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

is drawn and pale. His hair is too long, giving him the look of a man trying, and failing, to preserve a lost youth. I’m pathetically and meanly glad that he doesn’t look his normal devastatingly handsome self – and that it’s not just me who’s showing signs of being the wrong side of forty.

‘So what?’ I say, belligerently. ‘So you’ve got some explaining to do, haven’t you?’ I’m not going to make this easy for him, however much he makes those puppy-dog eyes at me. Why should I? He’s the one in the wrong. Even though the pain in my heart is tearing my chest apart, I won’t let him walk all over me. He’s done that for years. Enough already.

‘Oh, Charlotte,’ he says, staring into his wine glass as if that’s who he’s talking to. ‘I’m sorry. Please believe that I’m sorry.’ He looks up and meets my eyes. ‘In all honesty, what happened is that for a moment – just one stupid, thoughtless moment – I gave up on you. I thought you were lost to me, that you didn’t want me in your life anymore. I mean, well, we weren’t … we hadn’t had sex in so long … You went off to Corsica and you didn’t seem to care that I wouldn’t be there. You were content to be on your own with the boys. There seemed to be no place for me …’

His voice peters out after this string of petty excuses.

‘What I’m hearing is you bleating that you’re sorry and then going on to explain how it’s all my fault.’

My voice sounds hard and uncompromising. That’s OK. Right now, it’s how I feel.

‘No!’ he protests. ‘That’s not what I’m saying. It’s not what I think or mean. When I say I’m sorry, that’s how I really feel. I want to make it up to you, Charlotte. What we had in Corsica … that was like it used to be, wasn’t it? That shows us we can be good again.’

I listen to all this with scepticism. But then he smiles, a meek, apologetic smile and it’s the same smile Sam has when he’s knocked the heads off my delphiniums with his football or scraped holes in the toes of his new school shoes doing tricks on his BMX bike. I sigh.

‘OK, I accept that you’re sorry, remorseful, regretful, whatever. But how do you expect me to just accept that you’ve betrayed me? Again.’

‘Don’t accept it. But at least try to understand it.’

I have to think about this for a moment. Should I try to understand? I think about my little problem and realise that, as I so desperately need Dan to reciprocate in understanding how that all came to pass, I probably should.

As if reading my mind, Dan says, ‘And you’ve been so distracted …’ His forehead furrows as if he’s trying to calculate something. ‘I was going to say lately, but actually I think it’s been for a long, long time. Hasn’t it?’

I shrug. I’m not ready to be drawn on this quite yet. He needs to expiate his sins before I’ll do mine.

‘You’ve broken my heart, Dan,’ I tell him. ‘Ripped it out of my chest and trampled on it with hobnailed boots.’ Suddenly, it’s all too much. ‘Why would you do that to me?’ I wail, no longer able to keep the calm demeanour I had planned on. ‘Why would you want to hurt me like that? And what if the children found out? What would they think of you then? How would you explain yourself to them?’

Dan doesn’t answer. He looks as if he’s about to cry. I can’t feel sorry about that. He’s brought it entirely on himself.

We talk for an hour or more, polishing off the second bottle of wine and opening a third. Sometimes I feel that we’re getting somewhere, and then Dan says something that makes me think we’re back at square one. Eventually I realise that if I don’t eat something I’ll fall over.

The casserole dish has been in the oven warming since before Dan got here and the rice is ready to cook. It only takes ten minutes to have everything on the table. I’m ravenous and load my plate with rice, naan, and several poppadoms. Dan raises his eyebrows but says nothing. I only take a little of the curry, two or three pieces of the lamb and a tiny bit of sauce. My earlier taste, when you delivered it, convinced me that a little goes a long way – unless you have a passionate love of chilli, as Dan does, but I don’t. I pass him the spoon so that he can help himself. He looks thinner, reduced somehow, as if hotel food and solitary living have diminished him. It doesn’t suit him, being exiled. He piles his plate high, as if he hasn’t eaten for a week.

‘Go easy,’ I say jokily, trying to dissipate some of the tension that’s been building between us. ‘I’ve tried it and it’s pretty fiery.’

We start the meal and Dan tucks in. I pick at some meat but don’t finish it. Instead, I concentrate on crunching through the pile of poppadums. Soon Dan has finished. He reaches out to get seconds and I place my hand on the serving spoon to stop him. Stress and worry have always had a tendency to push him towards overindulgence. I’ve learnt over the years when to urge restraint. Now is one of those times. He’ll give himself a stomach ache if he eats too much of that fiery concoction. I only allow him a small spoonful more.

When we’ve finished, we move to the sofa. I’ve had enough to drink now. More than enough. I feel a bit sick, dizzy and lightheaded. I pour Dan more wine but take a large glass of water for myself. We start to talk again but it feels like we are rehashing old ground, going over and over the same stuff. At one