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

if that will somehow diminish its power and weaken it, like garlic to a vampire. He’s obviously read about me, this researcher, in the newspaper reports from the time, of which there were many, some so lurid I could hardly recognise myself, and has mercilessly tracked me down. He doesn’t seem to know my married name or my current address.

But if he found me the first time, it’s surely only a matter of time before he finds me again.

Chapter 22

Susannah

Unlike the ne’er-do-wells of my past, Dan is as good as his word.

Three days after our weekend match and lunch at his house, he sends me a text asking if today is convenient for fixing the leaky tap. As it’s my morning off, I tell him not only am I in but I’m free to go to the hardware store with him, too. The boys are out on playdates and I had been planning to spend the time pulling together some chapters of my book, the idea for which has crystallised recently. It will be a compendium of British flora, along with each plant’s chemical constituents and the ways in which it can be used for herbal or medicinal purposes. I’ll include any instances where the plants have been used in fiction or real life for beneficial or malevolent purposes. I’m hoping it will be the sort of coffee table work that will really intrigue people, a casual read but also informative and interesting. I want to make inroads on my project when the boys are away on the oft-mooted Boys’ Own camping trip to the Lakes. But the tap badly needs some TLC and Dan’s offer is too good to turn down so …

He picks me up in the Porsche and there’s something pretty cool about pulling up next to the shabby white vans and battered Ford estates in the car park and sauntering across the hot tarmac to the shop’s open doors, all eyes upon us. I have to hide my delight in the novelty of it all, obviously. I’d like Dan to think such a lifestyle comes as naturally to me as it does to him.

Back at my house, he pulls out our £2 mixed packet of washers and some assorted tools he’s brought with him and gets to work. I offer him coffee but he declines. He doesn’t say so but I can tell he’s already clocked the lack of an expensive Italian coffee machine and realised it’s going to be instant. I pour him a glass of elderflower cordial mixed with sparkling water instead.

The job takes him no time at all.

‘There you are,’ he says, turning the tap on and off in a demonstration of how beautifully it now works. ‘No drips and you won’t have to use so much power on it now!’

Laughingly, I brandish my biceps to demonstrate that I’m strong enough. Then immediately regret it as I remember Charlotte’s ‘sturdy arms’ comment.

‘You won’t be needing those muscles anymore,’ jokes Dan. ‘It’s smooth as butter. Anyway, your sleek, toned physique has far better uses than forcing dodgy spigots open and closed.’

He turns away to tidy up the tools and the spare washers, his comment hanging in the air between us, images of what those better uses might be flitting through my mind.

‘I actually really enjoyed that,’ he continues as he pours various rubber circles back into the plastic packet, oblivious to the effect he’s had on me. ‘Using my hands, doing something practical – and useful. I wish I had the opportunity more often.’

I pull myself together, banishing the disturbing, delightful thoughts I’m having. He didn’t mean anything by his comment. But still …

‘From now on,’ he continues, wheeling around in my cramped, grotty kitchen and smiling broadly, ‘you can keep your strength and power for tennis. That’s where it can really come into its own.’

I laugh, slightly hysterically. I’m all at sixes and sevens, feeling a little overwhelmed. Dan’s been so kind to give up all this time to me, and his unexpected handiness is yet another string to his already impressive bow of talents. Plus, he’s kind and full of compliments and I really can’t fault him in any way. To have his attention and friendship is like being bestowed with some precious, rare gift and I can’t help but enjoy it.

He gestures towards the glass of cordial. ‘Is this for me?’ he asks, immediately assuming it is and reaching out his arm to pick it up. He drains it and licks his lips appreciatively. ‘Wow, that’s good,’ he says. ‘Homemade, I’m sure?’

I nod my assent.

‘Multitalented, as I say,’ he laughs.

‘Likewise,’ I jest, indicating his handiwork with the tap.

And then we’re both laughing and it feels so natural for him to be here, doing things Justin would have done (albeit with a great deal more nagging beforehand) and I stop feeling ashamed of my minuscule house and tatty decor. I am what I am – and Dan’s not judging me anyway. This is probably the most relaxed I’ve ever been with a man and the novelty value of that is a long way from wearing out.

The interlude with the tap fixing turns out to be one of the best moments of the next week or so and one my mind frequently returns to when I’m feeling down. The boys go off to the Lakes with Justin as promised and I’m left to my own devices. I have ample time to stress about the TV researcher, imagining him closing in on me, narrowing his search until, one fine day, he arrives at my door. Dan spends a couple of nights in London for work so I don’t even have him and his visits to the cafe to break the monotony, leaving me nothing to do but dwell on the past – and my fears for the future. Without my boys being around, I don’t even have the mundanity of endless meals and shopping and washing to take my mind off things.

For