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

that’s what he wants. But I don’t eat them.’ She says this with utter finality.

I scrutinise my almond slice. I want to greedily consume what’s left of it, all of it, stuffing it into my mouth, the whole sweet, sticky, sickly mass of it, but force myself to slow down. Charlotte takes another blueberry, places it delicately into her mouth, and chews it slowly, two calories to my two hundred.

She asks Agnes to cook potatoes, I think. I can’t decide if I’m more jealous of having a housekeeper to prepare these fabled spuds or a husband to share them with. There goes my feminism, again, right out the window along with my willpower. I finish the almond slice.

‘I’ve got a crate of wine in the boot of the car,’ Charlotte is saying, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I was waiting for Dan to unload it because it’s too heavy for my back. But I could manage the weight of a single bottle.’ She smiles at me, a smile that entreats me to agree but says she’ll do what she wants anyway. ‘I’ll go and get one, shall I? Or two. I think we could both do with a drink.’

I hardly touch alcohol these days. Apart from not wanting to be a desperate, lonely old soak, I simply can’t afford it. But a drink suddenly seems extremely attractive.

‘I’d love one,’ I agree, trying not to sound too keen. ‘For medicinal purposes, obviously. Better than a potato, any day.’

I don’t know what makes me say it, and as soon as the words are out, I clasp my hand over my mouth, convinced Charlotte will think I’m making fun of her.

Her head snaps towards me, and I see that she is frowning.

Oh no, I inwardly groan, I’ve totally blown it. There goes that friendship.

But then, as I ferret around in my mind for some words with which to apologise and make amends, the frown turns into a grin and then a broad smile and then she is laughing and as soon as she laughs, I laugh and we are both rolling around on our chairs emitting such hearty gales of laughter that Luke shouts through from the sitting room to tell us to be quiet because he can’t hear the TV.

‘Potato …’ splutters Charlotte, ‘what on earth am I telling you about potatoes for?’

‘I don’t know,’ I gasp, trying to catch enough breath to speak properly. ‘But it was quite funny … and I didn’t like to tell you that I love potatoes.’

‘Roast …’ she responds.

‘Baked, chipped, sautéed …’ I continue.

‘Boiled, mashed, medallioned …’

‘Medallioned … ha ha ha! What about confit?’

‘Yes, confit …’

‘What even is a confit potato anyway?’

‘No idea.’

This last is so hilarious that we laugh and laugh and laugh and when we finally calm down, Charlotte pronounces herself thirstier than ever and heads off to the car. She returns with an expensive-looking bottle of wine under each arm.

‘Corkscrew?’ she asks.

‘Oh,’ I reply, surprised. I haven’t had wine with anything other than a screw top for a long time. ‘Somewhere.’

I delve into a drawer and eventually withdraw a battered corkscrew, one of the most basic kind, the sort you get free with a card full of filling station points.

Despite the substandard tool, Charlotte makes light work of opening a bottle and pours us a generous glass each, once I’ve located the wine glasses at the back of one of the cupboards.

‘I know it’s a horrible way for it to have happened,’ Charlotte muses, after she’s taken a lengthy swig of her wine, ‘but it’s so nice to have this opportunity to talk to you, to get to know you better.’

I nod eagerly. ‘Oh yes,’ I say, ‘absolutely.’ I drink a slug of wine and feel it surge down my throat in a warming rush. ‘I don’t know if he told you,’ I continue, ‘but I bumped into Dan outside the tennis club the other day and he invited me for a game.’ I grimace apologetically at Charlotte. I hope she won’t be annoyed that I’m taking up his time, taking him away from her and the children. Although, she seems well able to stand up for herself, to tell him if that is the case; she’s so strong, so independent and confident.

‘I said yes. I hope that’s OK,’ I continue, drinking more wine. ‘And I asked him for your number so I could invite you over. I just hadn’t quite got round to it,’ I add hastily, gesturing humbly around me, at the messy kitchen with unpacked boxes piled in the corner, and back towards the living room where removal company crates still litter the floor.

Charlotte shrugs. ‘Dan loves his tennis and he’s always looking for new partners. Watch him, though, because he’s a seriously bad loser.’ She finishes her glass and then tops it up. There’s a dribble left in the bottle that she pours into mine.

‘Oh,’ I giggle, feeling a bit tipsy already with the unaccustomed alcohol, ‘like most men, then. I’ll make sure I let him win.’

Charlotte raises her eyebrows. ‘No, don’t do that. That’ll make him worse than ever! I was looking at you and those sturdy arms and thinking you’ll be able to give him a thrashing.’

I laugh, though less heartily than before. Sturdy arms. Right. Of course she doesn’t mean to be insulting – it’s only the truth. It’s my fault for being so insecure about myself that I wish it wasn’t accurate. That I care that I don’t have the svelte and perfect physique that Charlotte has. Jealousy has always been one of my worst traits and I suppress it angrily now; I don’t want anything to get in the way of this friendship.

‘But honestly,’ Charlotte continues, ‘joking apart, I’m really happy for you to be playing with him. He’s the kind of person who needs constant stimulation, newness, excitement. It gets rather exhausting sometimes. So if you can wear him out on the court, I’ll be eternally grateful.’

I swallow another gulp of wine. ‘We’ll be equal