Page 61 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
Tristan lets out a long world-weary sigh.
“So what’s been going on with you? You’ve been quiet these last few weeks. Are you disappointed about yourMoraliaproject?” Vivienne asks.
“It’s not that.” He shakes his head, picking up his cutlery.
When he told Vivienne aboutMoralia, in the most basic terms, she jumped on it and encouraged him to revisit the program. So he spent a couple of weeks working on it, then emailed Raymond, a graduate from his class who had gone on to work for a successful company in California, telling him about the software. Expecting to be ignored or quickly rebuffed, Tristan was astounded when Raymond replied within hours, eager to hear more. That weekendVivienne insisted on buying champagne and toasting him, despite Tristan’s protests.
“So what’s troubling you?” Vivienne asks, resting her napkin on her knees without taking her eyes off him.
“I…met up with Ellie last month,” he admits, cutting his pizza into ten even slices.
“Really?” she asks, letting the spaghetti on her fork plop back down onto her plate. He’s told her about Ellie, about how she broke his heart when she abruptly ended their relationship. Vivienne has often suggested he get in touch with her, to try to “get closure,” an American term that makes him cringe when she uses it.
He takes a big bite from his pizza and chews it slowly, trying not to give away the twist in his stomach when he remembers that evening. That same night, after he and Vivienne had gotten through two bottles of champagne, Tristan was buzzing from the bubbles—and the sniff of success—and pulled up Ellie’s Facebook page once again. For the hundredth time, he opened the messenger screen. But this time, he started to write.
Hi Ellie, this is Tristan. I’ve been thinking about you lately and wondered if you would like to meet for a catch-up?
Then he deletedI’ve been thinking about you lately(too creepy). His heart raced as the arrow hovered over the Send button. He swallowed and pressed it. Somehow he managed to get to sleep quite quickly after that and, upon switching his computer on the next morning, only remembered the message when he saw a notification of a reply from Ellie.
Hi Tristan, Yes let’s catch up! How about next Wednesday intown, 7ish?
A chuckle involuntarily shot out of Tristan’s mouth as he took in Ellie’s familiar style, the exclamation marks, how she referred to Central London as a “town” and the “ish” that followed any time suggestion. Time to Ellie has always been a fluid concept. When they were together, it infuriated Tristan that she’d just presumed the whole world ran fifteen minutes late like her. Perhaps she hadn’t changed as much as he’d thought.
And true to form, she arrived at the pub Tristan had chosen, seventeen minutes late, stumbling through the door with her curly, brown hair down to her shoulders and a second baby bump poking out between her open coat, dark circles under her eyes. Then her lovely smile broke out when she spotted Tristan.
“Tris, how are you?” she said, pulling him in for a hug, her curls tickling his nose as he leaned in and they bumped pot bellies. For the next twenty minutes, she talked nonstop about her husband, Dale, her son, Alfie, nearly two, and soon-to-be second son. She even showed pictures of them on her phone while Tristan nodded and smiled in the right places. By her second glass of lemonade, she’d moved on to every detail of her teaching job: their Easter production, her latest classroom display, a little boy in her class called Henry who never left her side.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Tristan. How did it go?” Vivienne asks.
He shrugs. “It was nice to see her. She’s still working as a teacher, has a little boy, and is pregnant with her second. Happilymarried.”
Vivienne snorts. He knows she always finds it hard to believe anyone can be happily married (“An oxymoron, if ever there was one,” she likes to say).
“Oh, well, good for her,” Vivienne says, not even pretending to eat her meal. “Did you tell her what you’ve been up to?”
“WhathaveI been up to, Vivienne?” It comes out harsher than he intended.
“Your software, your flat…”
Tristan finishes off his bottle and waves at the waiter to bring another. Once Ellie had run out of steam, she asked about Tristan’s life—well, actually, she asked if he’d met anyone. He might even flatter himself to think she seemed nervous about his response, and once he’d confirmed that he was still single, she visibly relaxed. Then there was silence. As if anything outside that was meaningless. Perhaps it was. The ticking of a grandfather clock swelled from the depths of the pub, accompanied by the low chatter of the two old fellas sitting at the bar. And all Tristan had thought of was how empty his life had become, how very little. Ellie was still looking expectantly at him, so he spluttered out something about his work and flat in Manor House.
“Sounds like you’re doing well for yourself,” she said. Then she asked the question: “Do you ever think about the day we broke up?” and Tristan’s heart soared. He nodded, ready to tell her how much he thought about her, how much he regretted. But she carried on talking.
“I just wanted to let you know that I forgive you,” she said,reaching up to hug him.
“Thank you,” he muttered into her curls.
She bent over to pick up her large bag from the floor, and he noticed she was trembling. One last wave, and she was gone. In that instant, Tristan realized they’d made no plans to meet again.
Then he stared at his barely touched pint and thought back to the day they’d split up, the day that Ellie had irreparably broken his heart. After their make-or-break holiday, he felt like things were back on track. It was a Sunday morning. He’d made her breakfast in bed, asked about her plans for the day, and she just blurted out, “Tristan, I’m moving out. It’s not working.” She’d been so cold. It was so sudden, he’d felt like he was standing on a tall building and the ground had just disappeared from under him. Then she’d calmly started to pack up her things. Yes, he lost his temper at the sight of her clothes, books, and jewelry piled into boxes by the front door. But who could blame him, really?
The following week, Tristan’s fledgling hopes forMoraliaalso came crumbling down. Raymond had arranged a video meeting, and Tristan was asked to present the idea to the company’s board. The presentation went well, right up until one young upstart queried the ethics of his program. His words created a wave of fear through the board, and they unanimously agreed—a resounding no.
“Let us know if you come up with something less…controversial,” Raymond told him, and Tristan said he would, doing his best to contain his frustration at the thousands of hours of wasted time. When he told Vivienne that they’d declined, she encouraged himto keep going and pitch the idea to someone else, but Tristan had quietly put the folders away and deleted the file on his laptop. He reverted back to spending his days on his freelance jobs, followed by evenings slumped on the sofa playingGrand Theft Auto, or just staring up at the damp patch in the corner of his bedroom. Curled up in his bed for around eighteen hours a day, he only moved when his hunger became unbearable, wolf down some crisps or toast, and then climb back under his still-warm covers. Every few days, he’d force himself to take long walks around the city, usually in the early hours of the morning, when he was more likely to avoid the annoying masses.Last month he canceled on Vivienne three times in a row and then just didn’t show up for her birthday lunch. He’d had every intention of going, had showered, gotten himself dressed, and was standing by his front door but hadn’t found the strength to open it. Afterward, Cat had left a shouty voicemail on his phone.Selfishwas the word she’d used, and “You’ve let Vivienne down again.” So when Vivienne messaged to tell him Melvin was in the hospital, he called her, and a few days later, guilt made him agree to meet her at the workingmen’s club.
“And how did you feel after seeing Ellie?” Vivienne asks, finally returning to her presumably cold carbonara.
“Fine,” he says, shrugging, and Vivienne gives him a sharp look. “Well, not great but…I’ll be all right.”
