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

stuffed full and she heads back up the bank like an oversized but appropriately shaggy Himalayan goat. I clamber up behind her, and go to find Charlotte where she has disappeared behind a clump of scrubby trees and bushes.

‘How’s it all going? The job? Naomi?’ she asks, casually.

I consider for a moment before replying. The truth is that I’ve been so busy since I started, learning the ropes and getting used to being on my feet all day, that I haven’t taken much notice of her; she spends a lot of time in the office, putting in orders and dealing with paperwork, or cooking in the kitchen, whilst I am out front with the customers.

But it’s undeniable that she appears like magic whenever Dan is around, and fawns and fusses over him like a mother over a newborn. And their interactions do seem to have a familiarity that indicates a certain level of – how should I put it? – intimacy. I’m sure it’s nothing more than a particularly demonstrative friendship. Although, on the other hand …

‘Well?’ Charlotte prompts, sounding anxious. ‘What are you not telling me?’

‘Nothing,’ I reply hastily. My face must have given me away, indicating my doubt even when I’d determined not to let on. ‘She’s fine,’ I continue eventually, deciding that the best course of action is to play the whole thing down. I don’t want Charlotte to get upset, especially when there’s probably nothing behind any of it, but I do find it hard to lie.

I breathe in sharply before continuing. ‘I mean, she’s just one of those people who’s naturally over-effusive so her behaviour with Dan isn’t out of charac—’

‘Still all over him like a rash, then?’ Charlotte’s question shoots out with bullet-like velocity, cutting over the end of my sentence.

I pause once more before replying, still not sure what to include and what to leave out.

‘Well, yes.’ I can’t help but grimace and unfortunately I think Charlotte sees so I hurriedly try to mitigate her understandable concerns; I can’t bear to think of her worrying herself to death about this, especially over someone as annoying yet inconsequential as Naomi. ‘But, as I say, it’s just how she is. Nothing to worry about.’

Charlotte bends to retie a shoelace. She’s wearing a beautiful pair of lightweight, waterproof walking boots that somehow manage to look elegant as well as practical. I laugh inwardly to myself as I think that; this is the first time in my life that I’ve ever spent time admiring outdoor footwear. I guess it shows just how much things have changed.

‘If I question him too much about it,’ she mutters, almost as if she’s not listening to me, as if she’s talking to herself or addressing the ground beneath her feet, ‘he’ll think I don’t trust him.’

She stands upright and looks directly at me, meeting my eye.

‘But you don’t,’ I reply.

A cuckoo calls, the first of spring.

‘I mean, you’ve told me that you know he’s been unfaithful in the past …’ I blunder on, trying to make up for my frankness, and merely digging myself a bigger hole in the process. I force myself to stop so I can regain my composure.

‘Look,’ I resume, eventually, ‘you know you can trust me. And you know I’ll keep tabs on Naomi Numbskull for you.’

There’s a long silence during which Charlotte seems to have retreated to somewhere else entirely. I wonder what she’s thinking but I’m not brave enough to ask. Instead, I tilt my head to one side and listen intently for the cuckoo. But it’s gone and all I can hear now are some squawks and chirps that I can’t identify.

Eventually, the silence becomes unbearable and to break it, I call to Jamie and Luke. There was an awkwardness in that last exchange that I don’t like and, though I try to reassure myself that it’s no threat to our new but burgeoning friendship, that it’s just one of those discordant moments that happen sometimes, I’m worried that I’ve really put my foot in it.

It’s always hard to judge, when someone asks for one’s truthful opinion, whether they really do actually want it. Or not.

Charlotte is gathering handfuls of a plant that looks like cow parsley but surely can’t be, as I cannot believe this ubiquitous weed is fit for human consumption. But, when I question what she’s collecting, it turns out it is.

‘Oh yes,’ she laughs, ‘not only is cow parsley edible but rather tasty, especially at this time of year. Not so much in the height of summer; it tends to be tougher and rather bitter by then. It’s also known as wild chervil, and it smells like a mixture of parsley and aniseed.’

Chervil, sweet cicely, chickweed, cow parsley … with all these ‘c’ words and scents of aniseed, I’m struggling to remember which is which.

‘What would you use it for, though?’ I ask. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with it.’

‘Cow parsley soup is lovely. Or, even more delicious, you can make pesto with it.’

I wander a few steps away from Charlotte so she doesn’t feel that I’m invading her patch or crowding her and begin to pluck, somewhat dubiously, at some cow parsley of my own. I remain to be convinced that a roadside weed would be a fitting substitute for basil, one of my personal favourite herbs but, on the other hand, if it really does taste good, it certainly could be another unique avenue to investigate for the cafe. If I could introduce something really on-trend and newsworthy, and increase footfall, that would certainly help to consolidate my position and make me indispensable. Which would do no harm at all, considering how much I need this job and the wages it pays.

We harvest away in silence for a few minutes and then Charlotte stands up, elaborately straightening herself out. I’m filled with sympathy; it must be terrible to suffer the pain and restrictions a bad back gives you. I’m very lucky not to have any such troubles.

She