The Best of Friends Page 7

  Or maybe there’s something else, a dark secret in your past.

  I laugh to myself at that thought. I vacillate between believing that I’m the only person in the world with so much to hide, to imagining that everyone else is guilty of the same levels of deception that I am. Who knows which is the truth?

  ‘How is the invalid?’ I ask.

  ‘Fine,’ you reply, ‘absolutely fine. He must have nine lives, like a cat. So,’ you add, giggling, ‘let’s drink to a happy ending,’

  I refill the glasses and we chink. ‘And to the start of a beautiful friendship,’ I say.

  You giggle again, and I realise you’re a little bit tipsy. ‘Thank fuck for that,’ you sigh, uncharacteristically swearing, and referring, I assume, to Luke’s remarkable recovery rather than to us being mates. I’ve noticed before that you are a bit of a helicopter parent; I hope your boys don’t suffer too much from it – and that this unfortunate incident doesn’t make you even worse. It’s a shame when excessive caution curbs a young child’s naturally adventurous spirit, I always think.

  ‘So when are you meeting up with Dan for this match, did you say?’ I ask.

  ‘I can’t remember if I did say or not, but it’s on Sunday, 11am,’ you reply. And then you add anxiously, ‘is that OK? It doesn’t interfere with any of your plans?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I respond. ‘We’ve got people coming for a late lunch tomorrow, but nothing planned for Sunday.’

  There’s a pause for a moment as we both drink.

  ‘When you go to the club, you’ll probably meet Naomi,’ I muse, rubbing a spilt streak of wine into the table top with my index finger, ‘and you’ll be able to tell me if you think Dan’s shagging her.’

  Your mouthful of wine explodes over the table, obliterating the tiny drop I’d been preoccupied with.

  ‘Wh-wh-what do you mean?’ you stutter, clearly flabbergasted, your eyes wide with astonishment.

  ‘Naomi is the manageress of the tennis club cafe,’ I explain. ‘She’s obsessed with Dan, and he doesn’t exactly do anything to dissuade her in this adoration. I don’t think they’re sleeping together. But you never know.’

  If it’s possible, your eyes widen even further. I didn’t mean to upset you, but I suddenly felt the need to tell someone. Though I know practically everyone in this village and have numerous acquaintances, there’s no one I feel I can really trust. I could never let on about Naomi to anyone else around here; half would delight in the information and spread it like wildfire and the other half, already waiting to pounce on Dan themselves, would see it as their cue to go in for the kill. I’m only too aware, frankly, of how many women are ready and waiting to snatch my husband from under my nose. You’re too new here to have anyone to gossip with and I instinctively feel that you’re someone I can be sure of. Even with the news that my husband is a philanderer.

  ‘You shouldn’t let him treat you like that!’ you exclaim indignantly. ‘If you really think he’s cheating on you, you should do something. I’m sure if you spoke to him about it …’

  But this isn’t a situation that’s easily fixed. In those immortal words, it’s complicated. I’ve taken the decision, like thousands of women before me and thousands still to come, to turn a blind eye to Dan’s indiscretions. What’s different about Naomi is that she’s a little bit too close to home for comfort. Too firmly ensconced in the tennis club where she’s able to see Dan on an almost daily basis and keep track of his every move. Too utterly shameless to let propriety or decorum get in her way.

  I shrug. ‘To be honest, it’s my fault. I started it. I invited her to dinner when she first arrived as the club manageress. All I was trying to do was be nice, show an interest in Dan’s hobby, welcome someone new into the fold. And Dan loves playing lord of the manor, taking the serfs under his wing, ingratiating himself with everyone, spreading his largesse far and wide.’

  You are listening, bug-eyed and stunned into silence.

  ‘I’d picked mushrooms from the fields specially for the meal but she was so picky, going on and on about whether they were safe or not. As if I were trying to poison her or something!’

  You drink a big slug of your wine. ‘P-p-poison?’ your voice is suddenly shaky and uncertain, and I begin to worry about how much you’ve drunk, whether you’re going to be too incapacitated to take care of Luke tonight. ‘Of course, that would be absurd. Absolutely absurd.’

  ‘Precisely,’ I say, placing my glass decisively onto the table. ‘Who in their right mind would attempt to poison someone?’

  You don’t reply. I continue.

  ‘I didn’t know that Naomi fancied Dan at this point, obviously,’ I explain. ‘I didn’t know anything about her at all. As soon as I saw them together I could see what she was up to – and I knew it was a case of “keep your friends close and your enemies closer”. The problem was that the mushrooms did make her a tad unwell – dicey stomach, you know. But she made such a fuss about what was just a simple mistake!’

  You seem nonplussed, at a loss as to what to say. I’m suddenly conscious of having overshared, of having burdened you with problems of mine that you shouldn’t have to be involved in.

  But then you speak and it all feels all right again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte,’ you say, slightly slurring your words. ‘You extended the hand of friendship to Naomi and she slammed it back in your face. It clearly wasn’t your fault about the mushrooms.’

  You’re so right. I knew you’d understand. Stupid Naomi, with her ‘local’ accent and guttural man’s laugh and her tits that are the size of cantaloupe melons, is completely out of order. And it’s so galling to see how generously sized she is all over; it’s the thing about her that especially maddens me. Since the post-twin battle of the bulge, I have always gone to so much time and trouble and effort to stay a size eight and here Dan is, only too happy at the prospect of being eaten alive by a ten-ton temptress. And one who is always available by dint of living just around the corner. What do they say about low-hanging fruit? Naomi is certainly that and I’m not just referring to her over-large bosoms. The thing that probably annoys me most is that she’s just so damn cheap and common, so blowsy, with her huge hoop earrings and orange tan. How can Dan not see how far beneath him she is?

  My thoughts are rambling, running away with me. I pull myself together.

  ‘I should go,’ I say. ‘It’s getting late.’

  After a few obligatory exhortations for me to stay, to have a coffee or a cup of tea, which I refuse, you escort me down the short and narrow hallway to your front door.

  ‘It’s been so lovely to spend time with you.’

  ‘And you,’ you say, as we air kiss. ‘Thanks for providing the wine – and for gifting me your evening.’

  I smile. ‘It was my pleasure.’ I even mean it.

  I almost trip on the uneven path to your front gate. Once again, you apologise for something that isn’t your fault, namely the loose paving stone. It’s clear you don’t have the money to fix anything about the house, which is a bit run-down all over, if I’m honest, and with a slightly strange smell. But homely. Definitely homely.

  ‘Um, are you OK to drive?’ you ask as you see me retrieving my car keys from my bag.

  ‘Oh yes, fine,’ I reply, zapping the car doors unlocked. ‘It’s only round the corner.’ I turn and give you a short wave. ‘See you soon. I’ll be in touch.’

  In the dusky evening light I see your face blanch as I open the car door. But, unlike many women, I can hold my drink and I’m actually not the least the worse for wear. And you’ll soon learn that everyone pushes the alcohol limit in the country – there’s only one police traffic patrol car in the whole county, so the chances of being caught are practically nil.

  Climbing in, I stow my handbag on the passenger seat. I start the engine and fasten my seatbelt, looking around me warily. You have disappeared back inside your gloomy house and there’s no one else around. I’m so edgy these days, always tense. If I see
the black car I’ll just ram it, I tell myself, full of alcohol-induced boldness. That’ll teach them.

  Immediately, I feel sick. If I see the black car, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  But I don’t encounter a single other vehicle on the short journey home. As I enter my driveway, I nick the wing mirror on the gatepost, but it’s nothing serious. After checking the boys, I climb into bed. Dan’s left me a message to say he’ll be late home. I’m exhausted but, despite Dan’s unexpected absence, less desolate than usual.

  It’s always good to make a new friend. Someone who can pledge to my good character in court, I think to myself with a hollow laugh. If it were ever to get that far. Something tells me that the people I’m dealing with don’t bother with the small matter of the rule of law.

  They are a law unto themselves.

  Chapter 12

  Susannah

  As soon as Charlotte’s gone, I rush to the sitting room to check on Luke again. He should have been in bed hours ago but I wanted to keep him near me so I would hear him if he called. Curled up on the sofa, he’s fast asleep, his expression relaxed, serene, and peaceful. I can’t believe he got away with nothing more than bruises from a fall that sounded quite serious; I know Charlotte was playing it down to stop me getting hysterical.

  Even though he’s eight, and I’m half the size of Hana the au pair – notwithstanding my ‘sturdy’ arms – I manage to lift him and haul him up the stairs to his bed. As soon as I put him down, he turns and wraps himself around his bear, but he doesn’t stir. I thank God again that he’s all right, and then ponder that every cloud has a silver lining. In this case, it was the chance to get to know Charlotte better and much more quickly than would have occurred under normal circumstances; there’s nothing like a crisis to pull people together.

  Once I’ve checked on Jamie, who’s also asleep, but fortunately in his own bed as there’s no way I could carry all 5ft of him, I go back downstairs. I’m too tipsy to sleep right now – I’ll have head spin if I so much as try to lie down. And anyway, there’s a TV drama I want to watch. I settle into the warm dent in the cushions where Luke had been lying and fiddle with the remote until I’ve got the channel I want. The opening credits of Look Back in Anger roll, and I concentrate on the unfolding drama.

  When I finally crawl upstairs to bed, it’s well after midnight. Setting my alarm for the morning, I have to contemplate the real reason why I’ve been so reluctant for this day to be over and the new one to start. Because tomorrow my parents are coming to lunch and I’ll have to face their quiet disappointment in me, with no escape until they choose to leave. I bury my face in my pillow and fall into a fitful sleep, in which tennis-playing mushrooms loom large.

  I wake in the morning feeling groggy from the alcohol and do what everyone does the day after drinking too much, namely swear to myself never to do it again. I start to prepare the lunch, peeling potatoes for the pot roast (cheaper than a joint and anyway, it’s Saturday, not Sunday) and apples for the crumble. Peering in the fridge, I realise I forgot to buy cream and, shouting to the boys that I’ll be back in ten minutes, I put my coat on and head out to the shop. Luke has woken up as right as rain and I’m not worried about him at all anymore, just bemused by his apparent indestructibility.

  The only cream in the village shop is UHT single, which isn’t what I want but will have to do. I reach out my hand to take my change whilst tucking the pot into my bag. In a hurry to get back and get on with the cooking, I turn hastily towards the door and walk straight into a previously unseen customer waiting to pay, knocking what he’s carrying out of his hands.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I exclaim, taking in the mess I have caused. On the shop’s uneven linoleum floor lie the remains of a box of eggs, shells, whites and yolks liberally distributed across a wide area – including halfway up the trouser legs of the person who had been trying to buy them.

  Who, I see now, is Dan.

  ‘Oh, hello Dan, gosh, how embarrassing,’ I stutter, and then without pausing for breath, ‘I’ll buy you another box – and pay for these,’ this last addressed to the shopkeeper who is bustling around under the counter, looking for something with which to clear up the mess. I grab the kitchen roll he emerges with and kneel down to start wiping up the egg, which is slimy and slippery and resistant to my efforts. Humiliation suffuses me and I know my face is bright red, making me unable to look anywhere but down at the floor, whilst ineffectually trying to cover my mortification by a stream of apologies and exclamations.

  ‘Dan, your jeans are filthy, they’re … well, they look rather terrible …’

  I’m on my hands and knees, right in front of him, but still incapable of raising my gaze to where it might meet his. ‘Can I take them home and wash them or something?’

  There’s a pause, broken only by the sound of egg being slopped about as I continue to chase it ineffectually with my wad of paper. Eventually, the pause has gone on for so long that I simply have to look up. There’s nothing further to lose; whatever impressions he may previously have had of me as a reasonably articulate and together person will be as shattered as the eggs by now.

  I see him appraising me, a sardonic half-smile adorning his handsome face. Gradually, in a flush of horror, the realisation dawns of the exact nature of the vista before him. Me, kneeling submissively at his feet, dabbing his shoes with kitchen roll and asking him to take his trousers off and give them to me. The awful, excruciating black comedy of it sweeps across me and I think I might burst into tears.

  As I’m struggling to resist the pricking behind my eyes, a bellowing laugh bursts forth from Dan. My humiliation is complete. I am a laughing stock.

  ‘Susannah, just get up and let Ken do the cleaning,’ he splutters. ‘I think he’ll do a better job than you. And I’ll keep my trousers on, if you don’t mind. I don’t fancy walking home in just my boxers.’

  I stagger up from my uncomfortable position, my legs shakier than just the lack of blood flow warrants. I catch his eye and for a second, the tears threaten anew. And then his complicit smile that invites me to share the joke with him draws me in and I see the funny side. I start to laugh, and in moments we are both roaring our heads off, the shopkeeper Ken, also unable to keep a straight face, chuckling wryly in the background.

  ‘Your eggs,’ I manage to articulate, when I’ve regained my breath and before collapsing into another round of helpless mirth, ‘I must replace them.’

  ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’ Dan wipes his hand across his eyes and manages to affect a serious expression for a few moments. ‘But please, look where you’re going in future – most of my clothes are dry clean only.’

  We both burst into another gale of laughter.

  ‘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.