onto the sofa, adding to the chaos. Cat is always trying to help around the house—making dinner, doing some laundry, cleaning the bathroom—but she isn’t naturally inclined toward domestic work, it must be said.
“Pizza tonight?” Cat says, emerging from the kitchen looking rather sheepish, with Charlie trailing behind.
“I’ll throw together some green spaghetti,” Vivienne reassures her. “Won’t take long.”
“Yummy!” cheers Charlie, who picks up the remote from the sofa and expertly switches on the telly.
Twenty minutes later, the three of them are sitting at the kitchen table, slurping up pesto-covered pasta. Between mouthfuls, Charlie tells them about the bit in Roald Dahl’sThe Twitswhere “Mr. Twit eats worms, not spaghetti!” He can hardly finish the sentence, he throws his head back and opens his mouth wide, revealing half-chewed spaghetti and a mouthful of tiny, perfectly white teeth.
