The Best of Friends

by Alex Day

  And after all, if it came out into the open, if Charlotte knew the full extent of what Dan has done, I’m sure she’d never want to speak to him again. Nor me, obviously. But by then it wouldn’t matter because, once Dan knew he and Charlotte were finished, he’d come back to me.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Chapter 32

  Charlotte

  It’s hard, hearing your story of how you reached rock bottom before you began the slow crawl back up. But it seems incomplete somehow. Call it female intuition but I’ve got a hunch you’re leaving something out.

  ‘Did anything else happen?’ I ask. ‘I mean, you told me before that you lived with some friends from your course before you chucked it all in and went home. So the … the attempt on your own life, you didn’t do it right away, immediately after you split with Charlie, but some time later?’

  I can see that my question has taken you by surprise and before you’ve had time to think better of it, you’re answering.

  ‘I was in trouble with the law,’ you say.

  I tilt my head to one side questioningly. ‘How so?’

  ‘I did something stupid,’ you blurt out.

  Drawing a deep breath I wait, on tenterhooks, for more. But you disappoint me.

  ‘I’m not going to talk about it,’ you say. ‘I can’t.’

  You say the words with such finality I can tell that nothing will persuade you to spill the beans. My mind goes into overdrive as to what it could have been. GBH? Stalking? You come across as so timid and self-effacing but maybe that’s not the real you. Still waters and all that, I guess. I’m pondering this when distraction arrives, as it always seems to, in the shape of the children, Luke and Sam happily together, Jamie morose with his pal Toby absent. Luke has cut his hand and you fuss over him like his whole arm has fallen off.

  Whilst this is going on, I think of where you’ve ended up now. Your job in the cafe – long hours, hard work, on your feet all day, and low pay. Not to mention having to work with Naomi. She’s not who Dan’s been sleeping with, I’m sure of him on that. And the truth is, though she’s an acquired taste that I personally am never going to acquire, she’s probably not that bad really. I have an urge to bury the hatchet with everyone I’ve ever had an argument or difference of opinion with. In the face of what I’m going through, everything else seems trivial and unimportant. It’s made me reconsider everything.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Susannah,’ I mutter once the children have left again, forcing my thoughts back to you and your sad history, wishing I had something more substantial to offer than my sympathy. Of course, the Charlie situation was not one where alimony applied but you don’t seem to have got a good deal in your divorce with Justin. At least if Dan and I were to split now, I would be sure of a more than generous settlement. He’s not in a position to argue and in any case, I know he wouldn’t. But far from hiring a solicitor and commencing divorce proceedings, in all his communications with me, he’s been begging me to forgive him, to let him come back, to allow him to try to make things up to me.

  You get up and wander over to the French doors. Last time you were here, they were thrown open to the sunshine. Now they are firmly closed in anticipation of the impending rain.

  ‘Has he told you who it is yet?’ you ask, as if reading my mind. Your back is turned to me so I can’t see your expression. But there’s a faltering note to your words that makes me wonder … do you know? Have you seen or heard something?

  ‘No,’ I answer. ‘And I’m not going to stoop so low as to ask, not again, not after the first time when he denied it was Naomi.’

  ‘Oh.’ There’s something about your tone, and your stance, that I can’t quite interpret. Is it surprise? Disappointment? I’m about to question you further when you strike up again.

  ‘It’s just that … are you really sure you believe him about Naomi? She was very chirpy all the time you were away and now … well, now she’s been off work for nearly a week.’

  You come back from the window and sit down again, perched on the edge of one of the plump sofa cushions like a bird about to take flight. Your hair has grown and no longer frames your face but hangs messily down your back, past your shoulders. I suppose you can’t afford the regular cuts and blow-dries that a shorter style would demand, let alone the highlights that would do so much to enliven your rather dingy shade of blonde. I feel sorry for you again. It’s hard to be poor. I should know. I always was, before I met Dan.

  ‘He insists it’s not her and I believe him,’ I reply. ‘He seemed to find the whole notion preposterous. All his texts protest that, whoever it was, it was nothing, just a stupid fling, a moment of madness. That old chestnut.’ I feel tears pricking behind my eyelids and I squeeze them back. No matter how much I steel myself, how much iron I try to gird my heart with, it gets to me every time I think about it, corrosive jealousy gnawing at my stomach. ‘And I can tell that he’s still expecting me to invite him back home sooner rather than later,’ I conclude, giving an ironic snort of disbelief.

  It seems like an age passes before you answer. When you do there’s something odd about your face, as if you don’t feel too good.

  ‘Look, Charlotte,’ you say, a hint of irritation in your tone. ‘You’re going to need to think really hard about Dan and your next move. I mean, if you did take him back, could you ever trust him again? Hasn’t he pushed you over the edge once too often now?’

  I’m barely listening, but you plough on.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ you persist, ‘that if it were me, I could see my way back from this latest dalliance.’ There’s scorn in your voice, but whether for Dan or for me in my weakness I’m not sure. I’m concentrating too hard on something else to take much notice.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I reply tersely. The decision is for me, and me alone, to make.

  You sigh and grimace sympathetically and say you need to be off. A dental appointment for one of the boys or something. In the hall, you put on your trademark red coat, liberally distributing bits of dried up and crumpled greenery from the pockets all over my pristine floor tiles.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say tightly, ‘I’m always finding weird things in my pockets.’

  Once you’ve left, I give in to the rage that I’ve been harbouring since I realised. Since I understood why the necklace I found under the bed was familiar, where I’d seen it before.

  On you. Around your neck. Matching the earrings that caught my eye in the picture Miriam took of you and Dan outside the tennis club, and which you are wearing today.

  ‘Fucking bastard!’ The words explode out of me and ricochet around the echoing hallway like lethal bullets. I’ve always been a measured person, not prone to violent outbursts of any kind. Fury like this I have never known before.

  My rage rises up to almost uncontrollable levels. I pace up and down the length of the drawing room, metaphorically gnashing my teeth and tearing at my hair. The house is too big, too ornate and elaborate, for a single woman, even one with four children sporadically inhabiting it. I don’t want to be alone. I had a shit childhood and I deserve a better adulthood. I have never been unfaithful, and I never would be.

  After the shock comes the realisation, like the clearing of the sky after the rain. I want Dan. I want my husband, here with me, where he should be, being mine.

  If there had ever been any doubt as to whether I would give Dan up for someone else to have, it’s gone now. The fact that it’s you who wants him makes that all the more certain. How dare you come here with your sob stories about rejection and suicide? Are you for real? Perhaps the idea behind telling me is so that I’ll follow your lead, top myself, and leave the way clear for you, the scarlet harlot of Biglow village.

  There is no way that is going to happen, no way you will ever get your dirty thieving hands on Dan. So much for you being a shrinking violet. How could I have been so deceived?

  I’ll make you suffer for your betrayal, be in no doubt about it. No doubt at all.

  Chapt
er 33

  Charlotte

  I’ve called Dan.

  He’s been phoning and texting twenty times a day and I’ve refused to respond to anything. But today I give in. It’s actually me who picks up the phone to him. I tell him we need to talk and the relief in his voice is overwhelming. I have to make the arrangements quickly and then ring off because I can feel tears welling in my eyes and I don’t want him to know. I’m sure there’ll be a time for more weeping but it’s not now. Not yet.

  He’s coming for dinner on Saturday night. I want it to be at the weekend so that there’ll be less chance of anything getting in the way like a conference call at 10pm or 6am, the usual ridiculous times that are Dan’s normal working hours. Plus, I’m nervous and I need a couple of days to prepare. To work out what to say, how much to concede. It’s not that I want to prolong anyone’s suffering, but if we’re going to make this marriage work, we both need to commit to it. And I’m not sure that Dan’s quite there yet.

  I tell you that he’s coming round. I want to know what you’ll do. You continue to act like the innocent, as expected, to portray yourself as someone who’s only concern is for me and my welfare. Lying bitch. It’s good, in a way, to know. Because finally some of my desolation can be replaced by pure anger.

  ‘Is it what you really want, Charlotte?’ you ask down the phone line, all faux sincerity and sickly simpering.

  ‘I think so,’ I reply hesitantly, playing along. ‘I’m not sure at all but if I don’t see him, if we don’t talk, I’ll never know how I truly feel, will I?’

  There’s a long silence during which I silently wish the rivers of hell to descend upon you.

  ‘I can’t say I’d be welcoming him back with open arms if it were me,’ you say, your voice tart now like a sour sweet.

  For a split second, I am incandescent. ‘It’s hardly “open arms”,’ I retort, biting back a much stronger response. ‘It’s a conversation. That’s all.’

  ‘What about food?’ you ask, apropos of nothing, completely knocking me off kilter.

  ‘Food?’ Do you think I need to challenge my husband not for shagging my best friend but for his nutritional choices? Is the problem not Dan’s unfaithfulness but his diet?

  Then it dawns on me. ‘Oh, you mean what am I going to feed him?’

  I force myself to engage in your ridiculous preoccupation.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, bluntly.

  I am a feeder, the woman whose culinary repertoire is never found wanting. Who endlessly dishes up delicious and nutritious meals for her family and friends without batting an eyelid. But suddenly, I can’t think of anything that would suit and I’m not sure I care. Plus, the very thought of opening a recipe book, going out and doing the shopping, collecting ingredients, drains me.

  ‘Perhaps a takeaway,’ I conclude lamely, still not sure why I’m telling you anything.

  ‘No, that won’t do at all,’ you say, almost before my words are out. ‘Look, it’s national rice week – I know, who knew? – and in the cafe we’re featuring ‘curry of the day’ for the whole seven days. Saturday will be our finale and I’m cooking lamb massaman. Why don’t I make extra and bring some round for the two of you?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I manage to mumble as crocodile tears of relief course down my cheeks. I’m good at this, I realise, this dissembling. I’m even starting to enjoy it. It provides some relief from my anguish. And if you want to do the leg work, why should I stop you? It’s quite funny to think of you, the scarlet temptress, running around like mad woman cooking for my reconciliation supper. The meal that will finally cement the end of your dream of stealing my husband. I sniff, loudly.

  ‘If just the offer of a curry is making you cry,’ you say, in voice that is designed to cheer me up, ‘God knows what will happen when you taste it! It’s going to be very spicy – and I might add a bit more chilli in the one I make for you because I know how Dan likes it hot.’

  Am I supposed to notice this double entendre? It’s a low blow, if so.

  ‘Charlotte, one last thing I think you should consider,’ you urge, by way of finishing the conversation, ‘don’t give too much away. Don’t make it too easy for him.’

  Your sheer bare-faced cheek is utterly astounding I think, as I put the phone down. Straight away it rings again. Instinctively, I reach out to answer it. It’s so soon after you rang off that I assume it’s you again, that there’s something you forgot to tell me. I’m riled up but forcing myself to appear calm. I’m not prepared for the silence. The deafening absence of noise that’s so familiar. That makes me certain that there’s someone there who wants to frighten me, to intimidate me. That it’s them.

  Just when I thought it had gone away, when I had begun to believe that none of it had ever been real anyway, when I had started to breathe easily again – in that respect, at least, if not about events with Dan … I can’t bear it, I really can’t. Not now, not again.

  ‘Go away,’ I shout, knowing there’ll be no reaction but doing it anyway, ‘just fucking go away and leave me alone. I’m paying the money, what more do you want from me?’

  I sink to the nearest chair and run my hand over my forehead, where fear has caused beads of perspiration to gather. When Dan came out to Corsica I had intended on fessing up, laying everything on the table. But we were having such a blissful time that I couldn’t bear to spoil it. So I put it off to do when we got home, but I never got the chance. Finding the necklace blew out of the water my carefully conceived idea of telling all.

  Now I have to confront the fact that the whole hideous mess of it is still hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles.

  A voice sounds at the other end of the line and my heart stops. There’s never been any response before and, though I invited one, I understand now that it’s the last thing I wanted or expected. A hot flush of dread runs through my veins.

  ‘Charlotte, it’s me.’

  Dan.

  Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  ‘What on earth was the matter just then? Why were you yelling? Who on earth did you think it was? What’s all that about paying money?’

  I feel sick.

  ‘Dan, I can’t talk now. The, um, I’ve got an appointment. The physio’s here – you know, she always comes on a Friday. So I’ve got to go. We can go through everything tomorrow. See you at 7.30.’

  I hang up before he can ask any more questions. He’ll know I’m lying – or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll believe me that I’m seeing Maya the physiotherapist now. He doesn’t know anything about my routines. He even believed the dressage story. Fell for the idea that once a week I went off and rode a dancing horse, for God’s sake. Looking back now, in the cold light of day, it stands as a stark reminder of how far apart we have grown. Had grown. We truly lost sight of each other to such an extent that it became too easy to lie, to know that either our lies would be believed or that the other partner was too indifferent to care whether what we say is true or not. We were living separate lives, preoccupied with different things, forgetting that spouses are a team. That marriage is a collective effort.

  I stand up and look in the mirror. Horror at what I am confronted with momentarily overtakes all other concerns. A pale, drawn face stares back at me, my Corsica tan is all but gone, my hair awry and my mascara smudged. The wrinkles around my tired eyes are minimal, thanks to my recent ‘treatments’, but the ‘scaffolding’ in my cheeks seems to have sunk so that they are not firm and rounded but sallow and droopy.

  Women really do get dealt the bum hand, don’t they, I think sadly to myself. The menopause, with its dry skin and hot flushes and diminishing oestrogen, robs one of the useful function of child-bearing whilst it simultaneously steals one’s looks. The thickening waist and protruding belly taunt one, however hard one exercises and diets. A life of toil trying to keep body and soul together is followed by a slap in the face for bothering. For men, grey hair and a lined face can be so distinguished – look no further than Dan for proof of that �
� whilst the same things on a woman diminish and demean her. But I’ve not given in to the ravages of time and I’m not going to give in to being usurped.

  It’s time to fight back on all fronts.

  Chapter 34

  Susannah

  I’m struggling with the shock of what arrived in the post today.

  Not another dreaded missive from the production company. No, this was a small padded envelope, the address typewritten, no note inside. Just my necklace, with the three silver charms, the arrowhead, the die, and the heart. The chain is broken which explains why I have not been able to find it over the past few weeks – it must have fallen off when I was with Dan and he has now returned it. It must be him, because if anyone else had found it, how would they know it was mine? It can’t be Charlotte; I saw her this morning and she was perfectly pleasant, though a bit distant, obviously still hurting. It’s the absence of any message in the package that seems most significant. No ‘Thinking of you’ or ‘Would have preferred to give this to you in person but you know the situation’.

  Nothing at all.

  I bury my breaking heart in a flurry of activity. Dan’s action – or lack of it – is inexplicable. I don’t know how he can love Charlotte more than me. I mean, any man would get bored of a trophy wife like her at some point, I’m sure. She’s immaculately turned out but there’s nothing behind the facade, no depth, nothing real. I mean, as a friend she can be entertaining, a laugh. But as a wife? A long-term relationship needs more to it than that. In contrast, Dan knows how good we are together, playing tennis, talking, in bed. It seems wilful, self-flagellating, for him to throw that away.