The Best of Friends Read online

  There’s another shrill, piercing ring and my heart stops – and then I realise it was just a clanging glass, not the phone.

  When I’ve calmed down again, I make my way around the room, collecting discarded mugs of tea and half-empty glasses of prosecco. To take my mind off the unanswered phone call, I think of you, imagining your life and what has brought you here to this sleepy backwater. I wonder if you work, if you have a job. I suspect not. You seem to be just like me: someone who’s put their own career to one side in order to facilitate that of their husband. Dan didn’t bat an eyelid when he asked me to go on his first posting to Hong Kong, even though he knew it would mean me having to kiss goodbye to my TV job, the career I was so intent on, that I’d worked so hard to wheedle my way into. I was moving up the ladder, about to take on my first assistant-producer role. But it was either go with Dan or lose him so I did what countless women have done through the ages and gave it all up.

  The thing is that it was obvious from the very start that Dan was going places. Literally. We must have lived in a dozen countries in our first fifteen years together. But of course I don’t just mean geographical moves, I mean that Dan was headed for the top from the beginning. He only has one default setting and that’s himself as a major success story, acing everything, outplaying everyone. Dan always has Dan in the number one slot and everyone else fitting into the adulatory queue behind him.

  I very soon realised that if I wanted to keep him – and I did, I really, really did – I had to fall in line.

  In Hong Kong, we lived on The Hill along with every other overpaid ex-pat. The apartment was beautiful, all sparkling glass, stainless steel, and polished tiles. There was a swimming pool in the complex, and a gym, and the majority of the wives just hung around there most of the day. There wasn’t much else to do while the men were at work and it was so hot, so relentlessly, hideously humid, that often I joined them, feeling sapped of all energy, stripped of the inclination to do anything constructive.

  My idea that I’d find work once we’d settled in fizzled away, burnt out like the whizz-bang fireworks the Chinese love so much. Any job available locally was paid at local wages which were laughably low and anyway they weren’t appropriate for women like me. I’d have had to speak Cantonese, for a start. Plus Dan had a constant round of client entertaining and evening dos that I needed to accompany him to and preparing for those so I that I lived up to his high standards and expectations – tailor-made dresses, haircuts, spray tan – took up a huge amount of time.

  As the weeks and months passed, I gave up on even pretending I was ever going to get gainful employment. And anyway, Dan poured scorn on any such suggestion. He simply couldn’t understand why I would want to work when he made more than enough money for both of us. He constantly urged me to relax, to enjoy myself.

  ‘All I want is you here waiting for me at the end of a long day. What’s the point of both of us being stressed at work when there’s no need?’

  He didn’t understand that I required more than that. Perhaps I didn’t understand it, either. If I had, surely I’d never have got involved, never have done the things that, unbeknownst to anyone but me, blight my life to this day.

  Sometimes, I even manage to convince myself of that.

  Chapter 5

  Susannah

  I have to literally drag the boys out of the bus but I insist we’re leaving despite all their protestations; I’m weary and I need to go home. And anyway, the party invitation clearly stated 4-6pm and I don’t want to outstay my welcome. Retracing my footsteps back through the house towards the front door, I pop into the kitchen where a group of immaculately groomed women are clustered around the Aga. I ask them if they know where Charlotte is so that I can say goodbye. As one, they exchange knowing looks before the blondest of them all says, ‘She’s just gone to see if that was Dan pulling up in the drive.’

  There’s a pause when it seems that none of us knows what to say next.

  ‘He’s just a little bit late, you see,’ continues the woman, with a strange expression that is half grin, half grimace. ‘I think he’s in the doghouse.’

  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 wor
ds 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 balloons as if wondering how he’s going to get them inside. ‘Here,’ he says, pulling out two from the bunch and handing them to Luke and Jamie.

  ‘What do you say, boys?’ I demand, in that way that parents have that we are aware must be so annoying to our offspring but we do it anyway, to show those we don’t know well our dedication to good manners and correct behaviour.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Jamie, always obedient.

  ‘I want a party bag,’ wails Luke, ‘not a stupid balloon.’

  ‘Luke!’ I can’t believe he’s letting me down like this. ‘I am so sorry,’ I say to Dan, and then, tugging angrily at Luke’s arm, chide him. ‘Luke, don’t be so rude.’

  I don’t know what to do to cover my mortification, so I just look down and try to make my way past Dan. But he and the balloons together make an impassable barrier, so I have to stop.

  ‘Don’t worry about it!’ he exclaims, ‘and I’m the one who should be sorry. I got stuck with clients waiting for a delayed flight. I couldn’t just dump them at the airport and leave them so …’ Dan tails off, as if realising that it’s not me he needs to explain himself to. Although, having heard his excuse, it seems eminently understandable. I hope Charlotte can see reason, for Dan’s sake.

  ‘Of course he must have a party bag,’ Dan resumes, equanimity quickly restored. ‘They both must have one. I’ll fetch them now. Please wait.’

  He thrusts the bundle of balloon strings towards me. ‘Hold these for a moment, please.’

  He disappears inside whilst I stand there feeling like Mary Poppins and wondering whether I should start to sing. I’m just about to launch into ‘A spoonful of sugar’ when Dan reappears and, with a flourish, gives each boy an enormous party bag.

  ‘Thank you,’ they both chorus in unison, no prompting necessary this time.

  ‘It was a super party,’ I say again. ‘They had so much fun. Please do thank Charlotte for me – I didn’t quite get the chance. The phone, you know …’ I gesture back into the hall, to where the phone cradle still stands empty on the table.

  Dan nods and holds out his hand. It is strong and lightly tanned, with long, elegant fingers. On his other wrist I notice, as we’re shaking, is the most beautiful man’s watch I’ve ever seen; it’s clearly worth thousands.

  ‘Glad you came, er …’ his voice trails off as he realises he doesn’t know who I am, has no idea what my name is.

  ‘Susannah,’ I fill in hastily. ‘And of course you’re Dan,’ I add, in case he wonders why I don’t ask.

  ‘Susannah.’ He says it slowly, rolling it around his tongue as if savouring it. ‘What a pretty name.’

  I blush. It’s so long since anyone paid me a compliment that I don’t know how to react.

  ‘Thank you,’ I mumble. Charlotte must be off the phone now as I can hear her voice calling from inside the house, but not what she’s saying.

  ‘We must see you again sometime,’ Dan continues, and he’s about to say more when Charlotte obviously calls something from inside, inaudible to me, before she appears on the threshold. She seems tense, on edge but not, right now, with Dan. Instead, she has that look in her eye of someone who’s been distracted by something they can’t quite get their head around. I wonder what it could be – perhaps the phone call contained unexpected news of some sort. Her eyes flicker absentmindedly over me and the boys and then she addresses Dan again, as if she’s already forgotten that we are there.

  ‘Hurry up and come in, you’re letting all the cold air in,’ she says. Her voice is softer, her manner more subdued.

  Mutely, I hold the balloons out so that Dan can reclaim them. He smiles, says goodbye and then follows Charlotte back into the house, wedging the balloons with some difficulty through the door despite its opulent width. The boys and I descend the steps.

  ‘Bye and thank you again,’ I call back over my shoulder, and as I do so, Dan turns. He gives me a conspiratorial shrug that says ‘I have to do as I’m told’ before the huge, heavy door closes and he and the multicoloured balloons are gone.

  All the way home, as the boys chatter excitedly about their exploits of the afternoon, my thoughts are fixed on Charlotte and Dan, Dan and Charlotte. Little quarrels and disagreements aside, their lifestyle is enviable, their wealth and glamour all-pervasive, the opportunities and advantages they can offer their children too numerous to mention. Oh, may God strike me down for my shallowness, but I would love just a little bit of what Charlotte has.

  In all honesty, who wouldn’t?

  Chapter 6

  Charlotte

  Forgetting all about Dan, his tardiness, his ridiculous gesture of reconciliation that is the heaving mass of helium balloons, as soon as the phone starts to ring once more I rush to answer it, grabbing the handset from the cradle, resisting the urge to smash it to the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I see you, cowering in the doorway, your boys clutched in your hands. You cannot be witness to my humiliation. Muttering my habitual greeting, ‘Biglow 601017’, I slip into the butler’s pantry, shutting and locking the door behind me. I do all of this before I’ve even registered that there’s no one there, no one on the other end of the line.

  It’s another drop down. I dial 1471. Number withheld.

  I turn around, lean against the solid wood of the door, and concentrate on steadying my breathing, bringing my heart rate down to its usual pace. One … two … three … One … two … three … I count slowly in my head to slow my racing pulse.

  It feels like an age has passed before I am fit to re-enter the hallway. Running my fingers through my hair to smooth it down, I emerge from the pantry, assuming a nonchalant gait and trying to look normal – whatever that is. The handset is clutched in my sweaty palm and I replace it, slowly and deliberately. Then I turn towards the front door which is swinging wide open, no longer a barrier to the cold grey outside.

  ‘Are you still out there?’ I call to Dan. And then, as I feel the rush of frigid air billowing in, I urge him to get himself inside. I’m not mad with him anymore, not the way I was, not since the phone call. How can I be, when the sin I’v
e committed is so great, so shaming, so unconscionable? If it ever came out, I’d need to garner every ounce of his forgiveness – and I’m not sure I could, or even that it would be enough. Oh, but it’s hard, pretending all the time that nothing’s wrong, that I am exactly who I seem to be. Sometimes I forget what, exactly, I’m pretending about. Confusion befuddles everything. All I can be really certain about is this. Dan can’t find out.

  Ever.

  All our marriage, I’ve been subordinate to him. He has made the decisions and I have fallen in line. I guess both of us had our reasons for liking it that way in the beginning. I saw the life of luxury that Dan could offer me and I thought that would make up for losing my independence. I loved him, for God’s sake. And I was young enough to believe, completely and utterly, that love is enough.

  He saw a young, mouldable trophy wife who’d look good on his arm and always be there for him, the buttress behind the facade. And he loved me, I’m sure of it. Still does, quite probably. It’s just that he’s been so rich and so successful for so long that he believes himself to have risen above the standards – moral or otherwise – by which the mere mortals amongst us must abide.

  Thinking back to the beginning though, it was always going to come unstuck at some stage. People have to kick back, don’t they? Everyone needs some autonomy. The more I found mine in the kind of way that other, saner people would look down upon, the more I felt I had to take a backseat in all other matters.

  A kind of quid pro quo of unremitting acquiescence in return for my underhand exploits.