The Dinner Guest Page 5

  I could see Matthew trying desperately hard not to laugh at this, and I coughed a little to hide my own mirth. Anita was helping herself to more wine. She’d be sozzled by the time the second guest arrived, I was sure of it.

  Twenty minutes later, Jerome hopped across the threshold, happy and energetic, then suddenly appeared to morph into a tired and world-weary old man the moment he saw his daughter-in-law leaning up against the kitchen counter. ‘I see Anita’s here,’ he said in a tone mixed with boredom and resignation.

  ‘Been here for quite a while,’ I murmured, giving him a knowing glance that I hoped silently communicated ‘and she’s already tipsy.’ Jerome nodded, understanding me instantly. ‘She walked, apparently.’

  I saw him raise an eyebrow. ‘That’s brave of her. Ever since a recent stabbing in the area, she’s told me she won’t walk the streets after 6pm.’

  ‘Well, she got here in one piece at least.’

  He turned away from his view of Anita in the kitchen and looked at me properly. ‘It’s nice to see you, Charlie,’ he put his hand out and tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Although, don’t take this the wrong way, dear chap, but why are you here? You’re never here when we have our meet-ups.’

  ‘I just fancied joining in this time,’ I said, giving a little shrug. ‘And there’s a new member joining. Rachel. Bit of an odd situation with that, really. Matthew invited her.’

  Jerome nodded, ‘Yes, he mentioned this to me. It will be nice to get some fresh blood in the mix. Might stop Anita holding court so prominently.’ He rolled his eyes a little, gave me a smile, and then walked through into the kitchen.

  Meryl arrived shortly after Jerome, prompting us to move into the lounge so we could sit down properly. Matthew was being the conscientious host, filling up everyone’s wine glasses and offering more cake than anyone could handle.

  ‘My goodness, Matthew, it’s like you’re going into the catering industry,’ Meryl said, her smooth American accent instantly transporting me back to my childhood. My parents had known Meryl long before they had me. My father had some business association with her late husband’s company and they all became firm friends. When they had me, they instantly made her godmother, and I’d grown up spending summers running around the large country house she and her husband had owned in Kent. She sold it upon his death fifteen years ago, preferring to live in Central London so as to have a better eye on her own business – a beauty cosmetics company called Streamline. She has a more distant, hands-free relationship with the company now, the day-to-day management carried out by a group of industry high-fliers she appointed. Although still only in her sixties, it felt sometimes like she’d aged rather quickly within the last few years.

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting our new member,’ Meryl said, cutting into her slice of carrot cake with a small fork. ‘I understand she’s a young person, like the two of you.’ She nodded at Matthew and me. ‘Will be nice to have some more young voices.’

  Anita’s lip twisted at the thought of being lumped in the old club with Meryl and Jerome.

  ‘She’s a little late, it seems,’ I said, checking the time on my phone.

  ‘She hasn’t messaged to say she’s running late, but she confirmed yesterday she was still up for coming,’ Matthew said, looking down at his phone.

  The doorbell rang at that moment. Everyone looked around at each other, apart from Anita who craned her neck to see if she could see whoever was on the doorstep, apparently keen for a first glimpse of our mysterious new guest. It suddenly felt like I was in a play and a pivotal character was about to enter stage right.

  ‘That must be her now,’ Matthew said, and disappeared out to the hallway. Everyone sat in an awkward silence while we heard him saying hello and being all welcoming and doing the host thing. Then he came back into the room, bringing with him the tallish, blonde, nervously smiling woman.

  ‘This is Rachel, everyone. The new member we’ve all been waiting for.’

  I saw Rachel’s face fall. ‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry I’m late. I’m so embarrassed. I got the street muddled up with another…’

  Matthew, realising how his phrasing may have been interpreted, cut in, ‘No, no, sorry, I didn’t mean waiting for in that way – just that we’re all so excited to have a new member of the group.’

  I saw Anita raise a mean-spirited eyebrow at this. Jerome, on the other hand, leapt up and clasped Rachel’s hands in his. ‘Delighted you could join us,’ he said earnestly. She smiled and said a slightly breathless thankyou and Matthew guided her to the chair next to Meryl.

  ‘Splendid to meet you, my dear,’ Meryl said, nodding at Rachel. ‘I’m Meryl, and this is Anita.’ Rachel smiled and gave a little wave to them both, taking her seat and putting her handbag on the floor, before bending down to retrieve something from it – a copy of the book, it turned out – getting slightly flustered when a pack of tissues dropped out.

  ‘Have you come far?’ Meryl asked as Matthew poured her some wine. I saw his eyes meet mine then flick to the cake. I took his prompt and offered Rachel a slice, but she declined.

  ‘From Pimlico. I decided to walk but got a bit lost somewhere just up from Sloane Square. Ended up walking in the wrong direction for a bit.’

  I saw Anita’s attention prick up. ‘Oh, I live in Pimlico. We probably passed each other on the way.’

  Well you wouldn’t have, I thought to myself, because you’ve been here for about nine hours.

  ‘Whereabouts are you?’ Anita continued in her usual abrupt, borderline rude way.

  ‘Oh, nowhere very grand,’ Rachel said.

  A normal person would have taken this as an indication to move on; Anita was many things but not, sadly, a normal person, so pressed on. ‘Which street?’

  ‘Oh, um, just off Johnson’s Place.’

  Anita’s eyebrows rose so high up her head it was almost comical. ‘That’s on the Churchill Gardens Estate, isn’t it?’ From her tone, anyone would think Rachel had confessed to bedding down with a pack of wolves every night.

  ‘That’s right,’ Rachel said, with a smile. ‘I rent a little flat there.’

  Anita’s eyes widened even further. ‘Is that so? Goodness. Well. What’s it like?’

  Rachel gave a slight shrug, ‘It’s fine. I mean, it could be better. Not as lovely as round here. But I haven’t been murdered by a gang just yet, so things could be worse.’

  Jerome laughed. ‘You must excuse my daughter-in-law. She lives in fear of anyone who doesn’t get their avocados from Waitrose.’

  Anita looked mortified. ‘I don’t eat avocados, Jerome. And you’re painting me as some kind of snob, which is more than a little audacious while you sit on your throne in your Mayfair apartment…’

  ‘Shall we perhaps,’ Meryl said, her soft voice doing what it did best – cutting through a room as if she’d shouted – ‘turn our attentions to our book this month?’

  Anita moodily snatched up her bag from wherever she’d tossed it earlier, took out a pristine paperback, and said, ‘Fine.’ Jerome smiled at her, as if he were an indulgent uncle and she a sulking child. I saw Rachel’s eyes meet Matthew’s opposite. He offered her a little flick of the eyebrows and a grin, and then he started to talk about what he ‘took away from’ the novel.

  Looking back now, I can’t be sure how long Rachel was gone. I think I vaguely remember her asking Matthew the direction of the loo, and I thought she’d gone off in the right direction. But then Titus texted me and asked if I could bring up a book he needed from the pile of schoolwork he’d left downstairs, so I hopped up to get it. Carrying the weighty tome under my arm, I extracted myself from the group – I think Jerome had just insinuated that Anita was racist and was being treated to an irate response from her – and went to climb the stairs. It was as I was approaching the landing that a flicker of movement caught my eye – not from Titus’s end of the landing, but from the main bedroom. Mine and Matthew’s bedroom. I walked down the landing slowly, wondering if we were bei
ng stealthily burgled or if Titus had gone looking for something (the fact Rachel was absent from the room downstairs still hadn’t properly registered). When I reached the doorway, I tilted forward a little to peer in without going properly through into the room. Rachel was there, standing at the side of our bed that leads into the en suite. She was peering to look at the photos we had lined along the top of the chest of drawers.

  I was momentarily stunned – completely stunned – by this sight. Then my senses kicked in. I coughed and moved forward into the room properly. ‘Er … hi,’ I said, in a friendly but slightly questioning voice.

  She turned around as if someone had fired a gun. ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I was looking for the bathroom and found my way in here, and then saw the bathroom but realised it was an en suite so thought I should go and find the proper one…’

  She trailed off with a mixture of hand gesticulations and head movements to indicate aren’t I such a fool, getting the wrong bathroom. I wasn’t sure if it was the way I saw her staring at the photos – photos of me and Matthew and Titus when he was a little boy – or if it was the fact she’d gone somewhere so private – a space generally reserved for just us, away from guests, with sports clothes on the floor and a wrapper from a packet of shaving razors poking out of the waste-paper basket. It felt like an intimate invasion. And she must have known it, because she went bright red at my silence and said, ‘I’d better go back downstairs.’

  I think I said something daft like ‘Sure’ or ‘Great’, but I didn’t know what else I should say other than what the fuck are you doing in my bedroom? And my overall need for politeness and lack of confrontation stopped me saying that. So she left, walked straight past me and back out to the landing. I just stood there. I felt uneasy, like something major and important had occurred, and I needed time to compute it. But of course, what really had happened? A guest had got the wrong room, or a guest had been a bit rude and nosy and been caught out. Nothing more. Then why was I feeling so … strange? I shook myself a little to bring my mind back to the moment, and went to go back downstairs, but paused as I neared Titus’s room. His door was closed. After my knock, he called for me to come in, so I pushed the door open gently and found him sprawled out on his bed, textbooks and sheets of paper arranged around him, some falling onto the floor. Titus didn’t just do homework. He immersed himself in it.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I asked, offering him a smile. ‘Do you want me to bring you up some more cake?’

  He grinned. ‘Fine. And no, it’s OK, I shouldn’t have more sugar this close to bed.’

  Christ, I thought to myself, the boy’s more of an adult than his parents. I nodded, and told him I’d leave him to it. Then he said, ‘Not enjoying the book club?’

  I paused. ‘Er … well, it is what it is.’ He gave a short laugh at that and so did I. ‘Why do you ask? Do I look grumpy?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I just thought I heard you come up a while ago. Seeking sanctuary, or something.’

  I considered telling him about Rachel. How weird it had been, finding her in the bedroom. But the thought of her overhearing the conversation – me bitching about her to my son – even if the chances were remote, made me stop. ‘I was just directing Rachel to the bathroom,’ I said. It was the truth, to some extent.

  He nodded and his eyes went back to his work. I let him be and then went back downstairs, half expecting to find Rachel going through the pockets of the coats in the hallway. Of course she wasn’t; she was in the lounge with everyone, accepting some more cake and laughing at something Jerome had said. Matthew caught my eye and raised his eyebrows, his silent way of asking everything OK? He smiled and gave a tiny nod, and carried on his conversation with Meryl. I went in to join them, slipping past Rachel’s chair, noticing as I did so her eyes dart up to me, filled for a split second with something like trepidation, or fear. Like an animal, sensing danger.

  Once they had all gone and we had peace at last, I helped Matthew tidy away the plates and wine glasses. Because I’m a terrible human being, I routinely left things like this out on the countertop for our housekeeper, Jane, to do the next morning. Matthew, however, frequently told me this was rude and we should do it ourselves, and whenever I reminded him that Jane was paid actual money to tidy things away, he always went temporarily deaf.

  He was putting plates into the dishwasher when he said to me, ‘Rachel was a success, don’t you think?’

  I paused. That was my big mistake. I paused, and it was enough for him to jump in and say, ‘God, I knew you’d have some sort of problem with her. Tell me, then. What was it? Please don’t tell me she doesn’t fit in or something like that. That kind of snobbery is beneath you.’

  I looked at him in outrage. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything of the kind. In fact, it’s something quite different, if you’d let me speak.’

  He closed the dishwasher and turned it on, putting his hands on his hips, ‘Go on then.’

  I took a breath, chose my words carefully, then said, ‘I found her in our bedroom. She was … looking around.’

  Matthew looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean, looking around?’

  ‘Just that,’ I said, getting frustrated. ‘She was … I don’t know … snooping.’

  ‘Snooping,’ he said, looking at me like I was insane. ‘She probably just got the wrong room when looking for the loo.’

  I was about to respond, then stopped and bit my lip.

  ‘Oh,’ Matthew said, catching on. ‘So she was just looking for the loo, then?’

  ‘Well, that was her explanation, but it wasn’t the truth. I could tell she was lying. She was looking at our stuff… It was … strange. Invasive.’

  ‘Invasive?’

  ‘Can you please stop repeating key words in that disbelieving tone? I know what I saw.’

  He sighed and came around to my side of the kitchen island. ‘I’m sorry. I believe you. But I honestly don’t think she was doing anything sinister. Everyone’s curious about other people’s houses. I’m sure we’ve all snooped about on occasion. And she probably hasn’t ever been in a house like this before.’ He came close to me and wrapped his arms around my middle.

  ‘Wow. Now who’s the snob?’ I’d intended it to be a snarky comeback, but with his hands now moving up to my shoulders and his body pressing into me, it ended up sounding weirdly flirtatious.

  ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ Matthew said into my ear, leaning in so I could smell his Boss aftershave.

  ‘Let’s.’ I pulled him close to me and hugged him tight, feeling his warmth and the comforting familiarity of his embrace. And then we drew apart, and went upstairs together.

  It was just as I was drifting off to sleep when the memory of finding Rachel in the bedroom – the very room I was in at that moment – fell into my head. I saw it again, and I remembered: it wasn’t the act of finding her in the room that had startled me; it was the look on her face. A strange, faraway look, filled with something, some emotion that I couldn’t quite place. I got out of bed and went over to the chest of drawers so as to stand exactly where she had been standing an hour earlier. In the dim room, the light from the streetlamps outside providing minimal luminance, I saw the outline of the three photo frames. One featured Titus as a little boy – probably seven years old, his face screwed up in a completely joyous smile, holding a school certificate in his hand. The other smaller frame was of Matthew and his sister Collette, taken a few years before her death. My memory wasn’t completely clear on when and why, but it was probably shot at her university town of Durham while she was a student there when Matthew went up to visit her from Oxford. And then, in the centre, in the largest frame, there was a photo of me and Matthew and Titus taken at our wedding. Titus was only just ten and looked so smart and happy in his suit. We all looked smart and happy. Maybe it was this she had been staring at. Marvelling at our happy life. How we’d made it work, year after year. Or maybe she just had something else on her mind when she was looking at the photographs. I don
’t know how long I had been standing there looking at them when Matthew spoke to me from the bed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ His voice was slurred with sleep and I heard him shift a little to get a better look at me.

  I turned and went back to the bed. ‘Just looking at our wedding day,’ I said as I got in.

  ‘Nice day,’ he murmured. Then his breathing became steady again and I could tell he’d drifted back off to sleep. And a few moments later, I was asleep too.

  Chapter Eight

  Charlie

  The day of the murder

  Titus and I wait on the steps of the police station. We are both unable to speak. Eventually, I step closer to him and put an arm over his shoulder. I feel him almost collapse into me, his firm form pressing into my side, and I feel his steady, rasping breaths. ‘It’s OK,’ I say softly, although my words are probably lost to him amidst the noise of all the cars and pedestrians bustling past.

  He doesn’t say anything while we wait there for my mother to arrive, and although my mind is racing, throwing up question after question in my head, I don’t have the mental bandwidth to form them into coherent sentences at this point. Mum parks around the back of the building, on Ebury Square, and we walk around to see her sitting in the front of the dark-red Bentley Bentayga. Even in the darkness and dull lamplight, I can tell she looks pale with shock. She motions from the window to get in quickly. We do as instructed, Titus getting in the back while I walk round to the spare front seat.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she says immediately as we climb in. ‘I’ve been so worried.’

  ‘We’re … we’re fine,’ I say, though I know it isn’t the truth – and so does she. She looks pale and tense, but her driving is smooth and controlled as we glide along the empty residential streets. I partly expect her to ask exactly what’s happened, but she keeps silent for the rest of the journey. Biding her time. I presume she wants to question me away from Titus.