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

this book-club woman of yours just because he bedded a girl over a decade ago. As I said, it was foolish of me to bring it up.’

Archie did his best to change the subject for the rest of the meal, telling me about how he and Delia planned to holiday in Alaska over Christmas, but it didn’t help alter my mood. None of it worked. My mind was still on my husband.

Back at home, I tried to show some enthusiasm for the food Matthew and Titus were in the middle of preparing. The sight of Titus baking a cake – one of his frequent weekend activities – cheered me somewhat. At least he was no longer giving a grunting monotone impression of a moody teenager anymore. Matthew too was in his element, going between sorting out vegetables to making sure the dining room was tidy (a pointless task; thanks to Jane, it was always immaculate).

I made myself look busy by adding their paper Wholefoods bags to the recycling and taking a disproportionately long time choosing what music we should have playing gently in the background. I instinctively selected some Max Richter from Spotify, but Matthew shouted out in protest from the kitchen (‘We’ll all be in need of Prozac by the end of the first course!’). In the end, I went with The Best of Lang Lang; some of the tracks weren’t that much cheerier, but at least there was a bit more variety in tone.

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