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

spent the whole time swanning around as if I owned the place. Not caring who I offended or left out. I was rather careless, you know. Young people are quite often, I think. And so I wanted to be kind to you and try to make you feel welcome.’

There was something in her tone. The wistful note was back, and I got the feeling she was sharing something quite deep and personal. I almost felt embarrassed for listening.

‘I did. Thank you for … for taking me under your wing.’

She made another little sound, half hiccup, half hollow laugh, then swung her legs over the chaise longue so she was lying down on her back. ‘My brother Ernest and I used to play hide and seek around here. This was one of my favourite hiding spots. Then we’d fight and squabble endlessly.’

I started to feel a bit wobbly and I grasped hold of the sides of the chair. I could feel a rush of emotion rising up from somewhere deep within me. In a small voice I asked, ‘Are you and your brother still close?’

She didn’t reply for a few moments, and I wondered if she’d fallen asleep. But then she took a deep breath and said, ‘Not so much now. We used to be. We both lived in the same apartment block for a while. He and his wife at the top, me some floors underneath. It was … it was nice.’

I nodded, unsure of where this was leading. I felt we were treading on heavy territory. ‘Whereabouts did you live?’

‘Charlwood Street,’ she said, ‘in Pimlico.’

This made me sit up a little, pleased to find a topic I at least had something to add to. ‘Oh, I live in Pimlico. Or, lived, I should say, until I moved in with Meryl on Eaton Square.’

‘And what do you think of it?’

I wasn’t quite sure what she meant. ‘Think of what?’

‘The area. Eaton Square. SW1.’ She said the postcode as if it were a disease.

‘Erm … well … it’s all very smart-looking.’

‘It’s a mirage. A charade. Stacks of money in concrete form, that’s all. Rows of houses filled with people who haven’t a clue about the horrors of this world. People who don’t know what it’s like to be on the outside, looking in. I was like that too, once. Many of the houses are empty now, with their owners using them to make their dubiously acquired cash that little bit more palatable.’

I felt myself become excited by her words. She was putting into words the feelings and suspicions I’d long had but hadn’t been able to express. I tried to think of something clever to add to her comments, but before I could she leaned up on her elbows and said, ‘Don’t be taken in. Do what you need to do, and get out. That’s what I say. Go and do something real. Be around real people. Don’t waste your life on this insufferable bunch. They may all look pretty and friendly out there, but trust me, it’s all a lie. Take my advice and run for the hills – and don’t be afraid to burn the whole street down as you go.’

She was drunk and tired and probably unaware of what she was saying. But a fire was stirring within me. It was as if a match had been lit and pressed up against the kindling of all the rage and resentment and hot bloody fury I’d been feeling for so, so long. I got up and said, as calmly as I could, ‘I’m going to go now. Thank you for being nice and showing me around. And … I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name?’

While I was speaking, the woman had leant back down again and closed her eyes. ‘Very welcome,’ she said in a muffled voice, clearly already on her way to her alcohol-fuelled sleep. ‘And my name … my name’s Aphrodite. Mother loved the Greeks, you see, but my friends … they call me…’

But I never found out what her friends called her. Her words had started to slur together and she drifted off to sleep before she could finish her sentence. I watched her for a couple of seconds, then left. I had somewhere I needed to be.

Chapter Thirty-One Charlie

Three days after the murder

My mother is standing at the kitchen doorway, carrying an old cardboard box, still staring at me. I need to think of something to say, so I settle for the blindingly obvious. ‘I’m burning the flowers,’ I reply.

‘I can see that, but why?’

I can’t help it. The tears I managed to just about hold in in front of Titus now flow from within me, causing me to gasp and sob. My mother doesn’t see at first, and instead carries on talking to me. ‘I’ve got something to show you…’ Then she sees, and puts the box she’s carrying down on the table and takes me into her arms, as if I were still eight years old.

‘Darling, what’s wrong?’ she asks, then, probably realising that’s a stupid question, says, ‘Why have the flowers made you cry?’

Between my gasps and sobs I flick my hand at the table. ‘The card,’ I half whisper.

My mother extricates herself from our embrace and reaches out to pick the card up.

‘Ah,’ she says at last, ‘I see.’

I rub my eyes, then look at her, puzzled. ‘You do?’

She nods, then puts the card down. ‘I do. It’s from her.’

A few tears slip down my face as the name hits me all over again. The emphasis she puts on her tells me all I need to know.

‘Oh, my dear,’ she says, putting an arm on me. ‘Go through into the library,’ she says, gently, ‘I’ll bring you some tea.’

I do as I’m told, and take a seat on the settee facing the fireplace. I don’t move. I don’t do anything. I just sit there very still, the last of my tears still cold on my face.