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

‘Charl,’ his voice booms down the airwaves, using the name he knows I hate, ‘can you let us in? I told you I didn’t take keys but you’re not answering the door.’

‘Coming,’ I reply, curtly. I stride towards the door, spending the time it takes to get there composing my face into an expression of welcoming bonhomie.

The meal I’ve laboured over is greatly appreciated and, though I say it myself, delicious – rack of lamb with rosemary potatoes (which you and I both giggle about as I serve them), broccoli puree and caramelised carrots, followed by a pear tarte tatin that melts in the mouth.

After we’ve eaten and the boys, who I managed to get to play outside whilst you and Dan were at the club, have disappeared to the fustiness of the indoor games room, and Dan to his study, you and I retreat to the drawing room. The French windows are open, revealing the flawless green lawn that the gardener spends so long perfecting. In the beds that surround it, the roses are flowering profusely. At the end is the ha-ha, its visual trickery extending the manicured garden into the lush, tree-studded meadow that stretches into the distance beyond. This separation, it suddenly occurs to me, seems to reflect my life at the moment, divided into the part I understand, which is being a mother and carer and wife, and the part that I don’t, which is … well, so many things, but mainly, of course, my tormentors. And Naomi.

Nevertheless, despite everything I feel quite relaxed as we settle ourselves on adjoining sofas. I opened wine in your honour and somehow between us we’ve managed to polish off two bottles. I’m concerned about your drinking. I will mention it sometime, when the time is right. It might not be a problem. It might just be that really good wine is a treat for you these days.

I’m about to ask you how school is going for the boys when the phone rings.

My heart stops.

I break out into a cold sweat that instantly makes my palms and my armpits feel clammy. My heart thumps so loudly I’m sure you can hear it. It’s the landline and I race for the handset before anyone else can get it. Neither Dan nor the boys ever answer but still, every time I panic that this will be the time that one of them will. And that, instead of a drop down, in place of silence, there’ll be someone there who’ll talk.

Breathless from my sprint, I snatch up the receiver.

‘Charlotte! So glad to have got you! I thought you might be out enjoying the weather. So pleasant, isn’t it? Though perhaps almost too hot …’

It’s Miriam. As her voice prattles on, going on about the photo she took of you and Dan and how it would be perfect for the newsletter, my chin sinks to my chest and I’m suffused in a hot flush of relief. I concentrate on four-four breathing to calm myself: breathe in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four … By the time I’ve recovered, I realise that Miriam is asking me something and I haven’t heard a word.

‘Charlotte, are you all right? You sound rather peculiar – a bit like a heavy breather, actually!’

She guffaws loudly at her own joke and I manage a little titter.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I counter, feebly. ‘Must be a poor line.’

‘So I can put you down to contribute some seasonal blooms for the church flowers next week, Friday, for the Joyce wedding on Saturday?’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I splutter. I’d agree to anything right now, I’m so thankful that it’s harmless Miriam on the other end of my phone and not who I always fear it might be.

I walk very slowly back to the drawing room, regaining my composure with every step. I’m OK for now.

Another stay of execution, but for how long?

Chapter 20

Susannah

‘Just Miriam,’ Charlotte announces, as she returns and sits back down on the sofa opposite me. She is her normal, self-assured self once more; on the surface, there’s no sign of the frightened rabbit who leapt off her chair as if a bomb had gone off as soon as the phone rang.

Whatever’s on her mind has not gone away. I wonder what Dan will do about it and whether he’ll ask me again. I wonder what I should do about it.

‘She wanted to know about flowers for the church,’ Charlotte continues.

‘You are wonderful,’ I say. ‘Is there anything you don’t take part in?’ I know I should be more involved in village life but I just don’t have the time, with work and the boys and I’m still sorting out the house. That’s a task that feels like it will go on forever.

‘I think it’s so important to contribute where you can,’ replies Charlotte, somewhat obliquely. I’m not sure if she’s implying something about me or not. ‘And when it comes to flowers – well, I’ve got plenty at this time of the year.’

She waves her hand towards the overflowing beds in the immaculate garden beyond the doorway as if I’ve asked for evidence. I nod in acknowledgement as I pick up one of the many photos from the side table next to me.

‘So when are you off to Corsica?’ I ask, appraising the image. In it, an infinity pool drops away to a sweeping cerulean bay, at the tip of which lies a jumbled fishing village, picturesquely located at the foot of steep cliffs. I think that, if I owned something so idyllic, I’d be there every possible moment. But I suppose if you have such luxury permanently at your fingertips, it’s difficult not to take it for granted.

‘This is the place?’ I add, checking my assumption is correct as I continue to gaze at the vision of paradise in the picture.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Charlotte confirms. ‘And before you say anything, I know how lucky I am. We are,’ she corrects,