The Dinner Guest by B Walter (best short books to read txt) 📕

‘We need to go,’ I said to him gently. ‘The police are here. We need to go to the station now, so they can talk to us.’

The officer behind me told me that we both needed to go downstairs now. He came and stood close, making it clear we didn’t have a choice.

I saw the tears slip down Titus’s face, and I wanted to pull him close, tell him everything was OK. But he drew away from me.

‘Please, Titus. We need to go. They’ve already taken Rachel.’

He looked up at this, as I suspected he would.

‘Rachel confessed. She told them she did it.’

The fringe of his light-blond hair fell over his face as he straightened up, mingling with his tears.

‘But … why?’

He mouthed this last word, silently. I stared back at him, the real question swimming in the air, unanswered, between us. Why would Rachel confess to a murder she did not commit?

Chapter One Charlie

Eleven months to go

We first met Rachel in a bookshop. Matthew and I had gone into town, leaving Titus at home baking cakes with my mother. When we’d decided to settle in Chelsea, it was one of my fears that my mother, based in neighbouring Belgravia, would try to micromanage our lives, but we generally muddled along just fine, with her popping in a couple of times a week.

It was my idea, that sunny Sunday morning, to go into Waterstones on the King’s Road. I’d wanted to pick up a pretentious-sounding hardback I’d read about in one of the morning broadsheets, more to be seen reading it than because I would enjoy it. Matthew had always been critical of this. ‘You treat books like lifestyle accessories.’ He’d said the last two words with total contempt, a knowing smirk spreading across his handsome face. He was winding me up and I took the bait, telling him that what I decided to read and why was my own business.

When we got to Waterstones, he went straight to the fantasy section, probably to pick out a book so large it could pass for a fairly effective weapon, while I browsed the table of new hardbacks. I’d found the volume I’d wanted, and was just stretching out a hand to pick it up when another collided with mine. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, laughing, pulling her hand away. I looked up at her, at her wavy blonde hair, her bright blue eyes. There was something alive about her. Cheery. Carefree. Like she’d floated in on the breeze. I saw her looking me up and down too, the way women often did. I’d noticed it throughout my entire adult life. Longer, in fact. When I was a young lad, on the rugby field or at the clubs, there’d always be someone whistling at me, or a group of girls willing to talk to me. Then, as I journeyed into adulthood, through my late twenties and now, mid-thirties, the signs of attraction had become more subtle, but they were still there. I sometimes wondered if it had damaged me somehow, being the one in my group with all the looks. Wonder boy, my mate Archie used to tease me, nudging me playfully as girls instantly appeared by us as we walked into bars in our late teens. He used to love ‘the moment’, as he used to call it, when they’d come on to me, encourage me to buy them a drink, and I’d do my best apologetic smile and tell them that I’d happily buy them a drink but I was really sorry because I was into guys rather than girls. Usually, after a moment of disappointment (which, I admit a little painfully now, used to give my ego a boost), they would remain friendly but, more often than not, transfer their attentions to Archie, or one of the other guys with me. Or sometimes they’d just stay and chat. Either was cool.

It didn’t quite get to that point with Rachel. Not that I knew she was called Rachel then. She was just the woman who went to pick up the same book as me. But as our hands drew back from each other, and our eyes met, I somehow knew she would end up becoming part of our lives. I just didn’t know quite how much.

‘I’m sorry, you first,’ I said, grinning at her.

Another little laugh. ‘No, you, honestly.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m not even sure if I’m going to buy it. You seemed more certain.’ This wasn’t true. I knew I was going to buy it, but it was a habit of mine, coming out with chirpy little lines. Part of my constant need to put people at ease. After a few moments, we’d started talking about the review of the book in the Observer and how it had also been discussed on Radio 4’s Saturday Review the night before. She was all nods and smiles and mentioned one of the author’s other books, but I confessed I hadn’t read any of them. ‘My husband’s the real reader,’ I said, nodding over to where Matthew was, now browsing the buy-one-get-one-half-price paperback tables. ‘Mostly fantasy stuff, but other books too.’

There it was. That very slight flicker in the eyes. I thought at the time it was the typical mild-to-moderate disappointment to hear I was married, coupled with the further surprise that I was married to a bloke. But of course, in retrospect, I know it was something more sinister than that. In that moment, however, it was another little boost to my ego. I’d once told Matthew about the double-no-chance disappointment theory and how I was sure I saw it in women’s eyes every time. We’d been out with the guys, Archie and George next to us getting steadily drunk, and I’d expected them all to laugh, but Matthew hadn’t. He’d just shaken his head and said, ‘Please, please, please, my love, never presume to have an insight into how women think. It isn’t