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

‘Susannah!’ He’s holding out his hand to shake mine and I have no option but to reciprocate. The shake is as pleasant as the first one, his palm cool and dry, his grip firm.

‘That’s right. Clever of you to remember!’ I’m conscious that my voice is unnecessarily high.

‘I never forget a name.’ Dan’s clear-eyed gaze is disconcerting.

I’m not sure how to respond so I don’t.

‘What are you up to?’ he enquires nonchalantly, then looks around him and back at me, as if wandering why I’m loitering there. ‘Were you … waiting for someone?’

‘Oh no!’ I exclaim, laughing over-enthusiastically. ‘No, no. Absolutely not. No, I don’t know anyone to wait for.’ I pull a doleful face. ‘Still settling in, you know, trying to meet people. I was just finding out what’s going on locally.’

I gesture towards the noticeboard to explain the latter comment. ‘And then you came along,’ I conclude.

Dan bursts out laughing. ‘You make me sound like a nasty rash!’ He pauses and regards me as I feel the blush of embarrassment after saying something stupid creep over my cheeks.

‘But anyway … do you play?’ he asks, his face suddenly serious again.

‘Er, yes.’ I shrug as if my playing were nothing, dismissing instantly the idea of telling him that I was once my county’s under-18 champion. Nobody likes a boaster.

‘Great,’ replies Dan, his attention now elsewhere, searching for a phone that he can obviously feel vibrating in a pocket somewhere. ‘We must have a game sometime.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure that will be possible. I’m not a member.’ I try to make it sound like a mere administrative error. It’s stupid, I know – having no money is nothing to be ashamed of – but nevertheless, I don’t want him to know that I can’t afford to join the tennis club. The last thing I want to evoke is his pity.

Dan’s missed the call but one glance at the screen sends him marching off towards his car.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he calls back over his shoulder. His long stride means he’s halfway down the path to the car park already. ‘I can sign you in. I’ll look forward to it.’

And then he’s making a call and lodging the phone between his chin and his shoulder whilst he pulls his car key out of another pocket. He disappears out of sight behind the hedge and in the distance I hear the sound of a car door opening and clunking expensively shut and then the noise of a six-cylinder engine starting up. The swish of tyres on tarmac and the roar of acceleration come next, followed by silence.

It has begun to drizzle, ice-cold globules dotting my face and hands, soaking into my hair and my running jacket. Turning determinedly for home, I set off down the footpath, my pace faster now because of the wet but also because of my need to shake off my despondency. Damn the financial crisis, damn my ex-husband Justin, and most of all, damn the fact that I was so dependent on him and put such misplaced faith in the fact that he would always be able to provide for me.

And then again, damn myself and all the mistakes I’ve made.

I reach my house and give an involuntary shudder as I am confronted once more by how tawdry it is, with its pebble-dashed facade and weed-strewn pocket-handkerchief front garden. As I struggle with the uncooperative lock, trying to avoid looking at everything I dislike about my home, I hear a car approaching and sliding to a halt right behind me. I freeze. Unexpected callers have freaked me out since the bailiffs came.

My hands are shaking as I abandon the lock and, slowly and with my heart in my mouth, turn around.

Chapter 8

Susannah

For the second time in a matter of a few minutes, the person I am confronted with is Dan.

I exhale loudly in relief, unaware that I’ve been holding my breath. Only Dan. Nobody threatening.

He is waiting at the end of the path, standing by his car, looking like a promotional picture from an upmarket lifestyle magazine.

‘Hey!’ he calls, his voice sonorous and commanding. ‘I forgot to take your number.’

My stomach flips over. I really shouldn’t go out without eating anything. Ignoring the grumblings coming from my innards, I walk towards him, just avoiding an embarrassing stumble at the broken paving stone halfway down my front path.

‘So we can book up that game,’ he says, proffering a notebook and pen towards me. ‘Give me your mobile and I’ll set something up – maybe doubles with my mates Tom and Lucy?’

‘Of course, absolutely,’ I stutter, still getting over my surprise. I scribble down my number on the notepad and hand it back to him. ‘Whatever you prefer.’ Doubles would at least mean it’s not just me and him, which might be tricky in a way I can’t quite define. Too intense? Too exposing?

‘But isn’t Charlotte your doubles partner?’ I ask him. I had them down as the archetypal tennis-playing couple, burnished by their existence under a perpetual metaphorical sun. ‘Who would I play with?’

The sardonic snort that greets these questions takes me by surprise.

‘She hasn’t played for years,’ he replies. ‘Bad back, she says, but really she’s just not interested – in tennis or in m—’ He pauses as if aware that he has said – or is about to say – too much. ‘She prefers other things – yoga, swimming, that kind of thing. A while back it was dressage – lessons, courses, practice etc,’ he continues in a more measured tone.

‘Gosh.’ There doesn’t seem to be anything to say to this; I have no intelligent conversation I can offer up on the subject. I don’t know anyone for whom dressage is a hobby, not even when I lived in Barnes, which is the kind of place where many expensive and unusual pastimes are undertaken.

‘And her personal trainer comes to the house most days to do Pilates with her,