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

‘Well, if you’re going to act inappropriately, womanising all round London before you’re of age to do so, I don’t think I’ll bother sugar-coating my language.’

He set the glass down with a thud. ‘Where’s Dad?’

‘Scotland,’ I replied, starting to type out nonsensical rubbish in an email just to make a point of showing my attention was elsewhere.

I saw Titus watching me still and after a few more seconds I paused and turned off the device. ‘Things are just a bit … a bit, well … your dad needed some space for a few days. Things will be back to normal soon, I promise.’

A flicker of sadness entered his eyes, and I saw a glimpse then of the kind, loving, sensitive boy that had been gradually growing harder to see over the past few months. I moved round the kitchen island and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’

His jaw jutted out a little and his lips tightened as if he were trying not to cry. He then sniffed and gave a curt nod. ‘Yeah, fine.’ He took a step back from me and said, ‘I’m going to go upstairs and take a shower. Pippa’s coming round.’

That made me freeze. ‘What?’

He adopted the same slightly belligerent, matter-of-fact tone he’d had on Sunday morning when he told me he was off to stay at Melanie’s Kensington flat. ‘Yeah, she’s in town with some friends on a trip to Harrods and said she’d pop by. She might bring a friend with her.’

My mouth opened and shut like a fish as I tried to think of a response to this. ‘She … she just thought she’d pop by, did she?’

This earned a shrug from Titus. ‘Yeah. Don’t worry, we’ll keep to my room.’

I gaped at him, ‘But … you’ve literally just got back from Melanie’s. And whatever you were doing there for two whole days, I’ll bet it wasn’t just tea and crumpets. And now you’ve got Pippa just dropping by, maybe with a friend in tow?’

The tumbler landed on the floor with a smash, spraying the hard tiled ground with tiny glass fragments. It hadn’t been aimed to hit my head, but the shock shook me so thoroughly it felt like Titus had pulled a gun on me. ‘Just back the fuck off, OK?’ he shouted at me. ‘Just because you two now live practically like priests or brothers doesn’t mean I need to with my friends.’

His words astonished me. ‘What did you say?’

‘You know what I mean. You guys don’t fuck any more. Haven’t for ages.’

I could feel the blood rising to my face, and a nest of panic and anxiety that was already close to the surface was now flooding through me. ‘That is none of your … and how the hell would you know about our sex lives?’

‘We live under the same roof! It’s not a huge house. My room is next to yours.’

Images flashed through me. Me laying a hand on Matthew and him moving away. The time I tried to follow him into the shower and him stepping out of it. The weeks and weeks going past without him properly touching me. Us briefly attempting sex in New York but opting for sleep instead before we’d got very far. Me trying to keep up the pretence that there wasn’t something wrong, some change that was growing between us. And now here was our teenage son, proving that my efforts to keep up an everything’s-fine façade had been in vain.

I thought about telling him we do it quietly or when he’s out, but the thought of even speaking about the subject made my stomach turn. And, of course, it would have been lies. All lies. And lies were something I hated. But before I’d thought up a dignified response, he’d walked off, stomping up the stairs, then slamming the bathroom door. I heard the hum as the boiler kicked into action.

It took me a while to locate a dustpan and brush – not usually my domain – and I’d just finished sweeping up the last splinters of glass when I heard movement on the stairs. Titus stood by the door to the kitchen, dressed in a crisp new shirt and chinos, though he hadn’t yet put any shoes or socks on.

‘I’ve come to say sorry,’ he said. He put it in a brisk, business-like way, as if it were a task on his to-do list he didn’t really want to complete, but knew he probably should.

I sighed as I poured the glass into the bin and set the cleaning implements aside. ‘It’s fine. I’m sorry I made you angry.’

Even though I wasn’t properly looking at him, I could hear Titus’s breathing. There was something else he wanted to say. ‘I shouldn’t have said those things … about you and Dad and … well … I don’t think you’re like priests.’

Against my better judgement, this made me laugh. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. I didn’t realise our … problems were so noticeable.’

We were both silent for a few moments, then I spoke again, this time addressing something that had just struck me. ‘When you say … well … you implied that you can hear things. From our room. Can you hear things clearly?’

It was Titus’s turn to blush now. ‘A bit. But it’s fine. Melanie hears her Mum and step-father at it all the time.’

I shook my head. ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant … can you hear us talk?’

An odd expression passed across his face. ‘Are you accusing me of eavesdropping?’

Keen to avoid setting him off again, I waved my hand to reassure him. ‘No, no, not at all. I just … I was worried … did you hear our discussion on Saturday night … in the early hours?’

I was desperately trying to think back to that night, the dreamlike quality to those small hours when I’d come back from my pounding of the streets, gone upstairs and told Matthew I’d worked out what he’d done. Figured