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

then,’ I smile. ‘You’ve looked after my son and I’ll have taken your demanding husband off your hands for a bit. We can call it quits.’

‘Absolutely.’ Charlotte reaches over and gives my hand a quick squeeze. ‘God, I’m glad you’ve turned up in the village. People here are so small-minded and provincial. It’s great to have someone fresh from London, with a wider outlook on life.’

We talk and talk and I end up telling her all about Justin and his disastrous business affairs, the divorce, the whole song and dance of it all. She’s patient and polite enough to listen carefully to every word and I realise how I’ve missed having a female friend I can really confide in. When I’ve finally exhausted the topic, she smiles sympathetically.

‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘You have been through the wringer, haven’t you? But hopefully the only way is up from here on in.’

She looks around her, and then at her watch. ‘It’s only nine,’ she says, ‘and it’s Friday. Let’s open that other bottle. I feel like we’ve only just got started.’

Chapter 11

Charlotte

I pull the cork on the second bottle just as you arrive back in the kitchen from a trip to the living room to check up on Luke.

‘Sorry,’ you say.

I’ve already noticed your habit of giving unsolicited apologies for everything and anything. It’s endearing, as if you are always anxious that you are not quite good enough. I know that feeling only too well – it took me years of gut-wrenchingly awful evenings and weekends and holidays with Dan’s posh friends before some of their in-built, genetically programmed superiority complexes started to rub off on me. You are far more to the manor born than me, but you seem to have a similar habit of self-deprecation. Perhaps it’s something to do with having fallen on hard times.

Or maybe there’s something else, a dark secret in your past.

I laugh to myself at that thought. I vacillate between believing that I’m the only person in the world with so much to hide, to imagining that everyone else is guilty of the same levels of deception that I am. Who knows which is the truth?

‘How is the invalid?’ I ask.

‘Fine,’ you reply, ‘absolutely fine. He must have nine lives, like a cat. So,’ you add, giggling, ‘let’s drink to a happy ending,’

I refill the glasses and we chink. ‘And to the start of a beautiful friendship,’ I say.

You giggle again, and I realise you’re a little bit tipsy. ‘Thank fuck for that,’ you sigh, uncharacteristically swearing, and referring, I assume, to Luke’s remarkable recovery rather than to us being mates. I’ve noticed before that you are a bit of a helicopter parent; I hope your boys don’t suffer too much from it – and that this unfortunate incident doesn’t make you even worse. It’s a shame when excessive caution curbs a young child’s naturally adventurous spirit, I always think.

‘So when are you meeting up with Dan for this match, did you say?’ I ask.

‘I can’t remember if I did say or not, but it’s on Sunday, 11am,’ you reply. And then you add anxiously, ‘is that OK? It doesn’t interfere with any of your plans?’

‘Oh no,’ I respond. ‘We’ve got people coming for a late lunch tomorrow, but nothing planned for Sunday.’

There’s a pause for a moment as we both drink.

‘When you go to the club, you’ll probably meet Naomi,’ I muse, rubbing a spilt streak of wine into the table top with my index finger, ‘and you’ll be able to tell me if you think Dan’s shagging her.’

Your mouthful of wine explodes over the table, obliterating the tiny drop I’d been preoccupied with.

‘Wh-wh-what do you mean?’ you stutter, clearly flabbergasted, your eyes wide with astonishment.

‘Naomi is the manageress of the tennis club cafe,’ I explain. ‘She’s obsessed with Dan, and he doesn’t exactly do anything to dissuade her in this adoration. I don’t think they’re sleeping together. But you never know.’

If it’s possible, your eyes widen even further. I didn’t mean to upset you, but I suddenly felt the need to tell someone. Though I know practically everyone in this village and have numerous acquaintances, there’s no one I feel I can really trust. I could never let on about Naomi to anyone else around here; half would delight in the information and spread it like wildfire and the other half, already waiting to pounce on Dan themselves, would see it as their cue to go in for the kill. I’m only too aware, frankly, of how many women are ready and waiting to snatch my husband from under my nose. You’re too new here to have anyone to gossip with and I instinctively feel that you’re someone I can be sure of. Even with the news that my husband is a philanderer.

‘You shouldn’t let him treat you like that!’ you exclaim indignantly. ‘If you really think he’s cheating on you, you should do something. I’m sure if you spoke to him about it …’

But this isn’t a situation that’s easily fixed. In those immortal words, it’s complicated. I’ve taken the decision, like thousands of women before me and thousands still to come, to turn a blind eye to Dan’s indiscretions. What’s different about Naomi is that she’s a little bit too close to home for comfort. Too firmly ensconced in the tennis club where she’s able to see Dan on an almost daily basis and keep track of his every move. Too utterly shameless to let propriety or decorum get in her way.

I shrug. ‘To be honest, it’s my fault. I started it. I invited her to dinner when she first arrived as the club manageress. All I was trying to do was be nice, show an interest in Dan’s hobby, welcome someone new into the fold. And Dan loves playing lord of the manor, taking the serfs under his wing, ingratiating himself with everyone, spreading his largesse far and wide.’

You are listening, bug-eyed and stunned into silence.

‘I’d picked mushrooms