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

ways of making fun of Rupert’s achievements. ‘Don’t you think it’s rather a good thing,’ I said, my jaw tensing, ‘that a young aristocrat and heir to millions, who could have just sat on his arse all his life, has decided to dedicate his time and energy to finding ways to stop the cars we drive from destroying the planet we live in?’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in climate change,’ he muttered.

‘I’ve never said that. I’ve said I don’t approve of woke hysteria. Different thing,’ I said, starting to get properly annoyed.

Another sigh from Matthew, this one sounding like a parent dealing with a difficult child. ‘Of course, Rupert’s job is very admirable. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘Good,’ I said, ‘because I don’t see me taking up weird grudges towards your previous conquests.’

Matthew let out a splutter. ‘Conquests? I don’t have conquests. Boyfriends would have been a better word, don’t you think?’

‘Would you like me to put my headphones on so you two can carry on in private?’ Titus asked, his slightly amused face staring back at me from the rearview mirror.

I didn’t respond to him, but gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles going white, and shot a look at Matthew. ‘I don’t think “boyfriends” would work – not exactly gender-neutral, is it?’

‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’ he snapped back, but another quick glance his way was enough for me to notice the blush and the tremble of his hands as he shifted them in his lap.

A few beats of silence passed before I said, ‘Nothing. Sorry. I’m just … just feeling a bit tired and grumpy. Ignore me.’

I didn’t really know why I retreated, why I didn’t have it out with him then and there, about my hurt at him not sharing his past experiences with women with me, about my suspicions that there was something going on with him that I didn’t understand. Perhaps it was because Titus was in the car with us, or that I didn’t want to arrive at the party and have to pretend to be all happy and polite after a potentially devastating row. Whatever it was, I carried on driving as smoothly as I could down the M40 and into Oxfordshire, and the rest of the journey slipped by mostly in silence.

We reached the Ashtons’s house – official name Marwood Manor, although we only ever referred to it as ‘The Ashtons’s’ – at just after 7pm and were greeted towards the end of the long driveway by a young man. I gave him the keys so he could drive the car round to whichever part of the extensive grounds was being used for parking, and we wandered through the open front door. Titus snuck away very quickly to talk to the Ashtons’s granddaughter, Philippa, leaving me and Matthew to say hello to Lady Ashton out on the main patio. ‘So lovely to see you both,’ she said, still looking remarkably young for her seventy years of age. ‘I was just talking to your parents, saying what a handsome boy Titus is turning into. How is he doing at school? Working hard?’

‘Very,’ Matthew said. ‘I think he’s off talking to your granddaughter. Probably comparing exam syllabuses.’

Is that what we’re calling it these days? I thought to myself, but smiled along with Matthew. Somewhere a bit further along in the conversation – it was after Lord Ashton had come to join us – I noticed her. Rachel was standing over near the rose bush, a glass of champagne in her hand. She was looking at her phone, then put it away and stared around. She looked bored. And awkward. As if she was regretting coming. What the hell is she doing here? I thought to myself, then remembered: Meryl must have brought her. Meryl and her strange insistence that the woman was a good, reliable companion, even though she’d known her all of five minutes. Even after what happened in New York. I found myself gripping my glass so hard, it was a marvel it didn’t shatter.

Once the Ashtons had moved off to greet some new arrivals, I ushered Matthew over to a quiet section of the garden, slightly away from the nearest group of people. ‘Rachel’s here,’ I said, nodding over to where she was, now walking towards the well-trimmed hedges towards the outdoor swimming-pool area.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose we need to get used to her being wherever Meryl is.’

A sudden thought then struck me. ‘Where’s Titus?’ I said quickly to Matthew.

He shrugged. ‘Off talking to Pippa, I suppose. Why, you don’t think he’s at risk from her, do you?’

I frowned. I wasn’t sure what I thought. But I definitely didn’t like the idea of Rachel wandering around, unchecked and unoccupied, while Titus was out of sight. There was still something very strange about what had happened at the house in The Hamptons – something I didn’t feel like we’d ever got to the bottom of.

‘Oh, here we go,’ I heard Matthew say. ‘Your boyfriend’s coming.’

I knew immediately who he meant, and turned to see Rupert Ashton walking along the lawn towards us.

‘Don’t call him that,’ I whispered sharply to Matthew, then turned to him and smiled. ‘Hey stranger, how are you?’

He beamed at me, that wide, ever-charming smile that had never lost its magic for me. Whilst Matthew could be described as ‘nice looking’ or even ‘pretty’ in one of those magazine-model sort of ways, Rupert was very much the definition of ‘handsome’. More classic and traditionally masculine in looks, it was astonishing to think he was now approaching forty-six. He seemed to have stopped ageing a decade ago and only a few tell-tale grey hairs on his head suggested he’d reached forty.

‘I’m very well,’ he said, giving me a quick, strong embrace. He hugged Matthew too, enthusiastically slapping him on the back as if they were old rugby mates. I noticed Matthew stiffly reciprocating, his smile not meeting his eyes.

‘Where’s young Titus?’ Rupert asked, looking around,