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

eager, stimulated by his enthusiasm for the subject. Part of me wanted to roll my eyes in response, but I stopped myself. Matthew and I have avoided discussing politics and social issues too much in recent years. I never noticed the differences in our views so much in the early days, and if I ever did I’d just joke he was one of the ‘trendy left’ or a ‘champagne socialist’. Now, his earnestness about the perceived injustices of the world had started to grate on me more than ever. ‘Well, I hope it all sorts itself out,’ I said. I turned to lead the way back to the lounge, but he spoke again behind me.

‘Do you know, I think I might go for a drive. I’ve got a bit of a headache. I need to clear my mind.’

I turned round again to look at him. ‘Are you sure everything’s OK?’ I asked, taking a step closer, peering at him. He wouldn’t quite meet my eye, his gaze resting around my neck.

‘Yes, I’m sure. I’ll just drive about a bit, take advantage of the empty streets.’

I continued to stare at him, ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

He shook his head and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘No, no, I’ll be fine. You go back to the lounge. Tell me what happens at the end of Bleak House or whatever it is we’ve been watching.’

My mother looked puzzled at Matthew’s decision to go out for a drive to clear his head. ‘Surely a paracetamol or something would be better than getting behind the wheel?’ she said, peering over the selection guide for a very chic-looking selection of Belgian truffles.

‘Sounds like a jolly sensible thing to do, in my opinion,’ my father said. ‘I’ve always found a good drive around the countryside does me wonders.’

‘Providing he doesn’t feel too unwell,’ my mother replied.

‘He’s not ill,’ I said, sitting back down. ‘It’s just something to do with work.’

‘Oh, I see,’ my mother said, returning to her chocolates. ‘Why’s he worrying about work on Christmas Day?’

I shrugged a little and turned to look at Titus. He was engrossed in the drama unfolding on the screen, and had only vaguely looked in our direction, not properly taking in what we were saying.

‘Do you know, I think these are even better than Pierre Marcolini’s Grand Cru,’ my mother said, offering the tray of chocolates out to the room in general.

When the clock reached 9.30pm, I began to get worried. I’d started clock-watching about an hour after Matthew had departed. This marked two hours and I could tell my parents were starting to get a bit puzzled too. ‘Hasn’t he messaged or anything?’ my mother asked, going over to the living room windows to see if there was any sign of car lights on the driveway.

‘He hasn’t,’ I said, lighting up my phone for what must be the hundredth time that hour.

‘He wouldn’t have gone back to London?’ my father asked, pouring himself another drink. It always astonished me how much alcohol he managed to put away without it having any visible effect on him.

I shook my head. ‘Not without telling me. And there’s no reason why he should. His offices are closed until the New Year.’

It reached 9.50pm before, finally, the sound of the front door made everyone look up. I left the lounge immediately and walked into the hallway and towards the front door.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ I called out to him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Fucking car died on me.’

‘What?’ I walked towards him as he hung up his coat and took his shoes off.

‘I know. Just died on me halfway along a narrow country lane. Somewhere near Goldhanger, I think. Was terrified another car would bomb round the corner and career into me. I had to walk across ditches and a field to get anywhere with a bloody signal. Called the breakdown people. Took them an age, then the car just started again.’

I was rather at a loss with all this information. ‘How … what…? So you drove it home?’

Matthew nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s outside. But they said I should have a full check done on it. I told them it could wait until we get back to London.’ He smiled at me and put his hands on my shoulders.

‘It’s fine, I’m fine. I’m just sorry to worry you.’

I smiled, relieved he was back and in one piece, not lying bleeding in an upturned motor on some dark, deserted back road.

Titus was, of course, relieved his dad had been found, but after a while he opted to go to bed with one of the large books he’d been given for Christmas. My parents had settled into a late showing of a James Bond film, so Matthew and I decided to get an early night. I still felt over-full from lunch, and struggled to get to sleep, so after a couple of hours I sat up properly and looked over at my still, peaceful husband next to me. Was I going mad? Was this just jealousy, or my tendency to control things? Or was there something strange going on here?

I didn’t like these thoughts. I didn’t like feeling unsure about someone I’d loved as strongly and passionately as was humanly possible. It made me feel dirty, or tainted, as if sprayed with that invisible dye that banks and cash vaults use to deter thieves. I watched Matthew’s chest rise and fall for a few more seconds, then stepped out of bed and pulled on some pants and a T-shirt.

I could hear the television from the landing rumbling away from the living room. That was the problem with big, old houses – everything echoed. I padded quietly down the stairs, considering going to find something to snack on, when the door to the lounge opened and my father came out. ‘Charles, I thought you’d gone to bed?’

I stood still, as if I were a teenager caught sneaking in