The Best of Friends by Alex Day (english novels to read .TXT) 📗

the little things – punctuality, for instance, apropos the party – but never, since the school debacle, about the things that really matter. And when push comes to shove, I value our partnership more than I dislike the compromises. A marriage is a buffer to the world, providing safety and security. People can understand it, can’t they? A divorced woman is always liable to be looked on with pity, don’t you think?

I shiver when I contemplate … but no, I’m not going there. He would never be able to understand why I did what I did nor to accept it. Which is why it has to stay secret forever. The worst didn’t happen, and hasn’t yet, though that doesn’t stop me from always looking over my shoulder. I’m constantly waiting for the past to catch up with me, half knowing that one day, it will, and half hopeful that I’ll make sure it never can.

People envy me, I know. I’m sure you do. Dan and I appear to be the perfect couple: beautiful, gilded, rich, and powerful, a pair of shining stars in a rich, exclusive, and opulent galaxy.

But you should always remember that appearances can be deceptive.

Chapter 7

Susannah

The pavement is slick underfoot, but the rain has stopped now, and the wind has dropped. Magnolias are poised to burst into bloom, waxy pink flower buds standing erect on bare branches as if waiting for the command to open. In London, before we left, some were already out but it’s colder here, everything several weeks behind.

Spring comes early in London, I think. I feel a pang of deep regret, of sorrow for what I’ve left behind – its familiarity that gave it an illusion of safety – and what lies ahead. But I banish the self-pity before it can begin to take root, quickening my pace, my feet hitting the tarmac evenly and lightly, the hedges, lampposts and trees flying by, as if I am trying to run the past out of me. I’m a good runner, and a fast one; Jamie inherited my sporty genes, I always think. Let’s just hope they do more for him than they’ve ever done for me.

Passing the green, I cast a glance over the stone wall that fronts Charlotte’s house – the prize of the village, a stunning Queen Anne manor house restored to perfection. The sweeping circular drive is empty of cars and the house stands silent, a beguiling combination of homely and majestic, creamy stone mellow and inviting despite the unappealing weather. Since the party, I now know that it’s as beautiful and stylish inside as it is out.

I marvel that, despite the gaping chasm in their circumstances, the huge disparities in their lifestyles, the four boys – mine and her two youngest – get on so well together. Jamie and Luke have had several playdates with them, though never at our house; they always go to Charlotte’s, which has everything a child could want in terms of entertainment: table tennis, games consoles, and a hand-built adventure playground, not to mention an indoor swimming pool. In all truth, I do find Toby and Sam a little spoilt – but perhaps that’s inevitable when you have so much and never want for anything. If money is no object, it makes no sense to deny your children what their hearts desire. Though even when I was a great deal better off than I am now, I still took care not give my boys too much and to make sure that they understand the value of money.

Anyway, my two are going round to Charlotte’s this afternoon after school. Having buddies just down the road is definitely making the transition here so much easier for them. And where they have forged ahead, I am determined to follow.

If they can make it, so can I.

I run on, a new determination in my steps, turning into the road that leads to the recreation ground where there is a short cut back to my house. On the right-hand side lies the Biglow Tennis Club. Its notice board stands proudly out front, advertising events, competitions, and opening times. I pause, glancing through the crunchy brown leaves of the beech hedge to the grass courts where a groundsman is checking the condition of the bright-green sward, systematically pacing forward a few metres and then bending low before standing straight once more.

There’s a poster about the Biglow tennis championship which I stop to read, rocking back and forth on my toes and holding my hands up to my mouth and blowing on them to keep them warm. I wish I could take part in the competition, but I’ve already looked the club up online and found that the membership fees, though not extravagant, are far too high for me to justify with things the way they are. I’ll try to scrape together enough to allow the boys to do a holiday scheme in the summer because I think they’d really enjoy it, and I want them to be able to play the sport that I once excelled in. But a few lessons or a short course here and there are likely to be the sum total of their involvement with Biglow’s tennis fraternity.

Just as I am turning away, a man emerges from the club’s automatic doors, his bag hastily packed with the racket handle emerging from the zip. He’s walking briskly, tall and upright, and he has an indefinable presence about him of ownership and assuredness. I watch him without much interest; I hardly know anyone here yet, least of all anyone male. But as he draws nearer, he flashes me a brisk smile of recognition and I realise who it is.

Dan.

I falter for a moment, instantly self-conscious. I’m not dressed or made-up for meeting people, my face bare, my hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. The last person I want to come across while looking like this is the cool, debonair (my judgement) and stinking rich (Miriam’s words)