Page 68 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
“Oh, he’d hate all the fuss,” she says. “Never liked parties, even as a child.”
“Is that right? What was he like as a child?”
“He was an unusual little boy, really. Jim and I worried about him all his life. The two of us, we’re not ones to talk about our emotions much. We just get on with things. But Tristan was always having one emotional outburst or another. One minute he’d hate me, the next he’d be clinging to me. I found it embarrassing sometimes,” says Susan, still talking to Vivienne’s reflection in the mirror. It seems like she finds it easier to look there than straight at Vivienne.
“I can imagine that would be difficult,” Vivienne says, keeping her voice low, mindful of not breaking this strange spell that the alcohol and mirrors have created, willing the door not to swing open.
“You know, he wasn’t ours. Jim and I had tried for a baby for years. I suffered miscarriage after miscarriage, and it nearly ended our marriage. Jim even moved out for a few months. In those days, no one talked about these things. Jim said he’d be happy with just us, we didn’t need a child, but I did. I ached to hold a baby in my arms. It was all I could think about,” she says.
“I’m so sorry,” whispers Vivienne, thinking of her own baby, snatched away before it was strong enough to live, followed by those unspoken years of wanting and wishing for another child to love.
“Then, one night over dinner, Jim told me about a friend of his, who was a hospital porter and had found a baby boy just leftin the foyer. The mother had given birth to him and then just scarpered. Can you imagine? Jim was just talking about it like a bit of office gossip I might be interested in, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby, motherless and abandoned,” says Susan, her eyes now wet, her chest rising and falling with the weight of her story.
“What happened?” Though Vivienne could guess the rest, she wants to hear the words from Susan.
“I begged Jim to get us that baby, told him I needed to have it. I’m so ashamed now, but I even said our marriage was over if he couldn’t do this for me.”
Her head is now bowed, mortified by her past desperate self.
“And somehow, he did it—don’t ask me how. Two weeks later, the baby was in my arms, and we called him Tristan.”
There’s silence as Vivienne is lost in Susan’s world and can practically feel the joy—the relief—of the weight of a baby in her arms.
“You clearly loved him very much,” says Vivienne.
“I did. I hope he knew that. He suffered badly from colic as a baby, but I never minded him crying through the night. I was just so happy, holding him for hours on end until he was ready to sleep. If only he’d been so easy to comfort as he got older.”
“How did he get on at school?” Vivienne asks.
“Oh, he was academically brilliant but a bit of a loner. He did find his way in the end and made some friends. In fact, he’d be with a different group practically every week. One minute he dressed in all black like the heavy metal kids; then it was baggy jeans and asking for a skateboard,” she chuckles. Her smile disappears asanother memory pops up.
“I don’t know if he told you, but a few years ago—when he moved home for a while—he found out about the adoption. It was the worst day of my life. I’ve never seen him so angry. He moved back into his own flat soon after. We eventually made peace, but I’m not sure he ever got over it.”
“He didn’t say anything to me,” Vivienne admits.
“One night, he rang the house very late, sounded like he’d had a few drinks, and started rambling about how he’d found his real mother and didn’t need me anymore. I was devastated, but the next day he denied it all, tried to laugh it off as a joke.”
“I know he had some difficult moments, Susan. I wouldn’t read anything into that,” Vivienne says, giving the woman’s shoulder a squeeze.
“Thank you,” she says. “Oh dear, I think I’ve had too much port. Please don’t repeat what I’ve said. No one else knows. I know I can trust you; you looked after my boy when I wasn’t around.”
“Of course. I won’t say a thing.”
Susan turns to leave and then stops, reaching into her bag. “Oh, I have this for you. I found it in Tristan’s flat,” she says, handing Vivienne a small white package with her name on the front. Her heart galloping, Vivienne takes it off her and pushes it straight into her own bag. She watches Susan disappear out the door, back into the fray of the mourners. Vivienne waits a few minutes and then walks out of the restroom and straight out the pub door.
“Hold up, will you?” a voice calls behind her, just after shehears the door swish closed.
“Just walking to the station,” she says over her shoulder, but that doesn’t stop the man from dashing after her. She curses her old bones for preventing any kind of swift exit.
“Are you getting the train?” the man asks. “I’ll walk you there.”
Vivienne looks to her left and sees it’s Tristan’s dad, Jim, his top button now undone above his tie, cheeks and large bulbous nose bearing the telltale rosy glow of a regular whiskey drinker.
“In the hospital, I thought you looked familiar,” he says, his words coming in short, breathless bursts.
“Really?” Vivienne responds, wishing she managed to get away before well-meaning Jim had seen her.
“Yes, and then Susan started talking about Tristan’s friend Vivienne and it clicked,” he says. “Do you remember me? It’s been many years, but I hope I haven’t changed that much.”
