Page 67 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
“I’m Dave.” The taller one of the group reaches across to shake Vivienne’s hand.
“Vivienne. I think we met briefly at the university a while ago,” she says, taking his large soft hand. “Are you all Tristan’s university friends?”
Dave nods and introduces Fergus and Eddie, who give Vivienne small waves. They carefully set their purple drinks down on the table.
“Is it so obvious that we’re computer scientists?” Fergus says, raising an eyebrow at Vivienne, who simply shrugs.
“Snakebite and Black,” Eddie says, noticing Vivienne eyeing his drink. “It was always Tristan’s favorite.”
“He made us all try it on our first student union night out, doyou remember?” he says, turning to his friends. “I’ll never forget my hangover the next day, but I think Tristan’s was worse.”
Laughter spurts out of Dave’s mouth—along with some purple fluid—and a group of elderly ladies behind them turn around and stare. He covers his mouth and ducks his head down.
“I remember. He wouldn’t speak to us for days. Barely opened his bedroom door. I think it was his first hangover, and he was convinced we’d spiked his drinks. We hadn’t, he just couldn’t handle his booze, and never did learn to,” he says.
While the boys chat about their university days, Vivienne scans the pub and notices Susan and Jim facing each other by the bar. Susan’s head is bowed over her floral bosom as Jim dabs at her face with a tissue, inadvertently smearing her purple eyeshadow, but she doesn’t notice—or care—as she nods and clutches at his hand.
“He’d found out Emilia liked Jane Austen, walking holidays, and sparkly shoes, so for her birthday, he got her a first editionPride and Prejudice, a subscription to the Ramblers Association, and some pink, glittery wellies,” Fergus is saying. “He went into his overdraft for the gifts, thought he’d cracked it, but she freaked out, accused him of spying on her and ditched him.”
“It was a good idea, but he should have been more subtle about it.” Eddie laughs.
“Sorry, what are you talking about?” Vivienne asks, tuning back in to their conversation.
“Oh, did he tell you about the spy software he developed?”
“I know about Moralia, but it wasn’t spy software—it was foremployee profiling,” Vivienne says, thinking of the priest’s comment aboutMoralia, an old religious text.
“Well, however he explained it, he started work on it at uni. In its early versions, he used it to spy on girls he liked. He’d offer to help with their laptop, secretly install it, and find out everything he could about them before making his move—things like their shopping habits, their music tastes, everything they’d searched online,” explains Fergus, and Vivienne suddenly feels uneasy.
“The software worked perfectly; it was Tristan’s flirting style that let him down in the end,” says Eddie.
“Well, at least you all got together over the last few years,” Vivienne says.
“I think Dave bumped into him once, exchanged a few messages, but I hadn’t seen him since uni,” Fergus says.
“Me neither.” Eddie shrugs. “And because he’d been kicked out after that fight, we didn’t even see him at the graduation.”
Vivienne looks at all three of them, one by one, and sees they’re telling the truth. Why had Tristan told her they’d been meeting every month, even planned to go on holiday together? And how come he never once mentioned that he’d been kicked out of university for fighting, of all things?
“Could I ask you something?” Vivienne says. “Did Tristan wear glasses at university?”
Dave nods. “Yep, couldn’t see a thing without them.”
After draining their pints, the three boys (no, men) stand up and make their excuses. They explain to Vivienne their plan to catch the train back into London and toast their friend at all theirold university haunts. As she watches them go, she smiles to herself at the thought of three bad headaches tomorrow and then of Tristan’s first—and desperately sad—hangover.
Reaching for her stick, Vivienne stands up and is a little shocked by the sway of her legs. How had her dad managed to polish off a whole bottle of whiskey on Saturday nights and remain proudly sober? A quick stop at the loo, and then she would head home, Vivienne decides. Standing in front of the mirror of the ladies’ room, she fishes out her lipstick from her handbag and carefully reapplies it. Giving her reflection one last look, Vivienne gasps at the sight of Tristan standing just over her shoulder.
“Oh!” She spins around but sees she’s alone. Looking back in the mirror, there’s nothing but a hand dryer next to her shoulder.
Her hands clutch the sink as she wills her pounding heart to slow down. The doctor had warned her that hallucinations were a side effect of the hypoxia and should eventually ease off. Most likely, two large whiskeys in the afternoon have left her a little squiffy.
“Thank you for your reading,” a voice says, making Vivienne jump again. But this time it’s no hallucination. Susan steps out of a stall. Her eyeshadow is now smudged on one side, giving the impression of a black eye.
“I’m so sorry for the way I behaved when you were in the hospital,” she says, looking at Vivienne’s reflection in the mirror.
“Don’t even think of it; you were in shock.” Vivienne waves away the apology. “What do you suppose Tristan would have made of all of this?”
Susan doesn’t miss a beat.
