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

away in the middle. It took me almost a full minute to realise I wasn’t alone. In the corner of one of the benches, obscured by the fountain when I’d walked in, was a woman. She looked middle-aged – maybe fifteen or twenty years older than me – and not only had a glass of champagne but a whole bottle beside her. Her long, dark-blonde hair fell in waves out of its artfully-messy bun, with one strand knocking against her glass. I was about to turn away and go, embarrassed to see her eyes clock me, but she spoke, freezing me to the spot.

‘Hello there,’ she said. Although the words were simple and brief, her voice was low and drawn out in a slow, almost bored, way.

I smiled and walked around the fountain to go over to her. ‘Hi,’ I said, then added, ‘I’m Rachel.’ I regretted it as soon as I’d said it, worried I sounded too eager to please.

‘Hello Rachel,’ she said, her eyes squinting a little, as if she was having trouble focussing on me. Her words sounded the same as before, but were a little too slow and slurred into each other to sound anything other than drunk. ‘Sit down, if you’d like,’ she said, scooping up the bottle into her arms and cradling it, almost as one would an infant. ‘How are you finding the party?’ She emphasised the last word in a strange way, as though it was amusing to her one could refer to this gathering in such a way.

‘It’s … it’s nice,’ I said, unsure of what tone to strike. ‘It’s very grand.’ Again, instant regret filled me as I said this. Once again, I was showing myself up to be the naïve outsider.

‘Oh, sure, it’s grand all right.’ She didn’t seem very impressed with this, and I was about to try and say something more interesting when she carried on. ‘I find it hard to be here, I must say. Too many memories. I played around these gardens as a child, you see.’

‘Oh,’ I said, a little taken aback by this insight into this woman’s past. ‘And were these not, um, happy times?’

She made a sound of disbelief. ‘Those days were fine, I suppose. This place was a bit like a second home at times. Me, my brother, and Rupert and Elena. Do you know Rupert and Elena?’

I remembered Meryl mentioning Rupert and, pleased I had something to add, I said, ‘Oh yes, Lord and Lady Ashton’s son. I don’t know him, or Elena, but I … know of them.’

‘Both unspeakably lovely people,’ she said, hiccupping a little, ‘even if Elena does have an unfortunate habit of going after other people’s husbands. And Rupert hasn’t been settled for a while now. He deserves a good life, Rupert. Probably the most decent person among us.’

I nodded along to this, as if I thoroughly agreed, and then something popped into my mind. ‘Do you know the Allerton-Joneses? Matthew and Charlie?’

The woman sighed and nodded. ‘Oh yes. Rupert and Charlie used to be a thing, once upon a time, but then Rupert wanted to go to the States, I think. Long-distance relationships can be so tricky, can’t they?’

I replied to this with a ‘Hmm’, even though I’d never had one.

‘So how do you know them, then?’ she said, straightening up.

‘I … er … I’m part of their book club.’ I left a little pause, wondering if she was going to comment on this, but she didn’t jump in so I continued, ‘I actually work for their friend Meryl. I’m … sort of her live-in assistant.’

‘An assistant? That’s exciting. I would love to be organised enough to be someone’s assistant, but I fear I’d have to hire one to be my own assistant just to survive at the job. Would spoil the fucking point of it.’ She let out a short laugh at her own joke, then grabbed my hand, as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘I know. How about I introduce you to some people? I know heaps of the guests here. I’ll make you some connections.’ She seemed excited by the idea. Part of me wanted to say yes, but the other part didn’t fancy following this woman around like a little lost puppy.

As a compromise, I suggested we take a little wander around the quiet part of the garden, and she agreed with a little shrug, saying, ‘Suit yourself. People are generally overrated, anyway.’ We’d wandered away from the little fountain square to another area along the stone wall, and she spent a good ten minutes describing how there was a hidden garden here that was enclosed and never opened to the public – a sign of respect to Lord Ashton’s first wife who died very young and apparently loved spending time there. On our way back round towards the house, the path opened out onto a large outdoor swimming pool, surrounded by little huts. She walked up to one, pushed open the French-window style doors and walked in. The inside was more comfortable and homelier than my old flat. There was even a chaise longue, which she parked herself on with her heaviest sigh yet, letting her empty glass fall to the floor. ‘God, I’m exhausted,’ she said.

Instead of awkwardly hovering, I chose to sit down in a little single-seater armchair and tried to arrange my face into an expression that hopefully showed both empathy and pity. ‘It’s the heat,’ I said. ‘It makes me quite lethargic, too.’

‘Oh, it’s not that. It’s more that I’m just tired of bothering, if you know what I mean. I try to be nice and smile and be friendly but it doesn’t work. I enjoyed our little chat though, my dear. A nice little walk does one good.’

‘Yes, me too,’ I said.

‘I haven’t always been kind, you know. I was at a party once, years ago, when I was young. At this very house,’ she flapped a hand towards the manor behind us. ‘I