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

And then, with what is clearly now a smirk, she concludes with, ‘He often is.’

‘Charlotte’ll be tongue-lashing him as we speak,’ laughs another. ‘You know how strict she is with him.’

That sets them all chortling insincerely away. And I thought these people were her friends.

‘Oh, right,’ I reply, with a nervous half-smile. There’s certainly no shortage of people wanting to pass comment on the state of Charlotte and Dan’s marriage, that’s for sure, or on Charlotte herself. Poor woman, under such constant surveillance. It must put her under a lot of pressure. I guess living in the manor house and being loaded makes her an object of envy – and animosity. People always hate it when someone else is blatantly richer and more successful than they are. And forgive me for mentioning the patriarchy so early, but it’s always the woman who’s judged the most negatively. Charlotte’s frustration with her husband’s tardiness is perfectly understandable and yet here she is, being accused of nagging, of fishwifery of the highest order.

‘Well, I must be off,’ I say breezily, as if I really don’t have time to hang around any longer. As if I have somewhere exciting and interesting to go, and my busy little life doesn’t allow time for idle chit-chat. When, of course, nothing could be further from the truth.

‘Lovely to meet you all,’ I add, wondering why I insist on following convention, even if it means blatantly lying.

‘And you,’ the bitches – sorry, women – chorus, in varying tones of insincerity.

Well, I don’t like you either, I say to myself, petulantly, childishly. Poor Charlotte. With friends like those, who needs enemies?

‘Why do we have to go now?’ remonstrates Jamie, as I purposefully take the boys’ hands and pull them with me towards the door. ‘It was just getting wicked in there. I got to the highest level I’ve ever been on.’

‘And what about our party bags?’ whines Luke, tired now and liable to have a meltdown. ‘I want a party bag!’

‘Because we do, Jamie,’ I say, unequivocally, to one side. ‘And don’t be so ill-mannered, Luke,’ I say to the other.

Before either boy can come back with a rejoinder, the subtle scent of expensive perfume heralds Charlotte, standing on the threshold of the huge, wide-open front door.

‘What on earth time do you call this?’

Her voice is sharp and cold, her icy words clearly carried towards me on the chill breeze that’s blowing in from outside.

She sounds angry, and critical. But, I reason to myself in the face of the glamour-puss’s recent comments, she has every right to be. Dan should have been back for his son’s party.

Charlotte edges outside without seeming to have noticed me and the boys. All her attention is focused in one direction. I hesitate, not sure whether to go on. I don’t want to interrupt. But I don’t really have an option; I can hardly retreat to the phalanx of terrifying women in the kitchen.

As I’m dithering, I see a huge box by the door, overflowing with bright, tempting packages. The famous party bags. Great. Somehow, as well as navigating around Charlotte and her errant husband, I’ve got to get Luke past them without a tantrum.

‘Look, just get yourself inside. Everyone’s been asking where you are; it’s so embarrassing.’ Charlotte’s voice is impatient, biting – a result, I assume, of weariness as well as irritation – because she must be tired after organising and running this whole shebang by herself.

‘Not to mention how you’ve let Toby down,’ Charlotte continues. ‘All he asked for was his dad to be at his party – and you weren’t.’

This might have gone on for some time, I suppose, but it’s interrupted by the phone on the hall table ringing once more, loudly and uncompromisingly, demanding to be answered. Scolding abandoned, Charlotte is there like a shot, snatching the receiver from its cradle, turning her face away and muttering a few words so quietly I cannot hear what she says. She opens a door and disappears behind it, as if the conversation she will have is private and mustn’t be overheard. As she slips through I catch sight of her face, which carries an expression that is a strange mix of underlying anxiety tinged with welcome relief.

I’m feeling really in the way now, so I hurry to the front door, trying to put my body between Luke and the treasure trove.

‘Party bags,’ shouts Luke, my efforts to avoid him spotting them proving futile.

‘No,’ I say, not without a tinge of regret; I’d love to see what’s inside them after Miriam’s tantalising descriptions. I step outside, slap bang into a tall, athletically built man who’s poised on the top step, sleekly dressed in a work suit and designer sunglasses and incongruously clutching in one hand an enormous bunch of helium balloons in a range of garish colours.

‘Whoa, watch out for yourself,’ he says. His voice is rich and deep with a suave transatlantic twang that speaks of money and sophistication.

‘Sorry, so sorry,’ I stutter, utterly mortified. ‘Um, we were just going. It’s been great. A super party, thank you so much …’

My mouth is on autopilot but after a frantic search, I manage to find the off button and, in the hiatus that follows, I take in every detail of the infamous Dan’s appearance. He pushes the sunglasses up onto his head and I see that he has a longish face, with eyes that slant sexily downwards and a high forehead with thick dark hair that is greying slightly at the temples. His mouth is strong and determined and extends now into a slow and inviting smile.

There is no denying that he is absolutely gorgeous, but he looks like a nice person, too, his bearing confident but not arrogant. I instantaneously reassess what I’ve been thinking of him, and of Charlotte. Perhaps she is being unfair, after all.

‘I’m pleased you enjoyed it.’ Dan glances briefly through the open door and then at the