The Best of Friends Page 9

  ‘Susannah,’ Dan says, turning to towards me and then back to Naomi, ‘meet Naomi. Naomi, Susannah.’

  Naomi hoots with laughter again. ‘You’re always so polite, Mr Hegarty.’ She looks at me. ‘Isn’t he? Such a gent?’

  I nod, feebly. Naomi’s ebullience is rather enervating.

  Dan, not knowing that Charlotte has already imparted more information to me about Naomi than he would probably like, carries on talking.

  ‘Naomi is the incredibly talented head chef and manageress of the cafe here. Before she came along, we slummed it on rock cakes that lived up to their name and curled-up cucumber sandwiches, but now we feast upon quinoa salads and deliciously moist carrot cake.’

  Naomi drops her eyes bashfully for a second and then reverts to type and gives Dan a playful thump. ‘Are you teasing me? You are awful.’

  I grit my teeth as my blood temperature rises, perhaps not quite to a boil but definitely a gentle simmer. I totally understand Charlotte’s anxiety and, though she didn’t express it as such, her resentment at Dan’s open acceptance of Naomi’s enthusiastic attentions. She’s simpering at some joke Dan has made that I didn’t hear with all the adulation of a well-trained dog to its owner.

  Poor Charlotte. It must drive her mad – as well as being disconcerting and somewhat worrying. But on the other hand, I ponder, left out of the Dan-Naomi mutual admiration zone – they’re discussing some new protein balls she’s put on the menu now – if Charlotte spent more time with Dan, involved herself in his hobbies, came to play tennis with him, the Naomi threat would inevitably diminish. Then I remember that it’s her bad back that prevents her from being part of it all and I feel sorry for her, and guilty for being critical of her for even a second. She can hardly sit around in the cafe all the time Dan’s here just to keep an eye on its manager, after all.

  Naomi lets go of Dan’s arm, which she’s been gripping like a vice, and turns to me.

  ‘New to the village, are you? Well, there’s lots for you to find out about this man but just remember that he’s mine, OK? I’ll not be letting anyone else get their hands on him.’

  I gulp, speechless. She’s obviously joking but still … It’s all a little surreal, like walking in on an episode of a reality show where some dolly bird is blatantly trying it on with someone else’s man on national television.

  I’m struggling to think of anything to say in response when Dan steps in.

  ‘Enough already, Naomi,’ he says, teasingly. ‘We’ve got a court booked so we’ll catch you later.’

  ‘Don’t forget to come back for your balls,’ Naomi hollers after him, and the raucous guffaw that follows echoes down the corridor, ricocheting off the bare white walls.

  ‘She’s … very lively,’ I venture hesitantly, as Dan ushers me towards the courts.

  Dan laughs. ‘She tends towards the overenthusiastic. All totally harmless, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I echo, my words sounding unconvincing even to me. I’m not sure how much I should ask about the nature of their relationship, or how deep I should delve. I don’t want to find out anything I’d be happier not knowing, or that would leave me with a dilemma as to whether to tell Charlotte or not.

  ‘Charlotte doesn’t like it much,’ Dan continues, as if reading my mind. ‘But as she only comes to watch me play once in a blue moon it doesn’t really affect her,’ he concludes, bluntly.

  ‘Oh.’ I think about this for a moment, feeling that I must defend my new friend. ‘I suppose it’s a bit boring just spectating, isn’t it? I’m sure she’s got so many things to do she doesn’t really have time for it.’

  Dan merely shrugs in response and then the moment is gone as we step outside where the brilliant green grass glimmers in the morning sun.

  ‘Toss for first serve?’ I need to keep my mind on the game and not let myself be distracted by the puzzle of Dan and Charlotte’s relationship, their somewhat troubled marriage, Naomi’s involvement, and what it all might mean.

  Dan wins the toss. As the match progresses, we both work up a sweat. I notice how the muscles in his arms become more pronounced as the perspiration gleams upon them, how deceptively youthful is his agile body.

  Dan wins, but only just. It wouldn’t have taken much more from me to have beaten him fair and square but men’s egos don’t always respond well to losing. And Charlotte has already warned me about Dan’s.

  ‘That was the best game I’ve had in a long while,’ he says, after his winning point. He reaches over the net to shake my hand, which I’ve hastily wiped on my dress to get rid of the worst of the sweat. A tingle runs through my body at his touch, at the firm hold he has taken of my fingers, his palm pressed against mine.

  Since I separated from Justin, I have hardly touched anyone.

  No one tells you that when you no longer have a partner, you will forget the feel of human warmth, the sensation of skin upon skin, the solidity and comfort that comes from simply holding someone’s hand. The only bodies that come close to mine now are those of the boys and it suddenly hits me that once they have outgrown cuddles and hugs, which won’t be long, there will be nothing. I will be an island, alone in a sea of indifference and exclusion, just like I was after … Well, suffice to say it won’t be for the first time, but I really prefer not to go there, to leave that part of my history as just that – the past.

  Dan’s handshake has morphed into a hand hold but amidst my bleak thoughts I’m so distracted that I’ve hardly noticed. Now that I do, I realise that my legs have turned to jelly and that my stomach is fizzing with suppressed excitement.

  I snatch my hand away as if I’ve been burnt. I can’t believe what I’m feeling, how for a split second there I forgot that Dan is someone else’s husband. My friend’s husband.

  ‘Susannah?’ Dan’s questioning voice brings me to my senses.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying not to sound too flustered, ‘I was miles away then. You were saying?’

  ‘I was just saying that you play very well?’

  It’s a question not a comment, demanding an explanation. I force myself to focus on my answer.

  ‘Thank you. I played a lot when I was younger.’

  Rubbing my towel around my neck, I think about what to say, how much to explain. What to put in and what to leave out. I’d like Dan to know that I once had talent, but I don’t want him to think badly of me for not exploiting it, for squandering the one thing I ever had going for me.

  ‘Competed, that is,’ I venture, hesitantly. ‘But I was never in the highest echelons of the game and … well, since I’ve grown older it’s become a hobby and a way of keeping fit, no more than that. I’ve always tried to keep my hand in, but it’s been quite hard recently to find the time – and the money, if I’m honest. It’s nice to find out I can still hit a ball.’

  I can feel the perspiration beading on my upper lip. The day has turned out warmer than expected. I wipe the towel across my face. When I lower it from my eyes, I see that Dan is smiling in his beguiling way.

  ‘You can certainly do that.’

  He’s so direct, so candid. Despite my earlier, inexplicable thoughts, I can understand that some women – those, unlike me, who are not old enough to know better – might interpret his manner as flirtatious, as leading them on. Some men just have that way about them, and some women – mentioning no names Naomi – fall for it.

  ‘There are a lot of other club members who’d love a game with you – something that would really challenge them.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’ I do everything I can to suppress the incipient blush I can feel rising on my cheeks. ‘I need more practice, though,’ I soldier on, filling the silence with my prattle. ‘I’d like to play regularly but I can’t afford the membership fees. Since my divorce, you know … money’s tight.’

  Immediately, I regret the words. I am being too forward, divulging too much about my personal circumstances.

  Dan pauses as we’re walking. ‘I’m sorry, Susannah,’ he
says, softly. ‘I’m being a dolt. I didn’t realise how bad things were for you financially.’ He casts his eyes around as if looking for the solution then lifts his arms in a gesture of resignation.

  ‘Hopefully the situation will improve,’ he continues, ‘and in meantime, it’s all sorted. I’ll sign you in and the two of us will play regularly.’

  I smile gratefully. ‘That’s really kind of you …’

  Dan’s eyes are full of concern as he looks at me. ‘I can sense a but,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t want to impose. I’m worried that you’re inviting me because you feel sorry for me.’

  Dan bursts out laughing. ‘Nothing,’ he splutters, ‘could be further from the truth. I’m full of admiration for you. You’re so strong and capable, and you shouldn’t have been left penniless like this by your twit of a husband.’

  Charlotte must have filled him in on the details of my perilous state, close to homelessness and penury.

  ‘You shouldn’t have been left at all, in fact,’ he adds, ‘but you and I, we’ll get to play tennis, don’t you worry.’

  It’s no longer an invitation but a demand. I’m learning that Dan Hegarty simply presumes that no one will say no to him.

  And most of the time, I’m willing to bet, they don’t.

  He offers me a lift home, but wants to have a quick shower first. He says Charlotte doesn’t like it if he turns up sweaty and smelly. I’m shallow enough to feel a frisson of excitement at the thought of a ride in his Porsche so I say I’m happy to wait. Luke will die of jealousy – he loves cars and everything to do with them, and the ancient Ford Fiesta that was all I could afford when the hire purchase companies claimed back Justin’s Alfa Romeo and my Golf is a constant source of embarrassment to him. He yearns for a Tesla and, in meantime, lives in a permanent state of relief that the primary school is walking distance so there’s no need for me to shame him by turning up to collect the boys in the car.

  I haven’t brought a towel or any shampoo, so I linger in the corridor whilst Dan showers, letting nostalgia wash over me as I imbue the smells and sounds that remind me so intensely of my youth. Eager youngsters in hoodies that hang off one shoulder and super short shorts bustle past me, on their way to the youth training session. Just like I would have been, twenty-five or more years ago. I’d so love my Jamie to be in their midst but there’s fat chance of that unless I suddenly unexpectedly inherit a fortune.

  Or find a rich man to marry. Well, it happens in books, doesn’t it? What about that one where the vulnerable, damaged protagonist not only lives in the flat beneath a stunningly handsome, single, eligible young man – but he also just happens to be a consultant psychiatrist so can heal her mind as well as fulfilling all her romantic desires and paying for her dinner?

  I laugh ironically to myself. It’s fiction, I say to myself. It’s not true life, to use one of the boys’ favourite phrases from when they were younger.

  I stop to read the club noticeboard, idly scanning the postcards selling used kit, offering private lessons or racket restringing services. One particular postcard catches my attention. It’s headed with the words ‘Position vacant’ and goes on to advertise the cafe’s need for a waitress-stroke-deputy manager, weekdays from 9am to 3pm, evenings and weekends negotiable. No experience necessary but a professional appearance and knowledge of and interest in tennis desirable.

  Instantly, I seize my phone from my bag and type in the contact number. This is a much more realistic answer to my prayers. The money won’t be great, that’s for sure, but it’s exactly what I want in terms of hours and, topped up by Justin’s maintenance contributions, however paltry these are at present, it might leave me with an income that the boys and I can just about live on. At least I’d be working and not scrounging; I just can’t get my head around applying for benefits. I don’t want to give myself time to think myself out of it, so I press call, and hurriedly try to think what they might ask me and what questions, if any, I should pose. I needn’t have worried, though, as the call goes straight to answerphone.

  I leave a message and end the call. Just as I’ve done so, my phone rings, loud and strident in the hush of the club corridor. I jump and look at it in astonishment, thinking for one idiotic moment that they’re ringing back already.

  But it’s not the job, it’s Charlotte.

  ‘Jamie won again,’ she says, as soon as I pick up. ‘How about you? Did you put my husband through his paces?’

  I laugh and explain to her how the game ended, and then thank her for passing on the news about Jamie. Charlotte never seems in the least bit jealous that Jamie beats Toby hands down every time. She really is so good with children, so fair and supportive of all of them, whether they belong to her or not. Some might say she’s over-indulgent but as I’ve got to know her I’ve come to see that it’s just her way; she’s over the top about everything and child-rearing is no different. And the way she looked after Luke when he had his accident was amazing, so kind and caring. I wish I was always so magnanimous about other children doing better than mine; I know that I get a vicarious lift from the boys’ successes. I suppose the difference is that there’s nothing lacking in Charlotte’s life, nothing that she’s messed up on, so she is able to be generous. Nevertheless, I should make more effort to take a leaf out of her book.

  ‘When I see you next, you can dish the dirt on Dan’s playing and tell me how many points he shamelessly argued with you. And give me the inside information on his secret life at the club,’ Charlotte says, before adding a goodbye and ringing off.

  Dan emerges from the changing room. He is gleaming from his shower and impossibly handsome, with his etched cheekbones and his still-wet hair standing in adorable boyish peaks on top of his head. He’s strapping his watch on his wrist – not the same one he was wearing at the party but another one that looks every bit as expensive.

  ‘My weakness,’ he explains, when he sees me looking at it. ‘Watches. I know it’s an indulgence, but … well, I’ve earned every penny I’ve got through hard work so I reason that it’s OK to spend it on things that make me happy.’

  I nod. ‘Of course.’ I think of all Justin’s gadgets and gizmos. He would have given the same justification. But I’m not sure they really made him happy. And the thing is that, unlike Dan, he couldn’t really afford them; he just wanted everyone, including himself, to believe that he could.

  We head for the exit but just before we get there, Dan ducks into the cafe. ‘I want to get some of Naomi’s new protein balls,’ he explains, as I trot along behind him. ‘Her cooking is the best, so I’m sure they’ll be excellent. And she’ll never let me hear the end of it if I don’t.’

  I look around with interest, trying to get an idea of what it would be like to work here – and also secretly wondering what Charlotte would think to hear Dan use a superlative about the cooking skills of a woman who is not her. Naomi is busy with the lunchtime rush and her reaction to seeing Dan is a lot more restrained than earlier. As he pays, I consider her carefully. Bit of a joke or serious threat? Right now, I’m not sure I know which she is and it seems that Charlotte doesn’t, either. As well as all its other advantages, getting the job would be the ideal opportunity to find out.

  I resolve to call again if I don’t hear back tomorrow.

  Chapter 15

  Charlotte

  I’m worried.

  I cover it as best I can, trying to act naturally, using my breathing techniques and mindfulness, and Dan’s never said anything. Neither has anyone else. So I can only assume my subterfuge is successful. But that doesn’t mean I’m not sick with fear on the inside.

  Right now, nothing’s happened for a few days. And that’s what’s bothering me. No drop-down calls. No sign of the black car. Does that mean they’ve given up on me? Or they’re planning something bigger? The fear never leaves me; it buzzes inside my head like a gargantuan bluebottle or a swarm of bees. In quiet moments, I hear the frenzied cries of my children pleading, ‘Why did you do
it, mummy? How could you let us down like this?’ And Dan adding, ‘What were you thinking?’

  I’m on edge, constantly watching. Waiting. Knowing they’ll come back.

  I’m walking from my bedroom, along the balconied corridor that curves round to where the stairs begin their majestic descent to the marble-floored hallway, when it catches my eye. My heart stops, my blood freezes, and I gasp involuntarily.

  There’s no one else in the house. Agnes doesn’t work Tuesdays and even the au pair has taken herself off for the day, shopping in Winchester. I’m all alone.

  And there’s somebody on my doorstep.

  Paralysed, I couldn’t move even if I dared to. The black shadow passes in front of the decorative glass panes that surround the door. I didn’t imagine it. My heart is beating frantically, wildly. I can hardly breathe. There really is someone there, dressed in black – black coat, black hat. Hat? Who wears a hat at this time of year?

  A person who doesn’t want to be recognised.

  I clutch the balcony rail, craving reassurance from its cool solidity, needing something to hold on to. I can’t see the figure anymore; he’s either standing right in front of the door so he’s not visible through the glass or he’s gone.

  Gripping the rail even tighter, I start to count slowly in my head. One. Two. Three. When I get to thirty, that will be long enough. That will be enough time to know that the man has gone.

  Four. Five. Six.

  The screech of the doorbell stops my heart, shatters my nerves, and makes me jump sky high. I begin to hyperventilate, and as I do so I sink slowly to my knees, my legs no longer strong enough to hold my weight. Despite my collapse, I’m still poised, my brain on alert, working out what I’ll do when he tries the door handle. When he kicks the door down.

  What the fuck will I do?

  Tears spring into my eyes and I am filled with a sudden self-loathing. I brought all of this on myself. I might have summoned up the willpower to have stopped now, but the years of falling, of succumbing, are catching up with me nevertheless.