The Dinner Guest Page 10

  Rachel arrived on time at 7pm. I’d been in the lounge, scrolling through our Sky planner, fantasising about all the things we could be watching instead of hosting this weird little dinner, but grudgingly turned the TV off and went through to greet her.

  ‘Evening, Rachel,’ I said. ‘I hope you are well.’

  I saw a flicker in Matthew’s eyes, probably a micro-wince at my clunky, way-too-formal politeness – the opposite to the normal, laid-back, king-of-small-talk air that I liked to cultivate.

  ‘Come through to the lounge,’ Matthew said. ‘Titus is just getting changed; he’ll be down in a moment.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not getting dressed up for dinner, is he?’ Rachel said, casting a self-conscious glance down at her perfectly lovely light-blue casual dress. Part of me found it amusing that she thought there was a chance we all wore dinner jackets of an evening, like characters from Downton Abbey.

  Matthew was quick to reassure her. ‘No, no, we were making a cake and he got flour all over his jeans. Shall we go through into the lounge? I’ll get you a drink.’

  The evening continued surprisingly smoothly and, before long, I started to relax in her company. I even began to enjoy myself and in spite of my initial reservations, I got a sense of why both Matthew and Titus liked her. She seemed to have a strength, a backbone, an internal core that helped her hold her own in social situations. I’d seen it at book club but hadn’t been able to articulate it to myself. It wasn’t a bluntness or boldness, quite the opposite. More simply a confidence in what she was doing that allowed her not to get too phased by people, surroundings and, if we’re being frank, a social stratum she wasn’t used to. Just as we were sitting down at the table in the dining room, the sound of the doorbell rang through the air, followed by the crunch of a key in the lock. This could only be one person: my mother, who always rang before letting herself in. She once explained this as ‘the politest thing to do when letting yourself in to someone else’s house’.

  ‘Only me,’ I heard her call out from the hall, and I got up to go and greet her.

  ‘Mum, sorry, were we expecting—?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, putting her bag down on the side table, ‘I just wanted to pop round to give Titus these books on Anne Boleyn I had gathering dust on the shelves.’

  The idea of a single speck of dust gathering on my mother’s perfect bookshelves was so unlikely it was laughable. I took the books from her and looked down at their dreary covers. ‘Both are out of print,’ she continued, ‘and he mentioned they’d be helpful for his coursework.’

  I nodded, then looked up and said, ‘We have a guest.’

  She looked surprised. ‘A guest? On a Sunday? Is this one of Matthew’s book-club things?’

  Matthew appeared at my side suddenly, as if conjured by the sound of his name. ‘Sort of,’ he said, smiling warmly. ‘Our book-club member Rachel has come over. The one who helped Titus. You should come through and meet her, Cassandra.’

  My mother has always been a little nosy, although she’d object to such a suggestion.

  ‘Oh, well, if it wouldn’t interrupt,’ she said, allowing Matthew to take her coat.

  We went through into the dining room where Matthew was talking to Titus. My mother greeted her warmly, saying how impressed she was to hear about her stepping in to help Titus the other week.

  ‘Oh, honestly, it was nothing. I just did what anyone would have done,’ Rachel said, looking embarrassed by all the praise.

  ‘I don’t think they would,’ my mother said as Matthew brought round the food – apparently he’d cooked more than enough for an extra guest. ‘I was at the checkout at the Waitrose near me recently when I dropped the contents of my purse all over the floor, and not one person in the queue helped me pick them up. They were all on their phones, no doubt scrolling through Instagram and the like, oblivious to the rest of the world.’ She emphasised the word Instagram slightly, her way of making a little dig towards me and my social media presence.

  ‘I think people would have avoided intervening in a violent confrontation because of fear, not because they’re on their phones,’ I said.

  She gave a little tilt of her head. ‘Well, I’m not so sure. People aren’t nearly as observant these days as they used to be.’

  Rachel nodded. ‘I completely agree,’ she said. ‘A young lad on the estate where I live literally collided with me the other day. He was swaying to music on his headphones, his eyes almost closed. Didn’t seem to care about anyone around him.’

  My mother nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, exactly, I—’

  Then she stopped. We all looked over to her, wondering why she had her fork paused in the air, her head slightly to the side, her eyes fixed on Rachel.

  ‘Er … Mum?’ I said, both a little embarrassed and worried. Was this the sign of a seizure or a stroke? Or the onset of Alzheimer’s?

  Her face then relaxed a little. ‘Sorry,’ she said, glancing at me, then turning her gaze back to Rachel. ‘I just … do you know, my dear, it’s the strangest thing, but I feel like we’ve met before.’

  I saw a flash of something flicker across Rachel’s face. Then she smiled and gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I must just have one of those faces. The type that just looks like everyone. I get mistaken for people in shops sometimes. For someone’s sister or cousin and the like.’ She picked up another scoop of pasta with her fork and started to eat.

  My mother was still staring at her. ‘Yes … yes, well. That must be it.’

  I met Matthew’s eyes across the table, and I gave him a minute shrug to say, Not sure what that’s all about. He was quick to move the conversation on, telling Titus that his gran had dropped him round some of the Anne Boleyn biographies he’d been after. The subject then slid into a discussion about studying history and coursework and how Rachel was never a fan of it when she was at school, and things started to ease a bit.

  But I couldn’t help notice, all through the rest of dinner, my mother’s eyes occasionally wander over to Rachel and linger on her face. As if she were pondering an unusual painting in a gallery that she couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of. And her words continued to echo round in my head for the rest of the evening. It’s the strangest thing, but I feel like we’ve met before.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Charlie

  The day after the murder

  After my strange, flu-like sleep the night before, I wake up feeling surprisingly well, though a little dazed. I sit on my bed, waiting for the nausea, the crushing grief, the panicky breathing, but none of it arrives. I go and pee and then shower in the guest room en suite. My room here in Wilton Crescent always feels like one of the guest rooms. Never quite ‘my room’, even though I’ve slept in the same one whenever I’ve stayed since my mother moved here nearly twenty years ago. My childhood bedroom in the house in St George’s Square where my father resides still feels like ‘my room’, although I can’t remember the last time I slept there. It may well be over a decade.

  The steam and heat from the shower does little to shift the odd, numbing dreamlike state I’m in. When I’m back in the bedroom, I sit still in the chair by the window for a few seconds more, trying to find some clarity in my clouded brain. The feeling of waking up without my husband near me, without him passing some comment on the day ahead, some reason to look forward to an evening together or event we’re going to, some light bickering about something stupid, something trivial … all of it has been part of my mornings for so long, I feel like I’ve been untethered, waking up here in my mother’s house knowing that previous life has for ever been lost.

  I go to the drawers at the other end of the room. They’re filled with clothes, all perfectly ironed and folded, although some of them date back to my teenage years. I pull on some boxers and jeans I don’t think I’ve worn since I was twenty, along with a light-pink shirt that’s slightly tight across the chest (I had a sharp, skinny frame until I discovered resistance training in my twenties). I then go d
ownstairs, the hallway carpet soft against my bare feet, the creak of the floor announcing my arrival to my mother.

  ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ she calls out.

  I go inside to find her taking out a tray of croissants from the oven. ‘Palomar nipped out to Waitrose to get us some supplies, but I sent her home afterwards,’ she says by way of explaining why she is preparing breakfast herself, instead of allowing her housekeeper to do it. ‘We can handle cooking and light laundry by ourselves, and then when your father gets home, we’ll go to Braddon.’

  I nod. ‘I’m sure we’ll survive cooking for ourselves.’ It is obvious Palomar has been given an impromptu holiday because Mum wants to be able to talk freely without risk of being overheard. There is always the chance the police will want to interview her at some point, especially when they clock that she’s in a prime position to eavesdrop on us all while we’re gathered under one roof. ‘Where’s Titus? And Dad? When is his flight?’

  I see a tightness pinch my mother’s face. She’s choosing how much to tell me. ‘Titus is still asleep, and your father is on his way. He’s just getting some work done beforehand.’

  I stare at her. ‘Some work done? The murder of his son-in-law isn’t enough of an emergency for him?’

  My mother’s eyes continue to bore into mine. ‘Yes. Important work. Important people.’

  I sit down on one of the tall chairs at the breakfast bar. I haven’t got the energy to question her further on this, and my mother turns back to the sink. The gleaming modern kitchen is very different from the old design my father has in the St George’s Square property. Mum’s style and appreciation of the new-yet-homely feel to houses is something I’ve always shared with her. My father, meanwhile, is a strong believer in keeping the old character of a place alive. If my mother had remained in the house I grew up in, I’m sure she would have enforced a renovation upon it by now, as she has with a number of the rooms at Braddon Manor, much to my father’s barely contained annoyance.

  A croissant is placed on a plate and slid towards me. It’s warm and has just the right level of crispiness and it’s only when I’m biting into it I realise how hungry I am. I let a few seconds pass while I digest her words. Then she begins talking again and her sentence drives any thoughts of my father from my mind.

  ‘This isn’t what you’ll want to hear, amidst your grief and what you’re no doubt going through, but you have to understand that Titus’s position in all this is, shall we say, a little rocky…’

  I get up off the seat. ‘I can’t talk about this,’ I say, taking the croissant with me. I’d started to feel shaky as soon as she mentioned the word ‘grief’ – a word I’m not ready to accept or let into my world at present.

  ‘Oh, darling, I understand this must be … difficult.’ She too gets off her chair and comes around to where I’m standing, laying a hand on my shoulder. ‘Your father’s plane will land this evening. We’ll need to go through it all then, you realise? We won’t be able to avoid it.’

  I grit my teeth and try to breathe slowly. ‘Don’t you think it would be better for everyone – better for you both, at least – if you didn’t know everything? The less you know, the easier it will be when…’

  She grips me firmly with both hands now. ‘No. We’re going to talk it through; your dad has already contacted Oliver Harrington. We’ll all talk it through first, then decide what’s the best thing to do for Titus.’

  I find myself wince at another mention of Titus’s name, the thought of him upstairs asleep, about to wake into one of the most difficult days of his life – one of a series of them – paining me greatly.

  As if reading my thoughts, my mother then says, ‘If you wanted, I could talk to him beforehand. Tell him we’re all going to…’

  ‘No,’ I say, firmly. ‘I think … I think we should leave things be for now. Leave him be. I tried to talk to him last night, but he clammed up.’

  I see the anxiety in my mother’s eyes. ‘I’m just concerned that there’s so much we don’t yet know – so much none of us understands. And the police will be able to tell if we’re not telling the truth if we don’t first get a handle on what we want our version of the truth to be. Do you understand me? At the moment, Rachel holds all the cards. We can discuss for hours why that might be or what she might be up to, but it’s important that, if she changes her story, we’re able to fall back on firm foundations – not weak guesses and suggestions.’

  All I can do is nod and say, ‘I know.’ I’m finding it hard to look at her now. Everything she’s saying is unleashing the wave of anxiety I’ve had walled up within me since waking, and it’s threatening to rush through my entire being. I leave the kitchen without saying another word, walk back upstairs, and within minutes I’m throwing up into the sink in the bathroom. As I’m letting the gush of the taps wash away my vomit, I jump to see Titus reflected in the mirror. He looks like he’s just got out of bed, his hair all messy and ruffled.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, giving the sink a cursory wipe with my hand, unsure why I’m apologising.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says, his face drained and pale. ‘I’ve been sick too.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rachel

  Ten months to go

  The dinner at the Allerton-Joneses’ had been going well before Charlie’s mother turned up. Cassandra Allerton seemed to be one of those very polite but chilly women – not quite over-posh and haughty, but not quite warm and friendly. There was something a bit Maggie Thatcher about her, although her dress sense was a bit more subtly stylish and modern. Anyway, our nice little dinner was interrupted by her barging in as if she owned the place (maybe she did, for all I knew) and sitting down to eat with us. That was when the odd moment happened. She was in the middle of talking when she suddenly stopped mid-sentence and looked at me as if I were a particularly confusing ghost. I could see her mind whirring, trying to work out what it was that had startled her about me. And I had a terrible feeling all this was a symptom of déjà vu. Sure enough, when she finally spoke, her words made that crystal clear.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I just … do you know, my dear, it’s the strangest thing, but I feel like we’ve met before.’

  I tried to play it well. Make out I just had ‘one of those faces’. But it did make me worry that my efforts to befriend the Allerton-Joneses would be destabilised so quickly. I wracked my brains as to how she could have recognised me, tried to think if she and I had ever come into contact before. Perhaps she’d seen a photo somewhere. I couldn’t be sure. Or maybe, just maybe, it was a pure coincidence – that she once knew someone who looked like me, and I was reading too much into it.

  Whatever it was, it meant I walked home later that evening feeling a lot more uneasy than I’d hoped, worried I was playing a far more dangerous game than I’d first realised. By the time I reached my flat, I was properly crying. Not sobbing, exactly – passers-by probably wouldn’t even have noticed – but the tears were flowing freely down my face, causing my skin to smart as the cold wind hit me. I knew what I was going to do, as soon as I got in. I felt the need so desperately within me, had felt it all throughout dinner, with Titus opposite me and Matthew to my left. That familiar ache, that companionable pain, the feeling that would never go away as long as I lived. Or at least, not until I finished what I’d come to do.

  At the door of my block, I could see someone holding the door for me and I ran to catch it. It was the busybody next door, Amanda, carrying Peter Jones carrier bags. ‘Oh goodness, are you OK?’ she said when she saw my tears.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Sorry, it’s the cold. It makes my eyes stream.’

  If she didn’t believe me, she decided not to mention it. ‘Oh, it has got chilly, hasn’t it! Part of me wishes I’d got the bus back.’

  I looked at the bags she was carrying, feeling I should make some effort of conversation as we made our way over to the lift. ‘Early Christmas shopping?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, sort of,’ she replied. ‘My sister ha
s a whole gaggle of children; couldn’t stop breeding, bless her. The oldest is now in his forties, the youngest is now twenty-three, and some of them have kids of their own, too. It’s a marvel I don’t go bankrupt every year, what with all the birthdays.’

  I nodded, even though the idea of a wide extended family was completely foreign to me. ‘Do you have children of your own?’ I asked, then immediately wished I hadn’t, as I saw a shadow fall over her face, and her lips tighten.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘sadly that never quite worked out for me.’

  The lift juddered to a stop and I felt a sense of desperation to get out of this awkward conversation and into the solitary safety of my little flat. ‘I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t…’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’ve got a step-daughter, from my husband’s first marriage but, well, we’re not exactly close.’ I stood back to let her leave first and followed as we walked the length of the corridor to our respective doors. ‘She’s a bit of a bitch, actually,’ Amanda continued, a slight bitter note creeping into her voice. ‘Very self-centred. It’s all about her drama, her problems. Probably comes from being an only child.’

  At her front door she stopped and flicked a look at me. ‘Oh gosh, I’m sorry, are you an only child?’

  I’d been rummaging in my bag for my keys and the question unsettled me so much, I dropped them on the floor, then ended up tipping the whole contents of my bag out as I leaned down to get them. ‘God, I’m so clumsy today,’ I said as Amanda put down her shopping bags and helped me scoop up my things. Though annoyed at myself, I was grateful the commotion gave me a reason not to answer Amanda’s question. I managed to sound almost normal as I said goodbye and let myself in.