The Best of Friends, Alex Day [feel good books to read .txt] 📗

‘Oh dear,’ I say, eventually, ‘I hope Charlotte won’t be too cross. About the extra washing, I mean.’

Dan emits another laugh, but it’s a different kind this time. ‘Oh God, she doesn’t do the laundry. Agnes, the housekeeper, takes care of all that stuff.’ His laughter recedes and he smiles kindly at me. ‘All the more reason why you really don’t need to worry. And I was always going to change when I got home anyway – we’ve got a whole host of people coming to lunch and Charlotte will want me wearing something smarter than my old jeans.’

The jeans are extremely exclusive and expensive designer ones, and don’t look that old, but obviously I don’t say anything. Everything’s relative and Charlotte and Dan’s idea of a casual wardrobe item is clearly rather different from mine. But I do note that Miriam’s concern, made at the party, that Dan doesn’t help Charlotte with the chores was obviously somewhat misplaced, given that Dan is asserting that Charlotte doesn’t do them either. I thought Agnes was just a cook – but a full-time housekeeper! That must cost more than most people earn. The luxuries that money can buy you – not just things, but services and, ultimately, time! No wonder she can indulge in so many hobbies. No wonder she always looks immaculate.

Dan steps aside to allow Ken to wield his mop efficiently over the last of the egg. He takes a new box from the shelf and leaves the money on the counter, then pulls the door open and gestures me through. Outside, he gives me a friendly wave goodbye as he heads towards the manor. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he reminds me, ‘11am. Don’t forget. And don’t make me laugh like this again – it’ll put me off my serve!’

Don’t worry, I think, there’s absolutely no chance of me forgetting. As for the laughing – I can’t say right now. But I do know that I can’t wait for a game of tennis; it’s been far too long and I feel much more relaxed about playing with Dan now we’ve seen each other again and I know that our first joke-filled encounter wasn’t a one-off but that we do really get along.

‘Of course,’ I call back, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

Whatever difficulties exist between him and Charlotte, there’s no doubt that on the surface he appears nothing less than perfect. Sorry to be old-fashioned about it, but he’s the kind of man any girl would dream of marrying. The kind of man I thought I had married when I walked down the aisle with Justin. It’s not that I was – or am – marriage-obsessed, just that I’d grown up being indoctrinated by certain expectations about the ‘right’ way to live – get hitched to a suitable male, buy a house, have kids – and the ‘wrong’ way – don’t do any of these things, or do them in the wrong order.

It seems so hopelessly out of date now, so retrograde, despicably anti-feminist, anti-equality, anti-women’s lib. But that’s the way it was. In many ways, I think it probably still is.

Perhaps remarkably, everything went along swimmingly for a dozen years after Justin and I tied the knot. I had my two amazing children, we bought a succession of ever-larger houses due to the success of Justin’s business, and had lovely holidays in Italy and the South of France. Looking back on it now, Justin and Dan have – had – so much in common. That’s until it all went belly up, before the lies were exposed and the hollow emptiness that lay beneath everything I had held dear was laid bare. Justin wasn’t able to stand strong when the financial world collapsed, whereas Dan seems to have not only weathered the storm but also flourished during it, if appearances are anything to go by: enormous house, designer clothes, disgustingly expensive watch and sunglasses, sports car et al.

As I approach my own house, tawdry, squat, and ugly in comparison to Charlotte and Dan’s manor, I see my parents’ Ford Mondeo parked outside the front gate, exuding staid and stolid middle-age, just like Marjorie and Dennis themselves, who sometimes come across as pastiches of characters from an Alan Ayckbourn drama. I started calling them by their first names when I was in my teens and my younger brothers were born, wanting to distance myself from this family I no longer felt truly part of. It’s a habit that’s stuck, though Jamie and Luke think it’s weird and always call them Grandma and Grandad.

Pausing for a moment, I take a deep breath before continuing up the path and through the front door. The plan is to have lunch and then go for a long, healthy country walk.

That’s all I have to manage.

In the end, the day goes well, considering. The only real flash point comes during dessert, when the cream precipitates the conversation about money and my lack of it that I have been dreading.

‘Sometimes we have to make do with what’s available in the village,’ I explain, seeing Marjorie’s raised eyebrows in response to being passed the pot by Luke. ‘I can’t afford Waitrose anymore and it would be too far to drive there for every little thing even if I could. I do a big shop at the Lidl ten miles away once a week and then incidentals – well, the general store down the road has to fill in the gaps.’

Marjorie visibly balks at the mention of Lidl, as she had at the sight of the words UHT.

‘If only you hadn’t … I mean, it’s such a shame you—’ she falters, and stops abruptly.

I reach across for the cream and pour it, slowly and deliberately, over my crumble.

‘Go on, Mum,’ I say, mixing the fruit and cream together with my spoon, ‘what were you going to say?’

‘You know what I mean,’ she snaps.

Jamie is looking first at his grandmother and then at me, eyes wide with