Page 64 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
“I love you, Cat, but I do have to go. You don’t, though. Why don’t you stay at home, have a quiet day with your family?” She touches Cat’s wet cheek with the pad of her thumb, not wiping hertears, just touching them, letting them soak into her own body, hoping Cat’s strength will help her through the day.
“You’re my family. Drink your tea, and I’ll make some breakfast,” she says.
***
“I didn’t know Tristan was religious,” Cat whispers as she and Vivienne walk slowly toward the church. Vivienne is wearing her long-sleeved woolen dress, black tights, boots, and her warm coat, and already she’s sweating. This spring has been unseasonably cold, but the sun is out today, just when Vivienne would welcome dark clouds and drizzle. Maybe Cat was right: Maybe she isn’t up to this. But how could she miss Tristan’s funeral?
“No, Tristan wasn’t, but his mother is,” Vivienne replies, remembering him laughing about his parents dressing in their “Sunday best” every week: “As if God cares if Dad had stubble on his chin or Mum had a set and blow-dry.”
The village is oddly familiar, perhaps because it’s just like a Christmas card. The low stone wall lining the road; the modest little church with its proud steeple; ancient, mist-covered gravestones on one side, like soldiers waiting for battle. A small group of people is gathered under the arched doorway (where Vivienne pictures giddy newlyweds posing for the camera). But this group is not here to celebrate new love.
“Let’s just wait here for a minute,” Vivienne mutters, pulling Cat back from the church entrance.
“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” Cat tells her. “You haveevery right to be here.”
But Cat does as Vivienne asks, and they stand together at the churchyard entrance, allowing mourners to pass them and file into the church.
“Did you reply to Ian’s message?” Cat asks, not one to allow a funeral to get in the way of matchmaking.
“No, but I will. He wants to cook me a vegan curry,” she says, trying to keep a smile off her face.
“Well, I think you should let him,” Cat tells her, meeting her eyes.
“Maybe I will,” Vivienne says with a shrug. “Time to go in.”
She can’t let on to Cat, but she has been wondering if she’d dismissed Ian too quickly. He’s been so kind since the accident, sending flowers and regularly calling to check on her.
“Vivienne, thank you for coming.” Tristan’s mother is suddenly in front of them, like a castle guard or nightclub bouncer. Her sand-colored hair forms a perfectly permed helmet, the deep-purple arch of her eyeshadow matching the large flowers on her busy floral dress.
“Susan,” Vivienne stumbles, words spilling out. “I-I’m so sorry for your loss. It was such a tragic accident.”
“Yes, it was,” Susan nods, avoiding Vivienne’s eye.
During that hazy week in the hospital, Susan regularly appeared at Vivienne’s bedside, desperate for answers. Some days she was dripping in tears, a vision of grief; other days she was dry-eyed and quarrelsome, bearing an arsenal of questions. Vivienne and her muddled mind did their best, but so often Susan left dissatisfiedwith her vague responses. A panic attack, a cry for help, a struggle, and a fall.
“He’s never had a panic attack in his life,” she snapped at Vivienne several times, and Vivienne thought of how sad it was that Susan didn’t really know her son at all.
Stepping inside the church, Vivienne’s body temperature cranks up another few notches. The overwhelming scent of lilies hits her in the face as they walk down the aisle. White lilies and peonies are bunched together at the end of each row, making Vivienne think of a wedding for the second time. Neither Vivienne nor Tristan had ever been married, had known that feeling of being joined to another person by law, teammates for life. Well, that’s how it’s supposed to go. Yet, in their own way, they were joined to each other. Joined by their matching loneliness at first and still now by secrets that Tristan took—and Vivienne would take—to the grave.
Vivienne unzips her coat and drapes it over her lap, trying to ignore the dampness under her arms, on her lower back, behind her knees.
“It’s a nice church,” Cat whispers as they gaze up at the towering marble altar, which is guarded by two large displays of yet more lilies and peonies, outperformed only by the crucifix on the back wall. Vivienne’s eyes are drawn to Jesus’s hip bone poking from his skin, such a touchingly human detail.
“It’s beautiful.” She nods, because really it is. No matter what your thoughts about religion, there is beauty here. The ornate yellow-gold tabernacle behind the altar, the intricate stained glassarching high above them. But more than that, the comforting, reassuring atmosphere of the place is beautiful. Here, sadness is welcome, grief is safe.
Looking around, Vivienne is surprised by how full the church is. In the row in front, she sees three men around Tristan’s age—his university friends, she presumes. A pale woman with dark, curly hair falling over her shoulders walks in alone and stands at the back, keeping her head down and hugging her long black coat tight around her, despite the rising heat in the church. Then Vivienne watches as Susan and Tristan’s dad, Jim, make their way to the front. Jim wears an old suit that must have fit him once but is now too large at the shoulders and too tight at the waist. As they walk down the aisle, Susan’s hand tucked into her husband’s elbow. They could be any couple on their way to church, but instead they’re here to bury their only child.
The organ starts its low moan, and Vivienne picks up the sheet of paper that someone has left on her pew.Order of Serviceis typed on the front underneath the wordsTristan James Jonesand the dates November 23, 1978–November 23, 2018. Her eyes hover over Tristan’s date of birth. It was the same month she lost her baby, the month of her first fugue state. A familiar feeling of disorientation starts to creep through her.Focus, Vivienne.She shakes her head slightly. This isn’t the time to think about that. Today is about saying goodbye to her friend. She opens the order of service and sees the first hymn is called “Be Not Afraid,” not one that Vivienne is familiar with. In fact, it has been years since she’s stepped inside a church, so not much is familiar to her. Suddenly, a lovely, clearvoice starts up from the back. She spins around but can’t see anyone with a microphone, so she closes her eyes and listens.
“You shall see the face of God and live…”
Vivienne wonders what—or who—Tristan saw as he slipped away beneath the cold Thames water. She hopes he’d seen a face he’d loved in those final moments. Perhaps his mother, perhaps Ellie, perhaps a kindly grandmother.
“Come follow me and I will give you rest…”
She thinks about how unlucky Tristan had been in his life. Brought up by parents who didn’t understand him, plagued by panic attacks, a relationship breakdown he never recovered from, scarred for life in a random attack, and continually exploited in his job by employers who didn’t seem to think he was worth paying. Wherever Tristan is, and whoever he is with, Vivienne hopes against hope that he has found some respite, as he certainly never got it in life.
A silence falls over the congregation. Vivienne is still stuck in her thoughts when Cat turns to the back of the church.
