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

with a prominent website owner to discuss him contributing to the re-election campaign I was co-managing – a quietly spoken, smooth sort of man of around fifty. Even though there was nothing remarkable about his dress or appearance, he seemed to exude charisma and power.

‘I thought you’d have wanted to meet me with the rest of the team,’ he said, sitting down and accepting a glass of wine. ‘Not that I’m complaining. It’s not often I get to have a drink one-to-one with a British aristocrat.’

I laughed and batted away his comment as though it was unnecessary flattery, like such things didn’t really matter. I’ve learned that’s what people expect, and it usually works. They let their guard down a bit after that. ‘Malcom, you’ve met the actual President twice already. I’m sure that’s a lot more impressive.’

He leant forwards at that point and I caught the scent of his aftershave. Like a cool, crisp autumn evening. ‘Elena, I’m not into appearing impressive. I’ve done that my whole life. I just want to keep the right guy in The White House for as long as possible. And making a sizable donation should send a loud enough message.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘I think your move into journalism and think-pieces might be doing that already.’

He let out a short, sharp laugh, ‘Well, that’s another reason why I’m really pushing the content side of the platform. Longform journalism shouldn’t be confined to the papers and news sites. We get millions of eyeballs every day. Let’s start educating those eyeballs.’

Here we go, I thought. He’s about to mention her. Any second now.

‘Which brings me around to your daughter,’ he said, ‘and what a fine writer she is too.’

I’d become aware of my daughter’s contributions to FreeTalk, Malcom Driver’s social-media platform-turned-right-of-centre-blogging-site, shortly before he reached out to us to make a donation. Pippa had started writing some gossipy girl-about-town newspaper column during her first year at Oxford and had been poached by FreeTalk to write for them with a stronger emphasis on her political stances. Her series of articles and essays were published under the headline ‘Pippa Ashton: The Way I See It’. Why anyone should care about the way my nineteen-year-old daughter sees the big issues of our times was a mystery to me. Although, that said, I couldn’t deny the fact that her writing commanded attention, helped along by the deliberately over-the-top headings, like Are Universities Becoming a Threat to Democracy? and Why Loopy Vegans Need to Shut the F*** Up About Fox Hunting, and, in a three-thousand-word ‘long read’ which ended up going viral, Why I’m No Longer Talking to Poor People About Privilege. All of these caused me some anguish – not necessarily because I disagreed with the points she raised, but because of the way they were presented, as if their sole purpose was to offend people and cause outrage. That wasn’t a nuanced debate in my book. That was, to coin a phrase I’d once heard Elliot Gould say in a Steven Soderbergh movie, ‘graffiti with punctuation’. But if Malcom Driver was impressed by my daughter, so much the better for the campaign, I thought, as I smiled at him over my glass. I was about to try to move the conversation on, but he remained stuck on Pippa.

‘And I hear she’s getting married, isn’t she? To some dashing young man – the one her Instagram is covered in. Titus, isn’t it? It looks like he likes a bit of a party, but they seem a charming couple. Although she’ll be quite a young bride at nineteen. That’s young these days, right?’ His face stayed perfectly neutral as he said it, but I could tell he was interested to hear my thoughts on this. And I had a lot of thoughts. Like, why the hell Pippa was being so stupid about marrying that bland, empty-headed boy. Like, how she should wait until she was at least some way into her twenties before entering into something as serious as marriage. Not to mention my unease about her temporarily living under the same roof as Charles Allerton, a man who will hate me for eternity.

‘Hello…? Elena, are you OK?’ Malcom was looking at me, his head turned a little.

‘Sorry,’ I said, realising my thoughts had carried me off momentarily, ‘I’m … yes … Pippa is certainly making her mark on the world.’ My phone then buzzed in my pocket – on silent, but the vibration was loud enough to make Malcom raise his eyebrows. I cursed inwardly, but Malcom nodded at my phone, saying, ‘Please, do answer. I’m in no rush here.’

I glanced at the screen. Trip was calling. I felt my heart sink a little. Trip was a twenty-eight-year-old bartender I’d been seeing for the past nine months. Two months ago I moved him into my house in Kalorama. It was just easier having him at home, there when I wanted him, and he was normally happy to tuck himself away on his laptop in another room when I didn’t. He desperately wanted to be a screenwriter, hammering out House of Cards-style political thrillers, even though the closest he’d ever come to that world was pouring drinks for the odd senator. I was about to cancel the call when I noticed he’d texted a few times. Two words stood out quite clearly from all the rest as if propelled from the screen. Rachel Holden.

‘I’m sorry, I’m … I’m going to have to…’

‘Please, go ahead,’ Malcom nodded, making it clear it wasn’t a problem.

I accepted the call. ‘Ah, there you are, I was about to hang up,’ Trip said, sounding slightly excitable. ‘Did you see my texts? I thought I should—’

‘What is this about?’ I cut him off. ‘Tell me quickly.’

‘Well, it’s a bit odd. It’s about this package that arrived for you. It’s strange because when I opened it I saw—’

‘You opened a package addressed to me?’ I repeated, my moment of outrage momentarily causing me to forget I just