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

out his lies. Had Titus still had his music on? Or had I, in the sheer terrible impact of the moment, forgotten about him entirely?

‘Why?’ Titus asked, still looking at me strangely. ‘Were you talking about me?’

Now that was the question. Because, in one way, Titus was exactly who we were talking about. The way he’d survived almost certain death. How he had been saved. And how someone else hadn’t.

I opened my mouth, took a deep breath, and said, ‘If you heard anything, you can tell me.’

Our eyes met and for a moment I thought I saw something within them – a tightening, a sharpening, something hard and resolute, walled-up and impenetrable. Or maybe I just imagined it. When you’re looking back, it’s hard not to let what would happen later influence your view of events. In truth, maybe there’d been nothing in Titus’s eyes to betray any hidden knowledge. In fact, before he’d even had a chance to reply to me, the doorbell had sounded and he’d walked off to answer it.

I watched from the kitchen as Pippa Ashton, mercifully on her own, stepped into the hallway, clocking my presence in an instant then quickly looking away. She looked as if she’d just stepped off a fashion shoot for Burberry, and paused only to hang up her coat.

I pottered about the kitchen for a while, trying not to imagine what was going on upstairs. Part of me felt like I should make my presence known – perhaps choose this moment to execute a Marie Kondo-style excavation of all clothes, shoes, and books in the house, and clatter around noisily with cardboard boxes destined for charity donations in the hope the noise would put Titus and Pippa off. But, of course, I didn’t do this. In fact, all hopes of me going upstairs were dashed when I started my ascent towards the main bedroom to change into my gym attire and I heard a rhythmic thudding and moaning coming from the direction of Titus’s bedroom. I turned on my heel automatically and sat in the kitchen eating reheated lasagne feeling conflicted, cross, and confused. I needed Matthew to deal with this situation. He was my touchstone where Titus was concerned. The man of discipline and decisive action. I opened my phone to take a look at Instagram and saw my follower count had stalled; people were messaging to ask where I’d gone, lots of people debating whether I’d ‘just given up’ or if ‘something bad had happened’.

I was about to type back a bit of a terse response to a few of them when I heard a commotion happening upstairs, a loud banging, like a door being slammed, then someone shouting, ‘Just leave me the fuck alone!’

It was Titus. He was shouting and then the sound of crying reached my ears as a dishevelled Pippa ran down the stairs and started to pull on her coat – back to front to begin with – and cursing at herself when the arms wouldn’t fit.

‘Shit, SHIT!’ she shouted, flapping the thing.

‘Pippa, are you all right?’ I asked, going into the hallway to help her. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘She’s leaving.’ Titus’s voice sounded from the landing, echoing impressively, like some god speaking from above.

Pippa threw one terrified look my way and then flew out of the front door, leaving it crashing behind her.

‘Did you upset her or something?’ I said, turning to Titus. ‘She looked really rattled.’ I started to march up the stairs when I didn’t get a response. ‘So what happened then? Did she find out about your other woman?’

I arrived at his doorway in time to see him pulling on some trainers and a hoodie. ‘I’m going out!’ he barked at me through his tears.

I rubbed at my face, taking in a deep breath, trying not to let this new drama be the thing that caused me to snap. ‘Please, just sit down and tell me what’s wrong.’ He ignored me, shoving my shoulder out the way as he exited the room and ran down the stairs. The front door crashed closed again after him, leaving me wondering what the Maxwell-Foxes next door must be thinking of us.

I considered going after Titus, or getting the car out and crawling the streets of London looking for him. But I didn’t. I went back to the kitchen and sat, silently, my thoughts running around in my head. Morning turned into afternoon, and still I sat. When it reached 2pm, I ate a strawberry yoghurt, tried watching some television, then eventually phoned Titus. To my surprise, he picked up. ‘Hello?’ he said. His voice sounded groggy, as if he’d been asleep.

‘Titus, please tell me where you are. What happened earlier? Are you all right?’

Perhaps I shouldn’t have pressed three demands for answers upon him, because my questions were greeted with silence.

‘Titus, please. I know things are difficult and I wish I could give you more answers but … can you just tell me where you are? Then we can talk a bit and you can explain what upset you.’ When silence greeted this once more, a sudden thought hit me. ‘You haven’t gone to find your dad, have you?’

He let out a mocking laugh. ‘Christ. I’m not in Scotland. I’m at Granny’s. She’s out though.’ There it was again, that strange slurred quality. Had he been drinking?

‘Stay there. I’m coming for you.’

‘No, don’t. What the fuck is the point? Just … leave me alone…’

‘Just stay where you are.’

The call went dead. He’d hung up. Cursing myself for not handling it better, I grabbed my car keys, exited the house and threw myself into the BMW and started the engine. A hold-up due to a broken-down bus outside Peter Jones caused me to start hyperventilating. Why I was panicking so much, I didn’t know, but something in Titus’s tone had troubled me beyond anything the day had thrown up so far. Something so bleak, bitter, furious. It was like he was transforming into