Page 54 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
“Louisa, please. You can’t say that about your father,” she sobs, her voice low but trembling with desperation.
“But it’s the truth. He was a self-centered bore, a hypocrite, and an embarrassment by the end. It’s better that he’s gone,” she fumes, anger magnifying her voice so that the bar is totally silent as her words sink in.
“That’s not fair, Louisa. He was your father, and he loved you. He’d just lost his way; he wasn’t well,” says her mother.
“It’s his fault I’m the way I am about my body. He just wouldn’t stop going on about empty calories and cellulite,” she says. “He got worse after he moved out. As if he had license to be an even bigger idiot than he was before.”
“Louisa, I really think we should carry on this conversation at home,” Elizabeth mutters weakly.
“Don’t worry; I’m going anyway,” Louisa says. She hops down from the barstool and marches away from her mother without a backward glance.
The ten or so people left at the bar are all watching Louisa as she pushes through the glass doors and marches up the hill in the same direction Melvin had seen Tristan running. Behind them, Elizabeth’s slim body slumps over even more, her shoulders moving up and down in rhythm with her silent tears.
“Oh, love, don’t take it too seriously. Her dad’s just died. She’s clearly hurting. I’m sure she’ll come around,” Melvin says, standing from his stool and resting his hand on her slim shoulder.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth sniffs, lifting her head to reveal streaks of mascara down her face. “But I don’t think so. They’ve never got on. She blames her dad for her body issues; he was very forceful with his advice. It didn’t make for an easy homelife.”
“Yes, he was quite the preacher,” Vivienne mutters, and Melvin shoots her a frown.
“But he was fighting his own demons,” Elizabeth says, instinctively defending her husband. “He had an eating disorder, you know. Bulimia. It’s what sparked our separation. He refused to get help. He seemed to think it was normal.”
“None of us are perfect,” Melvin says gently, noticing the three empty wineglasses in front of the woman, her slim frame.
“Mrs. MacMillan,” a confident voice calls over, and they look up to see Professor Goodacre strolling easily toward them. “Let me escort you to the college brasserie for a bite to eat.”
The man nods at Melvin and Vivienne, and then scoops Elizabeth away, who is dabbing at her face with a tissue and looking up at the professor as if he’s just saved her life. Perhaps he has, ponders Melvin as he watches them walk away, their legs perfectlyin sync like runners in a three-legged race.
“Dr. Gordon was bulimic?” Vivienne whispers.
“Remember how strange he was with his foie gras at Serendipity’s?” Melvin says, picturing him snatching back his plate when Janet had offered to take it.
“You’re right,” Vivienne says. “And it explains why he ate a whole pie in one sitting.”
Melvin sighs. He’s had enough of Vivienne’s theories, her prodding, her accusations, her desperation for the truth. He’s tired of it all.
“I think I’ll head off now. I’m already late to meet Christian,” Melvin says before finishing off the last of his red wine, standing up, and performing an exaggerated bow for Vivienne.
“Oh, to be young and in love.” Vivienne laughs, slipping off her own stool, a pained grimace briefly crossing her face.
“I think I’ll stick around and see if Tristan shows up. Just promise me you’ll think about what I said? There are only three of us left, and we need to watch out for each other.”
Melvin nods and walks away from Vivienne, her wordsyoung and in loveechoing in his mind. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile to check for the next train into town. Then he switches his phone off and wonders what tonight will bring.
The Bridge
November 2018
Eighteen months later
Vivienne
Vivienne hears bells ringing from far away. Sunday morning, she’s on her way to church. Her mother is clutching her hand, walking a little too fast. She’s cross that Vivienne took too long to fasten the tiny gold buckles of her “Sunday shoes.” Her fingers had felt fat and clumsy under her mother’s impatient scrutiny. Vivienne is trying to keep up with her mama’s marching legs while also avoiding the muddy patches on the lane…
She blinks, stares around. Vivienne is not a child anymore. She’s not trotting alongside her mother on the way to church. The bells are not far away; they’re coming from the church she’s sitting outside. Vivienne is suddenly cold, shaking. She glances at her watch. It’s just gone 5:30 a.m. Where is she? How did she get here? Patting her hands over her arms, her stomach, her thighs,she reassures herself that she isn’t injured. She also still has her bag on her shoulder, which is a relief. Searching inside for clues, she finds her mobile. Her fingers are numb as she unlocks the screen, goes to her messages. The most recent one, sent at 11:02 p.m. last night, is from the friend she had dinner with at 8:00 p.m.
Thanks for a lovely evening Vivienne, get home safe! Xx
She digs her hand into her bag again. There’s her hairbrush, her lipstick, her old wallet, some tissues. Then she finds a crumpled-up piece of paper. It’s a receipt from a bar called Unit, at 2:32 a.m. The amount is for £12.62. Expensive for one drink. Who had she been with? There are no other clues in the bag.
