The Best of Friends

by Alex Day

  Imagine that! Only one toilet in the house. Not like my incontinence mansion, where every bedroom is en suite and there’s a separate guest cloakroom and bathroom too. Not to mention the sauna in the basement and the facilities in the pool house. It cost a fortune to do all the plumbing and electrics in a Grade I listed building, but as I said to Dan at the time, it has to be right. If we’re going to do it, we might as well put everything into it and do it properly. It makes sense.

  But I digress. These days, there’s hardly any barrier between the professional photographer and the hobbyist. Anyone can upload their work to iStock or Shutterstock or wherever and sell it and have it used on websites and magazines. But in the old days, by which I mean twenty or thirty years ago, everything was different. You could enter competitions, or send your photography away to magazines and wait months with bated breath to see if they wanted it. The answer would come by post – either the photo returned in an envelope marked ‘do not bend’ or a cheque for a fiver. Dad didn’t submit his work very often, though, despite how passionate he was about photography. Other crap got in the way.

  My father was an addict.

  The dictionary definition of ‘addicted’ is to be physically or mentally dependent on a particular substance and unable to stop taking it without incurring adverse effects.

  Dad could get addicted to anything. Alcohol. Star Trek. Taking pictures.

  If there was an opportunity to do whatever it was to an unhealthy degree and to the exclusion of what he should be doing – i.e. going out to work and earning a living for his family, caring for his children, securing them a roof over their heads and so on – then he would do it.

  He indulged in many things to an unhealthy degree but his real downfall was gambling.

  Internet research tells me that ‘behavioural addiction’ is a compulsion to engage in rewarding non-drug related behaviour regardless of any negative consequences to the person’s physical, mental, social, or financial wellbeing.

  It also tells me that there’s a gene that addicts have, and that it’s often handed down through the generations.

  I could read that and excuse myself my actions, talk myself down from the cliff edge of guilt and anguish and helplessness. But I don’t. It just makes me hate my father and everything he did to me and my siblings even more.

  His gambling lost us our house. We were homeless, out on the streets. If I tell people that, it’s usually the worst thing they can possibly imagine. But he caused us another loss that was even more terrible.

  Our mother.

  She left, walked out one midsummer morning, and moved in with a man she’d met at the Citizens Advice Bureau, when she was trying to sort out what she was entitled to, what benefits she could claim given that she had no income and no way to support herself and her three children.

  He advised her all right.

  I’ll always believe that if she’d stuck by Dad, if she’d tried to get him help and encouraged him, he could have beaten the addictions. But she didn’t want him, and nor, as it turned out, did she want us. Me and my two younger siblings.

  We went to live with our grandparents and I hardly spoke to my mother ever again. Or my father, because he passed away shortly after the house was taken, found sleeping rough on the streets, dead from alcohol poisoning.

  I picked myself up, turned myself around and determined that I would never find myself in either of my parents’ situations. But the best laid plans and all that. I’m completely dependent on Dan. If the worst came to the worst and we did divorce, at least the laws are tougher these days and maintenance payments are rigidly enforced. But still. I wouldn’t be able to live the way I do now, nothing like. I’m not sure I’d be able to live at all. Not just in the survival sense, but metaphorically. I’m as reliant on him as I’ve ever been on any of my … habits, shall we call them.

  And if the truth came out I’d more than likely lose the children, be deemed an unfit mother, a bad influence, or both.

  So the worst is not going to come to the worst. It’s not going to happen. I want my children to grow up with a mother and father and to have the secure and happy childhood I didn’t have. I won’t let anything or anyone – not Naomi or any other jumped-up floozy – come between us.

  I won’t let myself and my sins and misdemeanours come between us, either.

  Chapter 18

  Susannah

  I’m starting to notice that Dan really does come to the cafe an awful lot; he’s been in every day this week, breezing past me in a sophisticated flurry of expensive aftershave, easy bonhomie, and the self-possession of the affluent. He says he starts work late because he deals with west coast US so he has to wait for them all to wake up.

  Today, he’s in as usual for breakfast and orders his customary flat white accompanied by homemade granola with summer berries.

  ‘Did you forage for them?’ he asks jokingly, gesturing towards his bowl that is brimming with redcurrants, raspberries and blueberries as I fuss with my ordering pad and the arrangement of the salt and pepper pots on the table.

  ‘No,’ I confess. ‘They don’t grow wild around here and I think I might cause a bit of a stir if I raided the village allotments.’

  I pause to allow him to smile, which he does, obligingly.

  ‘But the lunchtime soup is a caldo verde of cow parsley and wild rocket that I gathered myself,’ I tell him, with faux primness. I’ve got much more confident with my plant identification these days, and I’ve revisited the patch of verge where Charlotte showed me the difference between the edible plant and the toxic weed several times. We’re pretty much at the end of the cow parsley season now, though – much longer and it will be too tough and unpalatable.

  ‘So if I stay for lunch do I get it cheaper, if all the ingredients are free?’ Dan retaliates. ‘A discount at least, surely?’

  At this point, Naomi comes bustling over, all huge breasts made even more prominent by her apron, which sports an image of a naked female body, private parts naively obscured by fruits. I think she finds it amusing.

  ‘My favourite customer,’ she gushes, running her hand down Dan’s cheek and then pulling him into an embrace that involves his head being engulfed by the aforementioned bosom.

  Dan doesn’t bat an eyelid. Well, he hardly could, given that his eyes are more or less subsumed by Naomi’s chest and arms, submerged in a sea of flesh. But even when released he remains as dignified and unruffled as ever, taking it all in his stride.

  ‘Can I get you anything else, my darling?’ she asks, fishing a notepad out of her apron pocket. I hang around, feeling redundant.

  Dan waves her away. ‘Susannah’s got this,’ he says firmly. ‘All in hand.’

  I just about manage to stop myself from giggling; I can only imagine the parts of Dan that Naomi would like to have in her hands. I make him his second coffee and then observe him surreptitiously from across the room as I serve another customer. I get it – Naomi’s infatuation, I totally get it. He’s gorgeous, muscular and toned, his flawless tennis whites showing off strong, agile legs. It’s hardly surprising that a cafe manager in a provincial village with not much going on in her life should find him irresistibly attractive. I wonder what to report back to Charlotte, if anything. There’s something on her mind and I wouldn’t want to add to her troubles so perhaps it’s best to keep quiet, in a least said, soonest mended sort of way.

  Dan and I meet again the next day for our Saturday match that has become a regular fixture. I’ve bought a new tennis dress with my earnings from the cafe, and I’m feeling pretty chipper. My money worries have eased, mainly due to finally making a wage but also because I have to say that Naomi is very generous. She allows me to take home food that’s still perfectly edible but past its expiry date so the cost of my weekly shop has dropped dramatically. In addition to this, Justin is seeing more of the boys, taking them out every other weekend. We meet halfway at a motorway service station and undertake a kind of hostage handover. I don’t like seeing
them go but I know they need to spend time with their father – and I can’t deny being grateful to have a little more free time, especially now I’m working.

  Justin is still living in London, and he’s only been able to afford a one-bedroom rental so far so they can’t really stay over, but he’s confident he’ll be able to get somewhere bigger soon. He told me proudly that his priority, over and above his own accommodation, was to increase his maintenance payments so the boys didn’t suffer. Clearly, this is only what he’s legally obliged to do but I dutifully thanked him nevertheless, and I can’t deny that the extra cash is a lifeline.

  Everything combined, I’ve begun to make a dent in my overdraft at last and the satisfaction of seeing that red number diminish, even if only by the tiniest amount, cannot be overstated. I’m so used to my money disappearing like ice cream on a summer’s day that to have a little extra is a wonderful novelty – hence the celebratory new sportswear.

  So I step onto the court this particular morning with a spring in my step. It’s hot already and the grass is no longer immaculate but scuffed at the service lines and browning at the edges. Dan is already ridiculously tanned, and his slanting eyes seem darker than usual, full of the confidence and allure of success. He must have been striking some really good deals recently.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asks me.

  I give a dismissive flick of my head. ‘What, since we last saw each other all of twenty-four hours ago?’ I tease.

  ‘Since whenever,’ he counters. ‘I’m genuinely interested.’

  I can’t help but let out a sigh. Though in general things are going well, there are still plenty of flies in the proverbial ointment. For example, the struggle to get the boys to do their homework when all they want is to go out and play football, the sordid state of my house and its desperate need for regeneration – even with more funds coming in, there’s still nowhere near enough to undertake a renovation project. But, I remind myself, Dan doesn’t want to know all about my niggles.

  Except, maybe he does.

  ‘That sigh sounded heartfelt,’ he jokes. ‘What’s bothering you?’

  ‘No, no nothing,’ I say. ‘Things are really good – better than I have a right to expect them to be. I’m glad I made the move here.’

  Dan’s eyes crease seductively as he grins. ‘I think we’re all glad about that.’

  A twinge pulls at my chest and I circle my arms to release it. My warm-up routine must be leaving something lacking, I think, and make a mental note to stretch more thoroughly in future.

  ‘But,’ he continues, ‘I can see you’ve got something on your mind.’

  I shrug and grimace resignedly. ‘Oh, you know, it’s the stupid little things around the house that I should know how to fix myself but don’t, and it makes me feel so useless … For example, the kitchen tap needs a washer. It drips incessantly into the metal sink like some kind of Chinese water torture,’ I explain. I shake my head to show how annoying but at the same time trivial this little matter is. ‘And I don’t know any plumbers around here and I’m a bit anxious about how much one would charge me, anyway. First world problem, I know,’ I apologise in conclusion.

  Now it’s out, and I feel more helpless and stupid than ever. But Dan takes it completely differently.

  ‘That is a right pain,’ he agrees. ‘What would you have done in the past? Got your ex-husband to sort it?’

  I nod glumly. ‘Yes, Justin would have done it. I mean, it’s not difficult, is it? I’m just useless at that sort of thing and I’m worried that if I tried, I’d make it worse, cause a flood or something.’

  Dan smiles his lovely crinkly smile. ‘I know I don’t look like Mr Fix-It,’ he says, ‘but a washer I can do. And actually, I quite enjoy DIY. I never do any at home because Charlotte won’t let me – doesn’t trust me, I think. She’d rather get tradesmen in who charge her an arm and a leg and let them mess it up instead.’

  ‘Oh,’ I splutter, somewhat surprised. Dan’s right. I didn’t have him down as someone who’s handy around the house, as well as all his other talents.

  ‘I’ll come round and do it for you,’ he suggests, not sounding in the least as if he feels he has to offer. ‘One day this week … I’ll let you know when I’m free.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply simply. I don’t know what else to say. It’s so unexpected but so delightful that I’m nonplussed. A multi-millionaire who’s not too self-important to mend a tap. That is someone truly special.

  The match is a tough one. Dan has muscle and height, but as well as being more fleet of foot, I have precision on my side. And I’ve built strength and fitness over the past few months so I’m feeling better than I have since my youth. You could say that, as tennis opponents, Dan and I are perfectly paired.

  The first set goes to him, and I have to muster all the resilience I have to up my game in set two. I win it, six-four. Set three goes to a tie-break, which I take by a hair’s breadth.

  Dan is surprisingly magnanimous in defeat; perhaps Charlotte has painted an exaggeratedly bad picture of him to me. As he shakes my hand, his eyes meet mine.

  ‘Nicely done, Ms Carr,’ he congratulates me. ‘There was a fluidity and determination in your game – or should I say in yourself – today that I had no chance against.’

  I incline my head graciously and accept the compliment. I even do it without blushing.

  ‘Quick coffee?’ Dan asks. ‘Charlotte doesn’t like anyone around and interfering when she’s cooking.’

  She’s invited me and the boys to lunch – it’s not one of Justin’s weekends – and I’m looking forward to a feast. I’m also keen to see more of the inside of that beautiful manor house. I’ve only really been in the kitchen to date. We head for the cafe and I wonder how Naomi will behave when she sees Dan – will it be her normal embarrassingly over the top reaction? – but she’s busy in the kitchen and it’s one of the local schoolgirls doing her weekend shift who makes and brings our drinks.

  ‘You’re playing better and better,’ Dan says, leaning forward as if to show how serious he is. His right knee brushes against mine as he shifts position.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I should add something witty and clever but as always, I can’t think of anything right now. It’ll come to me hours too late, when I’m in the shower or cleaning the loo as is usually the way.

  ‘We should enter the league,’ he muses, furrowing his brow in concentration. ‘I think the playoffs start really soon, with the final at the end of September.’

  He sips his steaming coffee. ‘Not a patch on the flat white you make,’ he comments, smiling. But then his expression changes, eyes narrowed in concern.

  ‘Have you noticed anything odd about Charlotte lately?’ he asks. There is an insistent, intent tone to his voice, as if he is determined to get to the bottom of it, whatever ‘it’ is. ‘Anything about her behaviour or her mood?’

  I squirm and sit back in my chair to hide it. I hate talking about people when they’re not there. It always makes me feel as if I’m being disloyal – even if it’s good things that are being said. And discussing Charlotte, the person who’s held out the hand of friendship so generously since I’ve been here, makes me particularly awkward. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, clumsily crossing and uncrossing my legs. My knee inadvertently ends up in a position wedged against Dan’s. It feels a bit awkward and overly intimate, but I leave it there, feeling that to snatch it away will only draw more attention.

  ‘She does seem worried about something,’ I venture cautiously, considering how she’s been acting strangely for weeks now, all jumpy and nervous, her face pale and drawn despite all the ‘work’ she’s had. I don’t think it’s disloyal of me to let Dan know I have concerns, but on the other hand, if Charlotte wanted him to know about something that’s bothering her, I’m sure she’d tell him. Sharing and confiding is what husbands and wives do, one of the many reasons why partnership is so valuable and sought-after.

  The only reason not to let on wou
ld be if one had something to hide – and I can’t believe that of her. Although on the other hand, one never knows … And then of course there’s the state of their relationship to consider. It just doesn’t seem, to the casual observer, to be very healthy, if truth be told. Charlotte says she loves Dan, but there’s no evidence of this in the way she acts with him or how she speaks to him. In fact, there’s plenty to the contrary.

  Dan is looking at me intently, his eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘Worried in what way? About what?’ he questions. And then, without waiting for my answer, he blurts out, ‘I knew it. I absolutely knew it. She won’t come anywhere near me, won’t let me touch her, doesn’t want to—’ He breaks off mid-flow, as if aware he’s about to say something revealing. ‘Well, let’s just say she’s very distant,’ he resumes, returning to his usual measured tones, ‘and I can’t seem to put a foot right.’

  I bite my lip, something I always do when I’m unsettled. ‘Perhaps it’s that she’s missing the twins now they’ve gone back to school,’ I venture, ‘and even the younger two aren’t around much, are they? It makes her feel old, to see her babies growing up. That’s what it’s like for women. It’s natural. She’ll get over it.’

  A tentative smile breaks across his face, and the rather charming, anxious furrows on his forehead gradually smooth out. ‘Yes, of course, you’re right. That’s what it is, all it is.’

  He seems to be thinking hard about something, then his next words come out in a rush. ‘I’ll find something to treat her with. Perhaps a piece of jewellery from that place she likes in Marylebone …’

  I listen to Dan going on about whether Charlotte would prefer rubies or diamonds, gold or silver, a necklace or earrings or both.

  ‘Right now,’ I interject, suddenly realising the time, ‘I think she’d just prefer us to get there in time for the lunch she’s making. Drink up!’

  Dan nods and finishes his coffee in one gulp. ‘Sure. Let’s go.’