Page 30 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
“So…I wonder who’s next?” he asks, looking around the table.
“What do you mean, who’s next?” Tristan snaps, turning surprisingly menacing blue eyes on him.
“Well, we know that my number is fifty-three, so that’s at least a year away—two at the most. Janet’s is up to four months.”
At the back of his mind, Gordon can hear Elizabeth’s admonishing tone, but he can no longer concern himself with social faux pas; it’s time to approach this as a scientist, with all the facts in place.
“Gordon,” Melvin groans, glancing at Janet. “I’m sure that Janet…”
“Oh, darling, you don’t need to protect me. Clearly, I’m next, and I’ve decided I’m going to make the most of the time I have,” Janet slurs, then stands up, grabs her half-full bottle of champagne, and marches over to a table of young bankers. Ridiculous woman.
“So what about the rest of you?” He looks from Tristan to Vivienne.
“I opened mine,” Tristan pipes up. “My number is forty-five, if you must know. I’m thirty-eight now.” He doesn’t even look up at Gordon.
“Forty-five? Oh, you’ve got plenty of time…” Gordon says.
“You didn’t tell me that,” cries Vivienne. “I thought you’d lost it too.”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” he tells her. “It’s years away—nearly twice what Stella had—and I’m not taking it seriously anyway.”
“Forty-five is no age to die!” Vivienne grabs Tristan’s hand.
“Did you find yours, Vivienne?” Gordon cuts in.
“Unfortunately not,” she tells him but doesn’t look away from Tristan. “I searched the house again, but I think I need to accept it’s gone.”
Gordon takes a deep breath and attempts to swallow his irritation.
“Maybe it’s better you don’t know. I haven’t got mine either,” says Melvin. “Must have left it at the restaurant.”
Gordon watches him, and his hand moves to the envelope with Melvin’s name on the front in his jacket pocket. Should he reveal it?
“Personally, I like to have all the facts at my disposal,” he says, checking Melvin’s reaction, but the man is as nonchalant as if he’s watching some sort of reality television show, mildly entertained but ultimately unbothered. Then Melvin reaches into his pocket for his phone, grins at it inanely, and starts tapping away. Decision made. Gordon will keep the secret for now.
“Well, I think I’ll be off. I’ve got a busy weekend planned,” he says, shaking Tristan’s and Vivienne’s hands and waving over at Melvin, who is still absorbed in his phone.
Gordon steps down from his stool and walks toward the doors. He has work to do.
Janet
Janet has learned her lesson with the barstools and doesn’t even attempt to mount one again. Instead, she stands by the table, asmidgen too close to the tallest banker there, and places her bottle down in front of him.
“Do you mind if I hide out here for a minute?” she asks, tilting her head to one side when the man turns to face her. “I’m rather bored of my companions this afternoon.”
“Of course we don’t mind,” the man says, adjusting his spectacles as if to get a clearer look at her. “I’m Jonathan.”
He introduces the other three men at the table. One is small, one is hairy, and one is Matthew’s boss. She doesn’t take in their names. What’s the point? Jonathan is the chosen one. She rarely stoops below six feet, and he’s a good six foot two by her estimation. Glasses and pock-marked skin, but still…
“So I gather you worked with the gorgeous Matthew?” she asks the men, who happily lift their glasses for a top-up of champagne.
“We did,” Small tells her. “He was gorgeous, all right, and knew it. Pretty ruthless when it came to the stock market too.”
“Is that so?” she purrs. “Tell me more. The stock market has always fascinated me.” She’s trying her best to flirt, but even to her own ears, that sounded disingenuous.
“Let’s not talk shop,” Jonathan butts in mercifully. “So how did you know our Matthew? I don’t suppose you were one of his conquests?”
Janet opens her mouth to respond, but the other men burst out laughing. She grits her teeth and tries her best to chuckle along.
