The Dinner Guest Page 8

  ‘Why? Because of her helping Titus?’ I asked.

  He stared at me like I was a dimwit. ‘Of course because of her helping Titus.’

  I said nothing for a bit whilst he pulled off his clothes and got into bed. Then, at last, I voiced the thing that had been most on my mind ever since seeing her there, in the police station. ‘I’m puzzled why you don’t think the whole thing’s a bit odd. Surely this is too much of a coincidence? Her being there, ready to be the hero.’

  ‘I’m puzzled why you’re not already ordering her flowers as a thank-you. She saved our son from potential death.’ He emphasised the words, his eyes wide and, stupidly, I laughed.

  ‘Potential death? Oh, come on.’

  ‘Do you know how many people have been stabbed in London this year alone? Most of them are boys and young men, too. Just because we live in our cosy little cotton-wool world, doesn’t mean things like that can’t knock on our door.’

  I tried to slam my book shut in protest at his condescending tone, but it didn’t really have the desired effect, since it was an old and flimsy paperback. ‘Of course I know that. I read the news.’

  ‘Then you’ll know,’ he continued, ‘that things like that can go tragically wrong. So many people would have just carried on past him. Many probably did when they saw those boys rounding on him. But Rachel chose not to. And that makes her more than just a good friend. It makes her amazingly brave, and worthy of thanks. I think a nice evening of food and wine at a restaurant or here, if you prefer, is a small price to pay as a thank-you, even if you are prejudiced against her.’

  I grimaced. ‘I’m not prejudiced. I’m just … I don’t know. It just all seems too perfect.’

  Matthew made a noise of disbelief as he reached over to turn off the light. ‘What do you think she’s doing? Following Titus around the streets of London, hoping for a chance to save him from some thugs? That would be a bit of a strange thing to do, wouldn’t it?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Rachel

  Ten months to go

  Deciding to follow Titus as he made his way from Westminster to Kensington had been a good decision. It had been one of those pivotal moments from which you can see all future events spin off as a result. It was dangerous, definitely ill-advised, but in the end, brilliantly effective.

  I knew from my conversations with Matthew at the book club that Titus went to Westminster School as a day student. And being in Westminster, I figured I couldn’t be far from him. Maybe I could just be passing, I thought, or taking a look at a touristy landmark and offer to walk him home, or watch to see if he got on a bus or tube back to Chelsea and then ‘happen’ to be in the same carriage as him. I felt the blood start pumping within me, and before any firm plan had properly crystallised in my head, I found myself walking along Grosvenor Road and towards his school.

  It took me just over twenty minutes, due to me taking a wrong turning somewhere, but I got back on track, and by the time I got to the school there were indeed students walking about, laughing and chatting. I was struck by how … well, how ordinary they all looked. They didn’t look like posh kids. They were dressed in the same sort of blazer and tie students at my old state comprehensive wore in Bradford. I looked at them carefully, watching out for his light-blond hair, smooth, clear skin, and straight back. But no luck. The students were starting to thin out now, and I was left watching the stragglers, standing by the ancient stone buildings as the sound of traffic filling the nearby roads hummed along in the background.

  The whole thing had been a stupid idea anyway, I thought. The chances I’d have seen him would have been slim, and even if I had, would he have wanted to speak to me? We’d barely spoken when I saw him in his home. He probably wouldn’t have even recognised me.

  I walked up the unusually narrow road away from the school in a bit of a daze, hoping I was walking in the general direction of my home. I started to become aware of two people walking slowly in front of me, so I went to go round and pass them. Then I felt my heart leap. It was him. He was here, right here, in the street in front of me. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, engrossed in conversation. I carried on walking past them, so as not to draw attention to myself, crossed the road, then stopped for a bit, stooping to look at my phone and holding a tissue to my nose. I don’t think they even glanced in my direction. I waited for a bit, then stuffed my tissue and phone back into my pocket and started to follow them.

  The hand-holding began on the underground at Westminster station and continued most of the way to South Kensington. From my seat, opposite and four to the right, I could see her moving their clasped hands slowly, teasingly, up his thigh. And he grinned at her, as if wanting her to continue. How dare she? They were on the District line, not in the back row at the cinema. And, although I couldn’t be sure, I suspected the girl was a little older than him. They were around the same height and she carried herself with confidence, clearly leading the way, making the decisions, guiding him. She was attractive, I’d give her that, with deep-brown hair and a tall, slim figure. But there was something in the way she looked at Titus that I didn’t like. As if she had a little pet plaything that amused her. His face was happy and excited, clearly thrilled to be in her company, wherever it may lead.

  At South Kensington, they both stood up at once, and it took me a few seconds of panic to scramble out of the packed tube and get out onto the platform in time to see them disappearing up the steps. I walked a good few yards behind them as they came out onto a little pedestrianised space, with a Paul bakery and Five Guys restaurant opposite. My journey following them took me past Imperial College London and the Science Museum, and part of me was even grateful for accidentally getting to see a new side of London – places I’d heard of but never visited. I turned off the main street and onto Kensington Gore, all the while keeping my distance, terrified they’d both suddenly turn around and say, ‘Why are you following us, freak?’ But they didn’t do that. And as the road curved round, the view of the Royal Albert Hall came into view. I think I even stopped and stared for a bit, then had to hurry along, fearing I’d lose the two teenagers within the crowd of people walking towards the Hall. When I’d reached the pavement near the houses, Titus and the girl were nowhere to be seen. I’d lost them. Then, as I looked around, furious with myself, I saw them. They weren’t on the pavement anymore; they were going up to a building – a house – and the girl was letting herself in with a key. She lived here, it seemed. Right here, on Kensington Gore, with the Royal Albert Hall within spitting distance. And Titus was following her inside.

  I thought that was it, then. I thought everything was over. What had I hoped for, anyway? That he’d leave the girl at some point in his journey and go off for a walk on his own? It was clear from the start they were some sort of couple, and this made it blatantly obvious what was going on. My stomach turned, thinking about what might be happening up there in one of the rooms of that big terraced house – itself probably worth more than half a street of houses in Bradford. Then I checked myself. It could all be very innocent. They may be up there watching Netflix, an oven-cooked pizza shared between them, her teasing him about liking Gilmore Girls, him trying to pluck up the courage to take her hand. The image of them both together on the underground, her hand over his, came into my mind. Whatever they were getting up to, they seemed to have got past the hand-holding stage. I found out later, of course, at the police station, that he and the girl had been having sex. He was careful not to tell the police this. But he told me. Our first little secret.

  At this point, though, with me on the street, getting in the way of pedestrians, I could only torture myself with my own imagination. I decided to walk away from the house, leave the whole sorry business behind me, and go and have a look at the Albert Hall. The whole thing was so huge and impressive that it was an enjoyable distraction, to a point, and I took some photographs on my phone, playing with the light exposure in a way I’d once done with my own professional cameras. Back when such thin
gs mattered. But I ended up back on the street outside the house. That was when I saw the boys. They passed me, kicking a can down the street, laughing to themselves, and I caught a few charming sentences of their conversation. ‘She was fuckin’ wasted … yeah, course I smacked her one … that fucking slag.’

  If I’d been alone, I’d have been worried for my safety, but there were some other passers-by, either going to or from the concert hall, and even the sight of the building in the corner of my eye was comforting. It didn’t seem likely anything sinister could happen anywhere so famous and beautiful. Then Titus came out of the door in front of me, and all worry about the boys vanished. I quickly crossed the road, walked up the street a little way, then crossed again so I could follow behind him at a safe distance. The girl was with him, in an expensive-looking cream dressing gown – I imagine it made her feel all grown up, pressed against her naked skin. They didn’t kiss or embrace, but Titus raised a hand in a little wave and walked down the few steps away from the house to the street as she closed the door.

  Instead of walking back out towards the main road, Titus turned and walked up a dimly lit side street. He seemed to want to be able to do something on his phone out of the way, and stood against the wall of a building, looking down at the screen. Him being stationary made it difficult for me to watch him without being discovered. I was thinking about maybe passing him, going on ahead, and hoping he’d continue up the road, at some point allowing me to cross the road and double back, but he seemed engrossed in whatever he was doing – texting, messaging, browsing.

  ‘Oi, mate, mate!’ It was a loud, brash voice. The same voice that had talked about ‘that fucking slag’ earlier. He and his two mates emerged from behind one of the parked Range Rovers and bowled over with a confidence and swagger clearly meant to intimidate. Titus, who had glanced up at the ‘Oi mate’ froze, then quickly put his phone away.

  ‘Mate, do us a favour,’ the ringleader said as he approached, his baggy white T-shirt swaying around his muscled frame as he reached Titus. ‘Lend us your phone for a sec. Need to call my girl. Mine’s dead, and if I don’t call her she’ll give me a fuckin’ earful, know what I mean?’

  Titus immediately shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m … I’m in a hurry.’ He turned to go but the main boy grabbed his shoulder.

  ‘Hey, hey, what’s the fuckin’ rush, eh? I just need to use your phone. I just need a bit of help, mate, you know what I mean? Nothing dodgy, mate, nothing bad.’ As he said this, the two other boys laughed.

  Titus gave another vague shake of his head and again said, ‘Sorry,’ followed by, ‘I need to go.’

  That was when the boy seized him forcefully, throwing him against the wall, shouting in his face, ‘Eh, what you being like that for? I was being polite, you know. I was being nice to you, just wanted you to help a mate out, know what I mean? Just wanted you to be a fuckin’ good Samaritan, you fuckin’ posh cunt.’ He said the last two words with such anger and hatred that it sent a chill right through me. Then he slapped Titus hard across the face. The other boys laughed loudly, then, without needing any prompts from their vocal leader, they roughly twisted Titus around so his face was pressed hard into the concrete and started to search his blazer and trouser pockets, apparently looking for his phone.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ The words left my mouth in a bark-like shout with such force that for a second I thought someone else had spoken. I felt my knees tremble as I walked over to them. ‘Let go of him.’ It was now quickly dawning on me how dangerous a situation I’d placed myself in. Any of the boys could have had a knife. And any of them could choose to use it – in panic, fear, anger – at any second.

  They did let go of Titus, letting the boy stumble and fall down to the pavement. He picked himself up immediately, brushing the grit off his knees and wiping blood from his face.

  ‘What makes you so fucking bold, little lady?’ the ringleader said. ‘Need fucking sorting, you do.’ He bared his teeth and then licked his lips, his tongue startlingly pink next to his vampire-pale skin. He then grabbed his crotch and gave it a squeeze. The others let out more laughs, although not quite as jubilant as before. All this clearly wasn’t going according to plan.

  ‘Not today, thanks,’ I said, keeping my tone polite and business-like, as if I were the type of person who regularly had to deal with the likes of him. ‘Right, Titus, you got all your things?’

  The boy gaped at me, then gave a little nod.

  ‘Good. Let’s be off then. Lovely to meet you all.’ I then took Titus by the shoulder and led him across the street and away from the boys, back in the direction of the Royal Albert Hall. ‘Keep walking,’ I murmured into his ear. I didn’t stop until we got to the entrance of the concert hall. ‘OK, I think we’re safe now,’ I said. ‘Let me see your face.’

  He raised his chin and let me look at him. ‘Only cuts and grazes. You’ll be OK.’

  I took my phone out and started to dial.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked in a small voice.

  ‘Reporting this to the police.’

  He stared back in shock. ‘What…? I mean, do we…?’

  ‘Of course we have to,’ I said in response. ‘This needs to be reported. If they’re still in the area, the boys could still be arrested. This is a crime, an attack – and they may do it to someone else if we don’t.’

  He listened, his eyes swimming with tears. They fell down his cheek as he nodded. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him into a hug.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, sobbing quietly into my shoulder. ‘I … I was scared.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But it’s over now.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Charlie

  Ten months to go

  The morning after our row with Titus was tense and … well, it was weird.

  Usually – in fact, on every single occasion previous to this one – any rows we’d had with him over the years had dissipated, as if by magic, by the next morning, and we all got to start again afresh. A new day, a new world, everything good. This time it was different. Titus was different. Usually, on a Saturday morning, Titus would go down to the kitchen at around 7.30 or 8am, already fully showered and dressed, and do an hour of studying. ‘Start the day as you mean to go on,’ was a motto Matthew had instilled in him. I’d spent most of our married life thinking how clever this all was – making sure Titus’s first go-to task on a Saturday involved keeping himself occupied downstairs alone, giving us time to have a lazy lie in, enjoying not having to rush out of bed for work. Then, at 9ish, we would wander downstairs to find him laying the table for breakfast, which he would cook for us – not as some put-upon child, forced to make his parents meals. No, not one bit; he enjoyed doing it. His hazelnut chocolate loaf would put most artisan bakeries to shame. Then we would all talk about our plans for the weekend, whether they involved us all going somewhere as a family, or splitting up to do separate things. We weren’t dictatorial and regimented, but that routine on Saturdays was our thing. Something that laid the foundations for a good weekend. Put us in a good mood. Kept us all happy as a family. On the morning after the whole fuss with the attempted mugging of Titus, followed by the revelation that he was apparently happily banging an older fellow student, all of this went out the window.

  When I woke at 8.45am, with Matthew reading a book next to me, there was no smell of baked muffins or warm bread. The house was completely silent.

  ‘Something’s odd,’ I said straightaway, leaning up.

  ‘Good morning to you too,’ Matthew replied, closing his book and laying it on the bedside table. ‘Shall we go down to breakfast?’

  ‘It’s … it’s late. I’ve slept in.’ I rubbed my head. I felt wrecked, as if I’d had a night out with the boys. ‘We should go down and see Titus,’ I muttered, getting out of bed and pulling on some tracksuit bottoms.

  Matthew didn’t say anything at first, just opened the door, poked his head round, then said, ‘I don’t think he’s up yet. His d
oor’s closed.’

  This was not a good sign. Usually it would signal a bad bout of flu or something equally debilitating. The two of us went down the stairs and looked around. Sure enough, no Titus, no cooking. Nothing laid out for breakfast. Our housekeeper Jane had weekends off, so the plates and glasses and pizza boxes from the night before were all still out.

  Matthew wandered over to the coffee machine, and I poured myself a large tumbler of water. ‘He’s definitely here?’ I said, slightly worried the boy had absconded to meet his illegal lover off in the depths of Kensington Gore. As if on cue, a thudding down the stairs heralded Titus’s arrival. Although it wasn’t the perfectly turned-out, sunny, happy Titus we were normally used to on Saturday mornings. He was wearing only a pair of white Ralph Lauren boxer-briefs, his hair was all messed up, and his grazed jaw gave him a devil-may-care look. He’d obviously just arisen from his bed. It was like a completely different person had arrived in our kitchen.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ he said, in a low monotone, and moved past me in order to get to the fridge. He pulled a can of Coke Zero from it – another bizarre change, since Titus usually only drank mineral water or a small glass of orange juice in the mornings – and then turned to leave.

  ‘Good morning,’ Matthew said to him, making him pause on his way out of the kitchen. ‘It would be good if we could talk.’

  He turned around, his face impassive, then he gave a lazy shrug. ‘Maybe later. Going to go back to bed for a bit.’