The Dinner Guest B Walter (readict books TXT) 📖

‘Good, thanks,’ I said, distracted by Rachel, who had closed the book and was smiling at me. ‘Good evening, Rachel,’ I said, feeling it would be weird not to acknowledge her since she clearly expected a greeting.

Meryl then carried on talking. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you since … well, Rachel here has decided to become my new personal assistant.’ She said it with a wide, apparently overjoyed smile on her face.

‘Personal … assistant?’ I repeated, slowly.

‘That’s right,’ Rachel said, also beaming. ‘It all happened rather quickly, but it’s been a good few weeks now. Almost a month, actually.’

I was partly furious at Meryl, my mother, even Jerome, for not making me aware of this sooner. Surely they all must have known? A weird development such as this? Because it was weird – extremely odd. Meryl didn’t need a PA. She didn’t really work anymore and spent most of her time flitting from one social occasion to the next. And if she did need some help, why wouldn’t she interview someone with references and a track record of being good in that field, not some random stranger she met at a book club who used to stack shelves in a garden centre?

‘But, I thought you worked at Streamline?’ I said, momentarily forgetting my manners as I accepted a cocktail from Jerome without saying thank you.

‘Well, I did until recently,’ Rachel said. ‘But Meryl offered me the chance to work for her.’

I turned to look back at Meryl. Her slightly mad smile had settled into a calmly reserved look of happiness and contentment. ‘I have to say they were tragically under-utilising her,’ she said, with a little shake of her head. ‘So I offered her an alternative. It really doesn’t do to have a smart, keen, young mind wasted behind a photocopier and endless pointless emails.’

I offered a vague nod at this, unsure how to respond. Eventually, and probably a tad belatedly, I decided to try to act pleased at the news. ‘Well, I suppose once again you’ll have a very easy walk to work,’ I said. ‘Must only be a fifteen-minute walk from Churchill Gardens to Eaton Square.’

‘Oh, she’s no longer in that tiny little flat,’ Meryl said, looking scandalised. ‘I couldn’t have her living there. It just didn’t feel right. Rachel’s come to join me in my house while we find somewhere more suitable for her, closer to her place of work.’

Closer to her place of work? How could she get closer, unless she moved over to Belgravia itself – although that might be on the cards if Meryl had put her on a decent salary.

‘It’s so kind of you,’ Rachel said, looking at Meryl with what she probably considered to be an expression of wistful respect. After all, Meryl was now her saviour twice-over, a benefactor beyond her wildest dreams, taking her from a council estate to Eaton Square with a quick flourish of her hand.

We had to go through the whole tale all over again when Matthew appeared by my side. Matthew was comparatively chuffed for Rachel, remarking how perfect he thought she was for the job.

‘Why do you think she’d be perfect?’ I asked him in a hushed tone later in the evening after our Atwood discussion, while the others were discussing politics. Matthew looked confused at my question. ‘Rachel,’ I clarified, impatiently. ‘You said you thought she’d be “perfect” for the job of Meryl’s PA.’

He shrugged. ‘Well, I just thought she’d probably do a good job.’

‘But without any experience? Without ever doing the job of a PA – or anything secretarial or organisational in her life? How can she be perfect?’

Matthew didn’t seem interested in discussing the topic further. ‘We don’t know that. We don’t really know anything about her past life before she came to London.’

How right he was.

The evening became steadily weirder still when Titus, who had enthusiastically taken part in the discussion on The Testaments, followed by Brexit, House of Lords reform, and alleged BBC political bias, politely asked Jerome if he could have a look at the extensive collection of paintings he had on the staircase leading to the upper level.

‘Of course, dear boy. There are more on the landing upstairs, too. Go ahead and roam about.’

Titus eagerly accepted the invitation and left the lounge. I didn’t notice Rachel slipping out too, but after five or ten minutes or so, I realised she had also left our throng by the fire in the lounge.

I’m not sure what it was that made me get up and go and explore as well – I had next to no interest in Jerome’s depressingly gothic art collection, but I just had a strange, tingling sense that something was slightly off.

There was no sign of Titus in the corridor, the striking, very modern cream-coloured surroundings (the pale tones emphasised by the jet-black steps of the stairs) completely deserted. I climbed the stairs towards the landing and saw Titus, peering closely at one of the paintings on the landing. I was about to call out to him, to tell him it was time to be getting going, when I saw Rachel walk confidently from down the other end of the long landing gallery, remarking on the brush strokes of one of the paintings at the end. Titus listened to her and nodded. It was as if the two of them were out at an exhibition together, comparing thoughts on the work, like a couple of friends. I watched them, oddly mesmerised, and I had a strange sense of déjà vu – my mind leaping back to that first time Rachel went walkabouts at our house and was found upstairs, snooping around the main bedroom. As I watched, I saw Rachel lean in to study the painting that had seemingly transfixed Titus. She put a hand on his shoulder and brought her head so that it was almost touching Titus’s and seemed to whisper something in his ear. And he smiled, then laughed.

I started to feel