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

said he was going to bed and didn’t want to talk. He stomped off up the stairs before we’d even closed the front door.

Matthew turned to look at me, the warm hallway light bathing his smooth, perfect skin. I felt a sudden need to go to him, to hug him, to tell him whatever was going on would sort itself out. But I didn’t. Something stopped me. Maybe it was because I felt a shifting of everything among us. And now, I felt, I was going to discover something momentous.

‘Let’s go to the lounge,’ he said quietly.

I followed and he turned on the table lamp as we went in. He went straight over to where we kept the drinks and poured himself a large whisky, knocked it back, then poured another. He didn’t offer me one. He had started to pace, swaying almost, as if already drunk, apparently trying to muster something within him, some inner strength, tame some inner turmoil enough to say what he needed to say.

‘Everything’s fucked.’

He kept his eyes on the carpet as he said this, and took another sip of his drink. I sat down on the sofa.

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Just tell me. What’s going on?’

He didn’t reply, just drank some more, and stared into the fireplace as if there were a blaze burning there rather than stone-cold coal.

‘Has this got anything to do with Rachel?’ I asked at last.

That got a reaction. He looked over to me, his eyes shining with tears. ‘It has everything to do with Rachel.’

Chapter Thirty-Three Rachel

Less than a week to go

As Matthew went to leave the bathroom, I immediately seized him by the shoulders and pushed him back inside.

‘Er … hey! What the…?’ he protested loudly as I shut the door behind me.

‘Be quiet,’ I said, trying to keep my voice hard and firm.

‘Rachel. What are you doing?’

Matthew made a move to get to the door, but I blocked his path. He smiled then, as if this was a game. I could see what was on his mind.

Without explanation, I walked purposefully over towards the beautiful, large bathtub at the other end of the room. The bathroom was about the same size as the bedroom I had back at Churchill Gardens, and instead of the tacky plastic baths I’ve used in every property I’ve ever lived in, with the exception of Meryl’s, this one is separate from the wall and very deep. I stepped into the empty bath, right foot first, then left, then I sat down, stretching out my legs. They only just about reached the taps at the end.

‘Relaxing things, baths. I don’t have them often enough – always end up having a quick shower. In, out, then you’re done. Baths are for the time-rich, really, aren’t they? The people who can let their lives trail away while they float around in hot water and froth.’

He didn’t say anything, just looked at me, as if he thought I was going insane, the smile now gone.

I took my hands off the edges of the tub and started to feel around the sides. ‘Ah, that’s a shame. No holes for bubbles. Not a jacuzzi, then. No, well, I suppose that would be considered a bit common for Lord and Lady Ashton. Although they’ve probably got a hot tub somewhere outside. Don’t you think?’

I turned my head over to him with these last words. My heart was pounding within me and I could see, from the flush creeping up his face, his probably was too.

‘Do you know, I’ve been feeling tired all day,’ I said. ‘Really exhausted. I could take a nap right here in the bath. It’s lucky there isn’t any water in it, of course,’ I said, slowly and deliberately. ‘I wouldn’t want there to be … an accident.’

The silence that followed was like the kind you got after a bomb blast. Then I heard him stagger across the room. At first I thought he was coming for me, then I heard the toilet seat fling up and the sound of him retching, vomiting, then eventually, gasping as he slumped on the floor. Only then did I turn again to look at him. A shirt button had come undone, he had some sick on his chin, and his face was now a grey-white. He looked horrific. And I was glad of it.

We stared at each other for a while, neither of us speaking. Then he dragged himself to his feet, using the loo seat to steady himself, and slumped over to the sink and let the taps stream. He splashed water onto his face, into his mouth, spat it out, then took some long, desperate gulps.

‘Just one sec,’ I said to him, keeping it as causal as I could. I took out my phone, went to the camera roll and selected the photo I wanted. I then tapped ‘share’ and sent it to him as a WhatsApp. I heard the ping come from the pocket of his chinos, then the rustle of him fishing the phone out.

I waited for some reaction – rage, fear, threats, pleas for me to stay silent. But he didn’t do any of this. Instead, he ran. Ran from the room and let the door slam shut behind him.

I gave it a minute, then got up, smoothed down my dress, and stepped carefully out of the bath. Everything seemed to glow brightly around me as I left the bathroom and re-joined the party. The world had come alive.

Chapter Thirty-Four Charlie

Three days after the murder

My mother and I go into the library, her clasping the box she’d been holding. She places this onto the coffee table, kneels in front of it, and starts to rifle around. She takes a pile of several photos from inside and starts to lay them out on the polished wooden surface. ‘These are the photographs we used in a display at your and Matthew’s wedding. Lots of snaps of you both from