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

‘Yes, but … well, I thought it was for me, because there was a load of other stuff delivered today that was and…’

‘Just tell me what it is, Trip,’ I said, irritation building.

‘It’s a letter,’ he said. ‘And a CD.’

‘A CD?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, sounding slightly nervous. ‘I haven’t played it. But … well … I did read the letter. It’s weird. Like, I remember you telling me about this Rachel woman who killed your … friend. Well, from what the letter says… Fuck, it’s weird. I think you should just come and read it for yourself. Or I can photograph it and send it to you, but I think you’re going to want the CD so…’

‘Don’t play it. Don’t do anything with it. Just leave it.’ I cut the call.

The bar and hotel lobby surrounding me suddenly seemed blurred and glistening, like my depth of field had been altered, as if looking through a camera lens. I had the strangest feeling of the world shifting just a notch out of balance, sliding everything the wrong way.

I needed to make a decision. I knew what I should do. I should stay and try to get Malcom to commit to a rough figure of funds before I left him. But at the same time, I knew I wouldn’t be anywhere close to my best charming self.

I walked slowly back to where he was sitting, trying to decide how to play this before I reached him. But it turned out I didn’t need to. Malcom looked up from his phone when I arrived saying he actually had a work emergency he had to deal with and he would send me his offer by email. He assured me it would be substantial. I thanked him, then got my driver outside to take me straight home, all the time my brain whirring over and over.

In the house, Trip launched into his apologies instantly.

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ I said, holding up a hand to stop him talking.

He looked sheepish and chastened. He was in his ‘loungewear’, which was basically pyjamas, and for a moment I felt like I was his mother and he my teenage son, being reprimanded for doing something naughty at school. I told him to tell me where the package was and he pointed to the grey marble kitchen countertop. I walked over, picked it up, then told him to leave me alone.

The letter was written on what looked like cheap A4 printer paper. I got the feeling that the author’s handwriting wasn’t normally neat, but extra effort had been put in to make it readable. And there was something else present too. The letters had been carved onto the paper with a lot of pressure, causing the page to be thoroughly indented on the back. Was that a sign of how studiously it had been written? Determination, perhaps? Or maybe fury?

I scanned it quickly, then sat down in one of the chairs in the living room and forced myself to read it through calmly again, taking my time over every word.

Dear Elena,

How odd it is for me to be writing to you, considering we never properly met. I think you might have nodded and smiled to me at your parents’ anniversary party. But all that was years ago now. Back when you and Matthew were shagging.

Sorry, I realise that’s quite blunt, but there’s no point me being polite. I realise you’ve probably hated me for years for killing the man you loved. Or maybe you didn’t love him. Maybe it was just sex, or a distraction from whatever else you used to fill your time with. I don’t care, really. But trust me, you’re better off without him.

It’s odd to think how connected we are – now more than ever, with your daughter and my nephew about to walk up the aisle. You see, the problem is, I’m not really sure they’re the best match. They’re so young. And does she really want to marry a boy who’s becoming known for hosting loud, debauched boat-parties? Or does she expect him to lay off the drink, drugs, and orgies when the wedding ring is firmly on his finger? If she does, I think she’s in need of some motherly advice from you, sharpish.

So that’s why I’m writing. I’m not happy with the way my nephew’s life is going. And I doubt you’re happy about your daughter marrying him. That’s why I’m writing to you now, after all this time. You see, what you think happened didn’t really happen. It’s too long to write in this letter, but I’ve included a disc containing a recording I made a few months after my trial. It’s a conversation between me and Charles Allerton. As you’ll discover, the whole thing’s a bit of a bombshell. And I trust you’ll use it well.

Kind regards,

Rachel Holden.

After my second reading, I paused on that final sentence. I trust you’ll use it well. What did she mean? I got up and walked over to the sound-system and put the disc into the slot. I listened to the whole thing, sitting there alone in the living room, my pulse quickening, my head spinning. Then, after it was finished, I sat for a few minutes more, doing nothing.

Once I felt capable of standing, I got up and headed towards the stairs, ignoring the questions from Trip as I went. As soon as I was seated at my desk in the study, I opened my laptop, navigated to the British Airways website and booked a flight to Heathrow. Then I unlocked my phone, scrolled down to a contact I’d hardly ever used and typed out a short message.

Hi Charlie. I’m on my way back to England. I think it’s time we had a chat.

Acknowledgments

This book was written in 2019 when the world was still normal and edited in 2020 when the world changed so completely, so perhaps