“Look, you really must get out of this rain…”
“Hang on, I didn’t notice this door before,” Tristan says, his attention on an alleyway set back from the road.
Vivienne looks up and sees a black doorway. She blinks, and two gold numbers glisten in the rain.
“Thirteen! This must be it,” Tristan cries, a childish triumph to his voice. Despite herself, Vivienne feels a spark of excitement in her chest. She has always loved a good mystery, finds comfort in revisiting her favorites,Prime SuspectandPoirot, and reading anything by Agatha Christie. They step down the alleyway, and Tristan pushes the door open to let Vivienne through.
The door snaps shut behind them, cutting off the sound of the city’s early-evening traffic. Vivienne can hear only her footsteps on the tiled floor and Tristan’s breath behind her.
“I can’t see a thing,” she whispers, taking tiny steps forward.
“Look, there’s a sign,” Tristan murmurs.
As Vivienne’s eyes adjust to the darkness, a large gold plaque appears on the wall ahead of them. The word SERENDIPITY’S is printed in stern capitals, just above a staircase leading down. Vivienne’s heart gallops, but she doesn’t want to come across as ascared older woman, so she takes a deep breath and walks forward. She reaches out for the smooth wooden banister as her toes tentatively feel for each step.
“Here we go.” She tries to give her voice a singsong quality, as if attending creepy dinner parties in hidden underground restaurants is something she does every day.
At the bottom of the stairs, they’re greeted by a heavy dark wood door with a huge gold handle in the center. Muffled voices, then a screeching laugh, emanate from the other side. Vivienne’s racing heart slows a smidgen at the sound of other people. Even though her conscious mind is telling her that she’s in Central London, with thousands of people just meters away, she started to feel like she and Tristan had entered a different world. She pushes the door open and gasps. It is the most splendid dining room she’s ever seen, with a roaring fire framed by an elaborate marble fireplace, dark wood panels, and enormous oil paintings hanging from the walls. Vivienne always dreamed of living in a grand house with rooms like these; she’d been glued toDownton Abbey, imagining herself right at home alongside the well-bred ladies. Vivienne puts her hand on the smooth marble fireplace and looks up at the image above. Unlike the other paintings, which depict generic landscapes and plump, dreamy women, this is a black-and-white-inked drawing. A devilish face pokes through the center of the circular image, which features a series of animals dressed as humans. At the top is a peacock wearing a top hat and tails, then an eagle holding up weighing scales, two brawling dogs in white shirts, a pig in a suit digging into a roast chicken, a bow-tied lizard peering at a scroll, apipe-smoking cat, and a top-hatted sheep gazing at a well-dressed ewe. Could this be a clue to tonight’s event? If so, then Vivienne is impressed. This is a cut above the usual lackluster marketing tricks. Stepping closer, she gazes into the eyes of the devil, who seems to be looking right at her. She leans forward and notices that the image is slightly pulling away at the corner. She reaches for it.
“Look at that table,” Tristan says, standing a little too close behind her, like a nervous toddler.
She reluctantly turns from the picture and takes in the circular table with a white tablecloth in the center of the room. Above it hangs a crystal chandelier, with white tapered candles burning brightly. Long green vines hang down from the chandelier to the table and wind around a series of gold candelabras, like an octopus’s tentacles. Seven places are set, with sparkling silver cutlery and crystal wineglasses. Once again, she’s reminded of a period drama. Vivienne wonders if she’s meant to be the old dowager countess of the group.
“Well, hello there,” a booming male voice calls from across the table. “Come and sit down.”
Vivienne squints at the dark silhouette behind a candelabra. Walking toward the table, she spots two empty spaces, both with small black cards between the cutlery. As she gets closer, she finds the one with her name, written in the same style as the invitation. Peering at the card, she sees the eagle with weighing scales once again. To her right sits a lean man wearing a fitted gray suit and an arrogant expression; he nods at her. To her left is Tristan’s setting. They both sit down.
Matthew
Leaning back in his chair, Matthew watches the old lady and drippy (literally, the floor around him is soaked) bloke make their way to the table, taking the last two seats. Well, now he really is confused. The woman is the same genre of dried-up spinster you find in every office across London. A couple of cats at home and a freezer full of ready-made meals, no doubt. As for the drip: too-long hair, smudged glasses, a fan of outdated rock music (judging by his T-shirt). Adding all this together, Matthew would surmise that he works a badly paid job involving computers. Already seated is the Botoxed lingerie boss with huge knockers, the old Welsh police officer who clearly loves a drink or ten, the too-skinny YouTuber frowning at her phone, and the dull TV doctor desperately waiting to be recognized. Glancing around the table, Matthew flicks his glossy hair and wonders who has brought this random wedge of humanity together—and why.
“Welcome to London’s most mysterious dinner party.” The old copper jumps up, offering his spade-like hand to the two new arrivals. Matthew’s own knuckles still ache a little from his bone-crushing greeting.
“I’m Melvin. No sign of our host yet,” he adds.
“My name’s Vivienne. It took us a while to find the restaurant…” the older woman babbles, trying to smooth down her hair as she takes Melvin’s hand.
“Tristan,” the geek mutters, shaking the proffered hand but staying in his seat. He removes his glasses and wipes them with a napkin. Without the specs, he looks more vulnerable. He has thespots of a teenager, an unexpected boomerang-shaped scar running along his cheekbone, as well as a receding hairline. He’s a good ten years older than Matthew, he reckons, probably late thirties.
“Good to meet you both. I’m Matthew.” He nods from the other side of Melvin, flashing his most winning smile at them and feeling relieved that he’s too far away to shake Tristan’s hand. As the two new arrivals take off their coats and Melvin introduces the other guests, Matthew notices with satisfaction that they’re both squinting a little. He has dazzled them, just as he does with everyone he meets. He takes a languid sip of his wine and doesn’t need to look up to know that six pairs of eyes are on him. It’s the same wherever he goes. Women, men—everyone can’t help but stare.
“Well, the wine’s certainly good,” he says, raising an eyebrow at the lingerie boss to his left, who’d introduced herself as Janet.
“Delicious,” she responds, beaming and flashing her catlike amber eyes.
It’s clear to Matthew that Janet was stunning in her twenties, but now, in her early forties—at a guess—she’s past her prime. Sure, the wonders of Botox have ironed out her forehead, but the lines around her eyes and mouth cruelly betray her. And Matthew would bet that she’s put on a few pounds in the last five years. Great boobs, but she’s “paying the ass tax,” as his colleagues at the investment bank would say. Noticing Matthew’s appraising eye, a blotchy pink rash spreads unattractively across Janet’s mighty cleavage, which bounces heavily as she lifts her wineglass and takes three large gulps.
“Malbec—Argentinian, I’d say,” Janet grins at him, her lipsalready turning inky thanks to the tannins.
“Ah, a woman who knows her wine,” Matthew purrs, casually hooking his left arm over the back of her chair.
And just like that, the daft cow is all his. Despite the multiple rings on her wedding finger, despite the obvious disparity in their ages, despite the fact that she’s been in his company for all of ten minutes, he knows without doubt that he could take her home right now. He doesn’t want her, of course (he’s already decided that the young YouTuber Stella will be the lucky lady), but it’s always fun to practice.
As if reading his thoughts, Matthew’s mobile buzzes to life in his jacket pocket, right next to his heart. Probably Robyn, or maybe Charmaine. God, it could be any one of five or six pretty yet vulnerable women he’d plucked from various dating websites. Occasionally, he slums it and heads to one of those cheesy nightclubs at around 1:00 a.m., when he can guarantee some easy targets. Bowled over by Matthew’s expensive looks and cheap charm, they happily oblige his darker fantasies, stay at home waiting for his calls, and cancel plans with their friends (who eventually give up inviting them) until they become totally reliant on him. At that point, he could do anything—anything—to them and they’d accept it. That’s when he performs his signature U-turn and just stops calling. Some take it worse than others, like this one girl, Eleanor, who wouldn’t accept it was over. You’d think she’d be grateful for the few weeks of the high life he’d shown her, but she messaged and called him incessantly. Matthew had worried he’d have to take matters into his own hands and find a way to silenceher for good, but thankfully she got the message in the end.
Shaking his head to shoo the thought away, Matthew’s mind returns to the dinner party. When the black invitation appeared in the mailbox at his flat on Brompton Road, he presumed it was some sort of elite singles mixer. Ever since he’d agreed to that mortifying article in the free paper, “London’s Hottest Bachelors” or whatever, he’s been overrun with invitations. Most had ended up in either the digital or literal trash. But there was something about this one—the luxurious paper, the hint of mystery—that piqued his interest. He hoped it might bring him some fresh meat, some new challenges. It was all getting a bit easy.
“You can keep your fancy wine,” Melvin addresses the group now. “Beer’s my tipple, always has been.”
