Page 10 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
“It’s locked,” she says. She bangs her flat palms against the door, but there’s no answer.
Vivienne goes back to her chair. The only sound is Janet sobbing quietly.
“First thing tomorrow, I’ll find out which PR companyplanned this dinner party…” Vivienne mutters, though her voice has lost some of its power.
“Let’s see,” Gordon says, quickly ripping open his own envelope. “Mine says fifty-three. That’s three years from now.”
“You shouldn’t have opened it,” Vivienne scolds. “I’m certainly not opening mine.”
“Me neither,” Tristan mutters, pushing his envelope away.
“I feel sick,” Janet sobs, and Melvin notices her skin has paled. “I knew there was something strange about this dinner party.”
“Calm down, everyone,” says Melvin, picking up Janet’s card from the table. “I tell you what: I’ll take this to the station tomorrow and see if I can find anything out.”
“No wonder the host didn’t make an appearance, if they were planning to pull this stunt,” Vivienne says.
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Matthew says, taking a glug of his wine.
“It would be interesting if the numbers were correct, though, wouldn’t it?” Gordon mutters, turning over his card as if hunting for clues.
“‘Interesting’?” Janet snaps. “I’m already forty-four; it’s my birthday in July! That card is a death sentence!”
A chuckle bursts from Stella. They all look over as she starts to cough.
“Something funny?” Janet snarls.
“Sorry—wine went down the wrong way,” she splutters. Matthew takes his hand off Janet’s and reaches across the table togive Stella his napkin.
“We’ve all had a bit too much to drink,” he says. “We’ll be laughing about this in the morning.”
“I doubt that,” Janet cries, dabbing at her eyes with her own napkin and looking forlornly up at Matthew.
“It’s time we all call it a night,” Melvin says. “Give me your contact details, everyone. I’ll look into this and let you know what I find out.”
They each pass him a business card, with Stella scrawling her email address on a napkin. Melvin notices that Vivienne pushes her black envelope into her bag before wishing them all a brusque goodbye and marching unsteadily out of the room. Minutes later, Tristan follows her out, tucking his envelope into his back pocket. Matthew and Stella move across to the fireplace for a whispered conversation. Gordon stays sitting at the table, frowning at his mobile phone.
Melvin looks over at Janet, whose smeared makeup reminds him of a tired clown. She glances gloomily at Matthew and Stella as she pulls on her coat. Melvin pushes the business cards and napkin into his pocket. He notices that two unopened envelopes are still on the table, but leaves them be. He isn’t sure how his name ended up on the guest list for this odd dinner party—maybe it’s one of his colleagues winding him up. Truthfully, he doesn’t care. He has no real interest in unmasking the dinner party host. But as a police officer, he should be seen to make an effort, to take control of upsetting situations. He’ll make a few calls tomorrow, hopefully settle the ladies’ concerns. Glancing at his watch, he sees it’s justbefore 11:00 p.m. Bit early to head home; Mary might still be up. He just wants to get as drunk as possible and try to forget about his problems for a few more hours.
“One for the road, to calm your nerves?” he asks Janet, and she nods.
The Wine Bar
December 2015
Two weeks later
Vivienne
A single tear trickles down Cat’s flushed cheek and lands on the paper in front of her, leaving a muddy mascara splotch. Slowly letting out a sigh, Vivienne wonders when Cat will realize that the waterworks have no effect on her. Oh yes, Cat’s tears are like liquid kryptonite to the editor, leaving him falling over himself, contorting his portly frame into whatever shape might stop the flow. The chief subeditor had been powerless when Cat sobbed after being pulled up for spelling a celebrity’s name wrong. He’d ended up dashing over the road to get her a fancy latte, which he delivered with a flourish and one of those tiny chocolate brownies. Vivienne had worked with the old sod for fifteen years, and he’d barely thrown her a kind word, let alone an overpriced coffee shop snack. Vivienne sees Cat’s crying for what it is: a desperate attemptto get herself out of a tough spot. A pathetic show of weakness that reminds her male colleagues she isn’t quite up to the job, but she is pretty and makes a decent brew.
When Vivienne had started at the magazine, the only other woman in the office was the high-heeled, tight-skirted secretary. The then-editor made it abundantly clear that Vivienne was lucky to be given the chance to write. He knotted his unruly eyebrows and warned her she’d have to work “even harder than the boys.” And by God, she’d done that. At her desk a full hour before her colleagues, compiling long lists of features ideas. When an interview came her way, she’d fill her notebook with spidery shorthand notes and carefully craft the article together like an artist painting a masterpiece. Yet she was repeatedly overlooked and talked over. Every Friday at lunchtime, the editor rounded up the (male) writers for a “quick loosener” in the Golden Eagle pub on the corner. Two hours later, they’d roll back into the office, chuckling about some in-joke and raving about a feature idea that, to Vivienne, sounded utterly unoriginal and undeniably misogynistic.
Cat’s sniffles cut through her thoughts.
“Here,” Vivienne snaps, handing her a tissue. Cat takes it but doesn’t look up, just continues to stare with dismay at the paper, which is covered in red strikes and angry exclamation marks. Cat should be grateful to haveheras a boss instead of that caterpillar-eyebrowed bully Peter Patten. In fact, it was in this very room that he’d witnessed the one and only time Vivienne let her emotions get the better of her at work. She’d spent the morning waiting to present her features ideas to the department. The editor and hercolleagues had enjoyed a particularly lengthy liquid lunch that day, and it didn’t take long for the meeting to descend into an old boys’ club. Every idea of Vivienne’s was greeted with silence, barely concealed snickers, and once, an audible yawn. By the end, Vivienne felt her cheeks burn as a single tear rolled down her cheek.
“She’s crying,” the deputy editor spat out.
