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

much to explain. What to put in and what to leave out. I’d like Dan to know that I once had talent, but I don’t want him to think badly of me for not exploiting it, for squandering the one thing I ever had going for me.

‘Competed, that is,’ I venture, hesitantly. ‘But I was never in the highest echelons of the game and … well, since I’ve grown older it’s become a hobby and a way of keeping fit, no more than that. I’ve always tried to keep my hand in, but it’s been quite hard recently to find the time – and the money, if I’m honest. It’s nice to find out I can still hit a ball.’

I can feel the perspiration beading on my upper lip. The day has turned out warmer than expected. I wipe the towel across my face. When I lower it from my eyes, I see that Dan is smiling in his beguiling way.

‘You can certainly do that.’

He’s so direct, so candid. Despite my earlier, inexplicable thoughts, I can understand that some women – those, unlike me, who are not old enough to know better – might interpret his manner as flirtatious, as leading them on. Some men just have that way about them, and some women – mentioning no names Naomi – fall for it.

‘There are a lot of other club members who’d love a game with you – something that would really challenge them.’

‘You’re too kind.’ I do everything I can to suppress the incipient blush I can feel rising on my cheeks. ‘I need more practice, though,’ I soldier on, filling the silence with my prattle. ‘I’d like to play regularly but I can’t afford the membership fees. Since my divorce, you know … money’s tight.’

Immediately, I regret the words. I am being too forward, divulging too much about my personal circumstances.

Dan pauses as we’re walking. ‘I’m sorry, Susannah,’ he says, softly. ‘I’m being a dolt. I didn’t realise how bad things were for you financially.’ He casts his eyes around as if looking for the solution then lifts his arms in a gesture of resignation.

‘Hopefully the situation will improve,’ he continues, ‘and in meantime, it’s all sorted. I’ll sign you in and the two of us will play regularly.’

I smile gratefully. ‘That’s really kind of you …’

Dan’s eyes are full of concern as he looks at me. ‘I can sense a but,’ he says.

‘I don’t want to impose. I’m worried that you’re inviting me because you feel sorry for me.’

Dan bursts out laughing. ‘Nothing,’ he splutters, ‘could be further from the truth. I’m full of admiration for you. You’re so strong and capable, and you shouldn’t have been left penniless like this by your twit of a husband.’

Charlotte must have filled him in on the details of my perilous state, close to homelessness and penury.

‘You shouldn’t have been left at all, in fact,’ he adds, ‘but you and I, we’ll get to play tennis, don’t you worry.’

It’s no longer an invitation but a demand. I’m learning that Dan Hegarty simply presumes that no one will say no to him.

And most of the time, I’m willing to bet, they don’t.

He offers me a lift home, but wants to have a quick shower first. He says Charlotte doesn’t like it if he turns up sweaty and smelly. I’m shallow enough to feel a frisson of excitement at the thought of a ride in his Porsche so I say I’m happy to wait. Luke will die of jealousy – he loves cars and everything to do with them, and the ancient Ford Fiesta that was all I could afford when the hire purchase companies claimed back Justin’s Alfa Romeo and my Golf is a constant source of embarrassment to him. He yearns for a Tesla and, in meantime, lives in a permanent state of relief that the primary school is walking distance so there’s no need for me to shame him by turning up to collect the boys in the car.

I haven’t brought a towel or any shampoo, so I linger in the corridor whilst Dan showers, letting nostalgia wash over me as I imbue the smells and sounds that remind me so intensely of my youth. Eager youngsters in hoodies that hang off one shoulder and super short shorts bustle past me, on their way to the youth training session. Just like I would have been, twenty-five or more years ago. I’d so love my Jamie to be in their midst but there’s fat chance of that unless I suddenly unexpectedly inherit a fortune.

Or find a rich man to marry. Well, it happens in books, doesn’t it? What about that one where the vulnerable, damaged protagonist not only lives in the flat beneath a stunningly handsome, single, eligible young man – but he also just happens to be a consultant psychiatrist so can heal her mind as well as fulfilling all her romantic desires and paying for her dinner?

I laugh ironically to myself. It’s fiction, I say to myself. It’s not true life, to use one of the boys’ favourite phrases from when they were younger.

I stop to read the club noticeboard, idly scanning the postcards selling used kit, offering private lessons or racket restringing services. One particular postcard catches my attention. It’s headed with the words ‘Position vacant’ and goes on to advertise the cafe’s need for a waitress-stroke-deputy manager, weekdays from 9am to 3pm, evenings and weekends negotiable. No experience necessary but a professional appearance and knowledge of and interest in tennis desirable.

Instantly, I seize my phone from my bag and type in the contact number. This is a much more realistic answer to my prayers. The money won’t be great, that’s for sure, but it’s exactly what I want in terms of hours and, topped up by Justin’s maintenance contributions, however paltry these are at present, it might leave me with an income that the boys and I can just about live on. At least I’d be working