Page 70 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
Tristan
Tristan’s shoulders ache as he makes his way carefully down the wooden staircase, clutching the heavy box in front of him. With every step, the bottles make a cheerful jingly sound as they knock together, and he grimaces, willing them not to smash. The last thing he needs is red-wine stains all over his T-shirt tonight, of all nights. At the bottom, he attempts to nudge the door open with his shoulder, but it’s too heavy, so he puts the box down carefully on the first step. As he does so, the rolled-up print tucked under his arm drops to the floor. He stands too quickly, and a head rush sweeps over him.You can do this, you can do this…Taking a deep breath, he uses both hands to push at the door, and it reluctantly creaks open. The heat from the fire hits him right away, and sweat is suddenly trickling down his temples. He exhales as he rests the box on the floor and stretches up to look around the room.
“Wow,” he murmurs to himself. The chandelier wrapped in ivy, the beautiful table with its pristine linen tablecloth and sparkling silverware, the place settings, the dramatic fireplace surrounded by framed paintings. It’s all just as he pictured it when he’d dreamed it up from his old bedroom in his parents’ house. All that’s missing are the other six guests. He glances at his watch. They’ll be here in an hour. He just needs to make the final few preparations.
In the dark weeks after his breakup with Ellie, and then the discovery that his parents had lied to him his whole life, he searched the old shoebox again and found a letter that teenage Vivienne had written to his father, “James,” declaring her pregnancy just a few months before his own date of birth. It didn’t take him long to track down Vivienne and discover the sort of person she was. He even contacted some of her ex-colleagues, pretending to ask for a reference, and the same comments had cropped up each time: “bitter,” “nasty,” “hated me because I was young/pretty/married.” Every story, every comment portrayed an envious woman. Even her letter to his father had expressed envy toward his wife. Vivienne, he decided, wasn’t fit to be anybody’s mother.
Soon after, he rediscovered the booksMoralia in Jobin his old bedroom. It was an ancient commentary on the Bible he’d been obsessed with as a teenager that laid out the seven sins that plague humanity. At university, he’d named his experimental computer program after it, imagining it as something that employers could use to ensure their staff are who they say they are, flagging any unsavory secrets, any unpalatable sins. But flicking through the books again all these years later, he felt clarity sharpen hismind. One book contained a bookplate illustration of the sins, represented by different animals dressed as humans. The images imprinted on his brain, crept into his dreams at night, and swam behind his eyes during the day. He started to look back on his own experiences and pinpointed the moments—the people—that had changed the course of his life from its promising trajectory to plummeting down into the doldrums. And each of those people had been ruled by one of the seven sins. Starting off with Vivienne.
And so he hatched his plan, a plan that he’d instantly known would be his greatest work, hisF youto the world, his lasting legacy. With his seven sinners already chosen, he’d set about finding the perfect “stage” for this particular piece of theater. First, he needed to find a nondescript road in Central London, with a hidden and elegant dining room. He didn’t want his guests having to travel too far to the venue, but he also wanted somewhere instantly forgettable. It couldn’t be part of a chain or larger company, as he wanted to pay cash and leave no digital or paper trail. From all his hours of nighttime wandering, much of London was imprinted on his brain, and with some help from Google Earth, he’d tracked down that particularly miserable street, which held a classy little underground room. As it turned out, the venue had been used for period dramas years before but had mostly stayed empty since it had been sold to a local (questionable) businessman who was listed as director for a series of failed enterprises. All Tristan had to do was put in a call from a pay phone and a week later drop off an envelope of cash at the venue. He approached a set decorator, posing as an indie director eager to create a “convincing space for a period drama witha postmodern twist.” She didn’t come cheap, but he’d taken out a loan to cover all the expenses. Usually, just the thought of getting into debt set his teeth on edge, but he kept telling himself it didn’t matter, as he wouldn’t be around to pay it off. He’d blown the rest of his budget on a high-end catering company that promised the very best in food and service. Hopefully, it would be worth it.
He retrieves the rolled-up print from the floor and carefully, with great deference, unravels it and walks back to the fireplace. He chooses a similar-size image on the right-hand side, pulls out the poster glue from his pocket, and carefully covers the back of the image before smoothing it onto the front of the portrait. Luckily, in the dim light of the room, the new picture blends in quite well with the others. He glances at the seven monochrome images and allows excitement to bubble up from his tummy.
Then he picks up the box again, takes it through the dining room, and stands in front of the door where the makeshift kitchen has been set up. He leans his shoulder gently into it so that it opens a few centimeters. Peering through, he can see that the room is alive with activity, bow-tied waiters scuttling around with purpose. If he’s seen, he will pose as a courier delivering the wine, but he’s hoping to get in and out without being spotted. So he places the box next to the door and lifts out the large brown envelope he’d tucked inside, balancing it on top. Inside the envelope is a list of instructions for the evening: Each guest must be poured at least one glass of the red wine, with no alternatives except water; the seven small black envelopes must be discreetly distributed after the dessert course; the waiters must engage with the guests onlyminimally. He reminds the caterer this is a very high-end murder mystery party, and it must be a night none of them will forget.
He looks once more at the special wine before tiptoeing away. It is lightly dosed with Rohypnol, key to the evening’s success. He needs his guests to be relaxed, their senses slightly dulled, their experience adopting a dreamlike quality.
He walks back through the dining room, giving it one last check. Then he makes his way back upstairs, puts his glasses on, and takes his place in the doorway of a boarded-up shop opposite.
First to arrive is Melvin. Sloth. As Tristan watches his bulky frame amble along the pavement, he thinks of how Melvin was in the right place at the right time on the night they met—or should that be wrong place at the wrong time? That terrible night, when Ellie had dumped him, Tristan had walked and walked for hours along the mostly quiet streets of the city. Finally, his exhausted legs had called him home, and he’d hopped on a night bus, hoping it would take him somewhere north of the city. He’d walked to the back of the quiet bus, put his headphones on, and leaned against the cool window, watching the world fly by. His eyelids drooping, he’d fought sleep and hadn’t noticed the group of young men get on the bus. He’d felt something hit him in the back of the head. Without thinking, he’d turned and shouted,What the hell?The three men had jumped up and were on him before he could respond. One pinned him to the ground while the other kicked him in the side and the head. The bus driver had ordered all four of them off, and as he watched the bus pull away, blood dripping from a cut on his head, he’d been convinced he was going to die.He was pushed to the ground once again, and then the biggest of the group swung his foot back to kick him.
“Police—stop right there!” a deep voice had suddenly yelled, sending the boys scattering. He’d felt himself being lifted up by strong arms, and a large man peered into his eyes. “Are you OK, bud?” the man had asked. He’d found a taxi and escorted him to the nearest hospital.
“Are you really a police officer?” he’d asked the man, who’d introduced himself as Melvin.
“Yes, but off duty,” he’d told him, before taking his details and assuring him he’d be in touch the following day to take a statement. “We won’t let those cowards get away with it,” he’d said.
After having seven stitches in his face and an X-ray that showed his cheekbone was broken, Tristan had made his way home. Over the next few days, he’d watched the bruises flourish all over his aching body, scrutinized his scarred and dented face in the mirror, as it dawned on him that Ellie would never take him back now, looking like this. He’d relentlessly monitored her social media as he’d waited for Melvin to ring. He never called. Some online research had confirmed Tristan’s suspicions—the man was sloth personified. Calls unanswered, cases pushed to the back of his drawer, a poorly wife neglected. Now, as Tristan watches, Melvin quickly locates the restaurant door and walks in without any apparent trepidation.
It has started to rain. As he waits, Tristan hopes the rest of his guests arrive soon. He doesn’t want it to be obvious that he’s been standing outside the restaurant. He wants them to believe he’s justanother guest, invited to this very mysterious dinner party. Then a car screeches to a halt outside the restaurant. The sweating driver quickly jumps out with an umbrella and legs it around the car to open the back door. Janet ducks out and marches impatiently along the pavement as the driver struggles to keep up and hold the umbrella above her head. Tristan watches on, taking in the red soles of her heels, remembering how her insatiable gluttony had nearly ruined him. He’d been unemployed for a few weeks when he’d agreed to help design the technology behind a new vintage-clothing app, for one Janet Tilsbury. At the time, he and Ellie had been looking for a place to buy together. She’d inherited some money when her grandmother passed away, so Tristan had been desperately saving up to match her deposit. Soon after he’d started working with Janet, she’d booked in a video call with the four other staff members, who’d all worked remotely. Janet’s lipsticked smile had filled the screen as she’d explained excitedly that she had a fantastic opportunity for them. She’d had interest from a large company who wanted to buy the app at the end of the financial year. It would be a unique opportunity to make some serious money for them all if they invested in the company now, with the sale of the app guaranteeing to “return their investment tenfold.” Janet had even screen-shared the email from the company to prove their interest. When he’d told Ellie about it that night, she’d immediately suggested they invest all her inheritance, plus the bit he’d saved. So all their money had gone into the app, as well as hours and hours of Tristan’s time.
That summer, Ellie had come home bursting with excitement; she’d seen the “perfect flat” in East Finchley. It needed some workbut nothing major, and it was located right next to the tube station and a lovely park. They’d put an offer in, relying on getting the money from the company sale in the autumn. But in late August, his emails to Janet had gone unanswered. His colleagues couldn’t get hold of her either. In the end, they’d found out via an online business news site that the app had been sold for “a record £7 million” to an American blue-chip company, with a clear plan to fire the existing staff and bring in their own people. They’d all been on casual contracts, so Janet hadn’t even paid her freelancers for the work done, let alone repaid their investments, never mind the tenfold return. The article had also mentioned that the setup had been originally bankrolled by her “millionaire husband.” He guessed that she’d blown it all by her excessive spending on entertaining clients, gifts to celebrities who deigned to wear the products, as well as spending on her own wardrobe. So that’s why she’d turned to her own staff to top up the funds. Ellie had been inconsolable. She’d promised she didn’t blame him, but things between them were never the same after that. All thanks to Janet’s gluttony.
Janet and her driver pace back and forth on the pavement three times; then she rudely snaps at the driver until finally they spot the door. Janet steps back to let the driver open it and then struts through without a word or backward glance.
The rain doubles down, and Tristan huddles in a shop door, eyes not leaving the restaurant opposite. His denim jacket is now drenched, his glasses speckled with raindrops. Then he sees a figure walking along his side of the road. He turns to hide his face, pretends to be typing a message on his phone. He feels sure thatMatthew will hear his racing heart as he nearly knocks him over in his confident march along the pavement, his giant black umbrella obnoxiously bearing the name of his investment bank. Although Tristan desperately doesn’t want to be spotted yet, he finds himself irritated that Matthew doesn’t apologize for barging into him or register his existence in any way.
Matthew’s sin is lust. He’d popped up on Ellie’s Facebook page just six weeks after they’d split. From what he’d seen on her emails (thanks to Moralia), she’d still been upset by the breakup, perhaps even considering taking Tristan back, wondering if she should finally answer the phone, respond to one of his many emails. But then Matthew had scooped her up at a nightclub, taken advantage of her upset state. He’d wooed her with fancy restaurants and theater trips, shown her that she was capable of finding happiness with someone else. And then, once he’d had his way with her, he’d cruelly cut all ties and moved on to the next girl.
From his spot across the road, Tristan sees Matthew briefly pause at the door of Serendipity’s and pull the invitation from his pocket before taking down his umbrella and stepping inside.
He hears Gordon’s self-righteous voice booming out before he sees him. Speed-walking along, with the hood of his raincoat pulled tightly over his head, he keeps his conversation going even as he stops and looks around to find the door.
Pride is known to be the worst of the sins. He’d never forgiven Gordon for what he’d done back in Tristan’s university days. Admittedly, shoving his fellow student Malcolm down the stairs in an angry outburst, leaving him with an irreparably brokenleg, hadn’t been Tristan’s finest hour but—while Malcolm had deserved the shove—Tristan certainly hadn’t deserved what happened tohim. His case had gone to the university panel, including Dr. Gordon. Since he’d been so close to graduating, they’d had the option of letting him finish, but Gordon had argued fiercely against this outcome, swaying a few other board members, and so Tristan had been kicked out, after almost three years of studying, without a degree to his name. And without any references to help him find work or apply to another university. He’d never been in any of Gordon’s classes, but they’d had one encounter that he’s sure Gordon had remembered. One afternoon, as he’d raced to a lecture, Tristan had been caught short. The only toilets nearby were designated teacher restrooms, but it had been an emergency, so he’d ducked inside. From inside his stall, Tristan had heard the bathroom door creak open, and then he’d heard someone throwing up. When it went quiet, he’d stepped out of the stall to see Dr. Gordon staring at him in horror. Tristan had mumbled something about “feeling better soon” and legged it. It had struck him at the time how odd that look Gordon had given him was, filled with guilt, as if the sickness wasn’t the result of a stomach bug—because it had been self-induced. Tristan had been aware of the rumors that swirled around the campus of the doctor’s strange behavior and terrible breath. Afterward, he’d convinced himself that that moment had knocked Gordon’s pride to the extent that the doctor had grabbed his chance to get rid of him.
“I’ll expect an email from you shortly, in that case,” Gordon snaps into his phone now before hanging up and pushing openthe door to Serendipity’s.
Tristan glances at his watch: 8:06 p.m. His last two guests are running a little late. Then a black cab pulls up, and Stella steps out. She glances up and down the road with a look of such disgust that he starts to worry she’ll hop back in the taxi and drive off. Seeing her hungry eyes scan the road, his memories of her greed come pulsing back. Following his ejection from university, he’d set up his freelance company, but with no degree to his name or references from previous work, he’d struggled to get going. Around that time, he’d met Ellie working at a bookshop and was amazed when she’d agreed to meet him for coffee. She’d been so impressed when he told her he worked for himself, he’d crossed his fingers that he’d get some clients soon. Days later, on a freelance forum, he’d seen a post from a fashion vlogger called StellaStylez who was looking for IT support to help produce videos for her YouTube channel. The pay she was offering was pitiful, but with no other options, he’d sent her a message. She’d rung him right away, ranting about how rival fashion vloggers had “trillions of subscribers” and sponsorship deals despite their videos being subpar (not exactly the language she’d used). A quick look at Stella’s page, and Tristan had seen the problem: Her amateurish videos were posted sporadically, sometimes weeks apart; she rarely responded to her followers’ comments, and when she did, her replies were dismissive and unhelpful. Against his better judgment, he’d agreed to work with her.
It had been hell. Stella had slept most of the day and stayed up all night messaging him with endless complaints, links to her rival vlogger’s latest posts, always ending with the current number of subscribers next to a frowny-face emoji. She’d send him roughvideos, giving him sometimes a matter of minutes to edit and post for her. Every single date with Ellie was interrupted by countless messages from Stella, usually ending in him having to rush home to edit her videos. As the weeks went by, the views and subscription numbers for StellaStylez rose exponentially thanks to his help. He’d installed Moralia on Stella’s laptop, so he’d had tabs on her emails and saw with satisfaction that her inbox had started to fill with interview requests from journalists, offers of free clothes, dinners out, and invitations to fashion events. Yet not once did she thank him, increase his wage, or ever show any satisfaction about the phenomenal success of her page. He’d comforted himself with the thought that his association with her YouTube page would secure his reputation in the world of vloggers and bring him more work.
Then Tristan logged on one morning to see her subscription numbers had jumped from 121K to 252K overnight. He couldn’t understand it, and messaged Stella. Hours later, she’d responded, letting him know his “services were no longer required” and promptly ghosted him. Through her emails, he’d found out that her barrister father had paid for the extra subscribers, which in turn had brought in two sponsorship deals. A close look at the casual contract she’d had him sign had included a nondisclosure clause that he never work for any rivalonline personalities or accountsor reference his experience working with her. It had all been for nothing. He’d had barely any money to his name and no means to get more commissions in the area he knew best. Ellie had been understanding and had paid for their next few dates as he scrambled for work, but all he could think about was Stella’s rich barristerfather, her paid-for flat in Kensington, her barely used Porsche in the underground car park. Stella had everything and yet demanded more. Greed. The only insurance policy he’d had was evidence of Stella’s shocking trolling of her rival vloggers. He’d had an inkling that it might come in useful one day.
He holds his breath as Stella appears to debate staying, but something draws her toward Serendipity’s, and, holding her large bag above her head as a makeshift umbrella, she hops and skips toward the door.
Now it is only Vivienne left to arrive. Envy. The seventh sin, wrath, he has assigned to himself. After all, Ellie once suggested he go to anger management classes. He’d laughed at the time, but she’d been deadly serious. He smiles to himself now. Well, if Ellie thinks he’s wrathful, he’ll show her just how wrathful he can be…
As he waits for Vivienne, the rain starts to come down more heavily. He looks up, allowing the drops to soak his face and hair.Thisis the moment he’s been planning for all these months. And he wants to escort her inside personally. He watches her taxi arrive and sees her step onto the pavement. Quickly, he crosses the road and hears her curse as the taxi drives off.
