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

sudden urge to chuck the rest of my drink in her self-satisfied face, to drench her prurient interest in my tarnished past with the juice of her own bitter lemons. But it’s best, I know, to play the long game. To be the considerate, loving friend I’ve always been, standing by my mate in her hour of need. That way Dan will see my true mettle, will recognise me for what I am: the bigger person, moral and upright.

All I have to do is to hold out until something changes, which surely it will. And when it does, I’ll be there, ready and waiting in the wings, and he’ll already know that I am far, far superior to his superficial, preening wife. The problem is that I really don’t know how long I’m going to be able to keep this up, to maintain the pretence.

And after all, if it came out into the open, if Charlotte knew the full extent of what Dan has done, I’m sure she’d never want to speak to him again. Nor me, obviously. But by then it wouldn’t matter because, once Dan knew he and Charlotte were finished, he’d come back to me.

Wouldn’t he?

Chapter 32

Charlotte

It’s hard, hearing your story of how you reached rock bottom before you began the slow crawl back up. But it seems incomplete somehow. Call it female intuition but I’ve got a hunch you’re leaving something out.

‘Did anything else happen?’ I ask. ‘I mean, you told me before that you lived with some friends from your course before you chucked it all in and went home. So the … the attempt on your own life, you didn’t do it right away, immediately after you split with Charlie, but some time later?’

I can see that my question has taken you by surprise and before you’ve had time to think better of it, you’re answering.

‘I was in trouble with the law,’ you say.

I tilt my head to one side questioningly. ‘How so?’

‘I did something stupid,’ you blurt out.

Drawing a deep breath I wait, on tenterhooks, for more. But you disappoint me.

‘I’m not going to talk about it,’ you say. ‘I can’t.’

You say the words with such finality I can tell that nothing will persuade you to spill the beans. My mind goes into overdrive as to what it could have been. GBH? Stalking? You come across as so timid and self-effacing but maybe that’s not the real you. Still waters and all that, I guess. I’m pondering this when distraction arrives, as it always seems to, in the shape of the children, Luke and Sam happily together, Jamie morose with his pal Toby absent. Luke has cut his hand and you fuss over him like his whole arm has fallen off.

Whilst this is going on, I think of where you’ve ended up now. Your job in the cafe – long hours, hard work, on your feet all day, and low pay. Not to mention having to work with Naomi. She’s not who Dan’s been sleeping with, I’m sure of him on that. And the truth is, though she’s an acquired taste that I personally am never going to acquire, she’s probably not that bad really. I have an urge to bury the hatchet with everyone I’ve ever had an argument or difference of opinion with. In the face of what I’m going through, everything else seems trivial and unimportant. It’s made me reconsider everything.

‘I’m so sorry, Susannah,’ I mutter once the children have left again, forcing my thoughts back to you and your sad history, wishing I had something more substantial to offer than my sympathy. Of course, the Charlie situation was not one where alimony applied but you don’t seem to have got a good deal in your divorce with Justin. At least if Dan and I were to split now, I would be sure of a more than generous settlement. He’s not in a position to argue and in any case, I know he wouldn’t. But far from hiring a solicitor and commencing divorce proceedings, in all his communications with me, he’s been begging me to forgive him, to let him come back, to allow him to try to make things up to me.

You get up and wander over to the French doors. Last time you were here, they were thrown open to the sunshine. Now they are firmly closed in anticipation of the impending rain.

‘Has he told you who it is yet?’ you ask, as if reading my mind. Your back is turned to me so I can’t see your expression. But there’s a faltering note to your words that makes me wonder … do you know? Have you seen or heard something?

‘No,’ I answer. ‘And I’m not going to stoop so low as to ask, not again, not after the first time when he denied it was Naomi.’

‘Oh.’ There’s something about your tone, and your stance, that I can’t quite interpret. Is it surprise? Disappointment? I’m about to question you further when you strike up again.

‘It’s just that … are you really sure you believe him about Naomi? She was very chirpy all the time you were away and now … well, now she’s been off work for nearly a week.’

You come back from the window and sit down again, perched on the edge of one of the plump sofa cushions like a bird about to take flight. Your hair has grown and no longer frames your face but hangs messily down your back, past your shoulders. I suppose you can’t afford the regular cuts and blow-dries that a shorter style would demand, let alone the highlights that would do so much to enliven your rather dingy shade of blonde. I feel sorry for you again. It’s hard to be poor. I should know. I always was, before I met Dan.

‘He insists it’s not her and I believe him,’ I reply. ‘He seemed to find the whole notion preposterous. All his texts protest that, whoever it was,