The Best of Friends

by Alex Day

  We start the meal and Dan tucks in. I pick at some meat but don’t finish it. Instead, I concentrate on crunching through the pile of poppadums. Soon Dan has finished. He reaches out to get seconds and I place my hand on the serving spoon to stop him. Stress and worry have always had a tendency to push him towards overindulgence. I’ve learnt over the years when to urge restraint. Now is one of those times. He’ll give himself a stomach ache if he eats too much of that fiery concoction. I only allow him a small spoonful more.

  When we’ve finished, we move to the sofa. I’ve had enough to drink now. More than enough. I feel a bit sick, dizzy and lightheaded. I pour Dan more wine but take a large glass of water for myself. We start to talk again but it feels like we are rehashing old ground, going over and over the same stuff. At one point, we both fall silent, as if there’s nothing more to say and nowhere else to go.

  ‘What was going on when I called yesterday?’

  Dan’s question, when it breaks the silence, is both unexpected and inevitable. I knew he wouldn’t forget. Well, it’s not exactly something anyone would just brush off as insignificant, is it? Someone hollering down the phone at you, swearing and talking about money being paid.

  If it looks suspicious, sounds suspicious, smells suspicious … it probably is suspicious.

  I steel myself, breathing in deeply and taking a big slug of water to clear my head before beginning.

  ‘It’s something I should have told you ages ago,’ I begin. ‘Years ago. And I know it’s wrong and I know you have every right to be really angry with me but … but, well, it’s not like sleeping with someone else. It’s not betrayal like that. I would never do that.’

  As if in agreement, the wind howls outside, catching at a dustbin lid in the refuse store and sending it slapping and banging like a macabre accompaniment to my confession. Rain pelts down, drumming on the glass roof of the extension, obliterating the view of the moon and stars.

  Dan nods. He looks odd somehow, as if he’s slightly out of it, on drugs or heavy painkillers. I assume it’s the effect of a huge meal and a lot of alcohol.

  ‘So what is it? Are you about to confess to being a contract killer or a pole dancer? Or something in between?’

  He doesn’t have a clue. All these years and he hasn’t noticed anything. I could still retract, could still decide not to go ahead with telling him the truth. But now I’ve started, I mustn’t stop; I must keep going until I’ve owned up to it all. And then maybe this whole damn business will be over and I will be able to live freely again, unburdened from the weight of terror.

  ‘It started in Hong Kong,’ I say, hesitant and nervous. Revealing something that’s been hidden and covert for so long is harder than you might think. ‘It began the first time we were there, and then, well, it never really stopped. In America, it just got worse. At least in Hong Kong it’s illegal – apart from at the racetrack. But in America, it’s everywhere. Absolutely everywhere, and the more I did it, the more addicted I became and the more I had to keep on doing it to try to make good what I’d lost. As time went on, the internet made it easier than ever …’

  Dan is staring at me, his eyes glassy, unblinking.

  ‘You’re talking in riddles. I don’t understand.’

  I can’t prevaricate anymore, can’t skirt around the issue and avoid facing up to it. He’s my husband and for two decades I’ve been fleecing him to pay my debts.

  ‘The thing is, Dan …’ I falter, then force myself to continue. ‘I’m an addict. A gambling addict.’

  There, the words are out. And now they’re said, they don’t seem quite so bad, quite so powerful.

  ‘I’ve made and lost hundreds of thousands of pounds over the years, mostly online but also in syndicates. It was our second stint in Hong Kong when I got into real trouble. I had the ayah to look after the boys and you were working all the hours God sends. I was bored and I was lonely and my resistance was nil. I joined an illegal gambling den, playing cards and placing bets … but these weren’t nice people. Not nice people at all. I got in way out of my depth, I couldn’t extricate myself, and I ended up owing tens of thousands …’

  My voice is droning on, the whole sorry tale pouring out now, no holds barred. I could understand if Dan hated me for it. If he despised the weakness and mendacity in me that could allow me to do things that were not only unwise but also against the law.

  ‘I set up a payment plan with the syndicate.’ I plough on, knowing I’ve got to get it all out. ‘They allowed me that at least.’

  What to tell and what not to tell? I got Dan to allocate me an allowance, paid straight into my bank account, money for myself, separate from the housekeeping and food budget. I told him I needed it. That he owed me an independent income when I had no paying job of my own. I used this to pay the debts. And, more recently, to pay for the help I’ve been getting from a private therapist to treat the addiction. Obviously I couldn’t go to gamblers anonymous or whatever organisations exist for people like me because then I’d have had to explain my whereabouts.

  I managed to keep a grip on it all for a while. A long while. But gradually things began to spiral out of control. I genuinely had to buy school uniform and pay for repairs to my car after I had a prang, things that Dan rightly expected me to cover, considering the exceptionally generous amount that landed in my bank account every month. I simply couldn’t explain where it was all going if I constantly asked him for more. So I missed a payment or two. Well, quite a few actually. This is when I began to feel deep, visceral fear.

  I was sure they would come after me.

  These are not nice people. They don’t have morals or scruples. They don’t have limits. Wherever you are, people like this can find you. I still don’t know if they’ve been casing the joint, stalking me. But I do know that, if they wanted to, they could.

  I’m relaying the story, on and on, like someone has wound me up and now I can’t stop, when I suddenly realise that Dan looks very unwell, really terrible. He’s trembling and his pupils are huge, dilated as if he’s taken a shedload of drugs. He shifts position on the sofa – or rather, he tries to – but only his upper body moves, not his legs.

  I stop dead, staring at him, horror overtaking me, causing my blood to run cold and my hands to tremble. I’ve never seen him ill, not really ill – he’s the healthiest, most robust person I know. This was never part of the plan, that he’d come over for dinner and get sick.

  ‘What’s the matter? Dan, for God’s sake, what’s the matter?’

  He tries to move, to get up, but he can’t. It’s as if he’s paralysed, his limbs not working.

  ‘Charl, I can’t move. My legs aren’t working. And I don’t feel too good at all. My heart … racing …’ His words dry up as if speaking is too much effort.

  I feel paralysed myself, with fear and dread and desperation. I look at Dan, my handsome, charismatic, successful, much-coveted husband, suddenly, inexplicably, rendered incapable, incapacitated, and I don’t know what to do.

  ‘What’s wrong? Is it too much to drink? Are you ill?’

  The questions fire out of me as if there’s any way he will have an answer. He’s had a stroke, I think. He’s going to be an invalid for life. And I’ve just been droning on about myself. I feel nauseous at the thought.

  ‘The curry,’ he says. His diction is completely clear even while it’s obvious that his body is shutting down. ‘Maybe the meat was bad …’

  He shuts his eyes.

  I hadn’t imagined any of this.

  When I asked him over, I’d thought it would be a chance to articulate our differences, to clear the air. Perhaps make him think – really think – about what he’s done to me and how he’s made me feel. But this has gone too far.

  I press my fingers to his wrist and detect the faintest whisper of a pulse. I lean my ear against his mouth and cannot be sure if it is tickled by the weakest breath. I don’t know what to do. I’m frantic with worry, with horror and terror. He cannot die before m
y eyes. Whatever he’s done, I cannot lose him.

  I grab the phone and dial 999. As I’m asking for an ambulance I’m wondering if this is the right decision. It will take them ages to get here, to find the place. The ambulance person is asking for symptoms and I’m trying to explain. That it started with paralysis and laboured breathing though he was conscious and talking. That now I’m not sure if he’s doing any of those things.

  The ambulance handler says the crew are on their way, but there have been reports of trees down on the side roads, and the rain is making driving conditions treacherous. I imagine the vehicle, lights flashing, sirens blaring, making its way towards us at a snail’s pace, unable to pick up speed in the terrible weather. It’ll never get here in time.

  I stop giving the address and scream down the phone, telling the handler not to bother. Dan is fading fast; I’m going to drive him. It will be quicker and anyway, I can’t stand the inaction. I can’t sit here waiting. Watching him die.

  Pulling him from behind his arms, I somehow manage to get him the short distance to the back door. My car is parked outside; I often leave it there rather than at the front or in the garage, in order to make a quick getaway if my mystery caller comes back. It’s lucky I did so today. And that I filled the tank yesterday.

  Even though he’s definitely lost weight, Dan is still much bigger and heavier than me. But years of physio and Pilates to strengthen my back, plus fat-busting weight-training, mean that I am strong. Somehow – I have no idea how – I get him out of the door and into the car, willing my back not to give out on me now. I’m talking to him whenever I can, whenever I have enough breath, in between the monumental bursts of effort involved in lifting and man-handling him, trying to soothe him, comfort him. Keep him conscious.

  His arms still work and, as I pull and haul, he helps me by dragging himself into the back seat where he lies prone, his legs stuffed in any old how.

  ‘I don’t think it can be the food,’ I say, as I start the ignition and drive, desperately trying to keep my words reassuring, my voice even. ‘It was made fresh today and they’ve been serving it in the cafe. Susannah made it. She said it went down like a house on fire. Everyone was ordering it. Fire is about the right word though, isn’t it? It was very hot …’

  My voice trails away. I don’t feel too great myself. My legs are heavy and I’m having to concentrate to make them work, to depress and release the pedals, to brake into and accelerate out of the bends, to change gears. I will myself to function, to keep going, to overcome the seeping lethargy that’s engulfing me.

  ‘Charlotte,’ his voice is still audible, still Dan. ‘I’m sorry. And I love you.’

  And then the realisation comes to me, as I tear through the darkened lanes, barely heeding the surroundings, skidding slightly on a rain-slicked incline, like a religious epiphany. The true awareness of how much I love him and always will. We’ve been through so much together, me and him, over so many years. I couldn’t live without him, and I don’t want to. I want us to be together forever – as long as he’ll have me, after my confession.

  Whatever I texted to you in a moment of madness, I don’t want him to die.

  I’ve never really wanted that.

  Chapter 38

  Susannah

  Dan and Charlotte will be having their cosy date-night reconciliation, their let’s-forget-all-about-it evening right now.

  All I can do is wait.

  I waited before, for weeks; the waiting for the sentencing seemed to go on forever, though of course it would have been even longer if I had not pleaded guilty and my case had gone to trial. I knew what was going to happen – it was painstakingly explained to me by my solicitor on several occasions and, every time, I sat and listened and nodded and made out that I was following everything she was saying. But in reality, I wasn’t. Mainly, I couldn’t actually believe any of it really related to me. It was as if there was another Susannah somewhere, lingering in the wings, and it was she who would be brought to the dock to face the judge’s decision.

  My parents oscillated between stony, pursed-lip silences, tirades of anger – ‘How on earth could you possibly do this to us? Do you know what you’ve done to our reputations?’ – and anguished hand-wringing about how much time I might have to do at Her Majesty’s pleasure and how often they would be allowed to visit.

  I was impassive throughout. What I had done had occurred during a period of lunacy – diminished responsibility? – during which I couldn’t see anything straight, could only feel. Feel the pain of Charlie’s desertion, his lack of care or concern, his unceremonious dismissal of me and everything we had had together.

  But, as my solicitor repeatedly told me, my actions had been premeditated. It had taken courage and planning and a type of low cunning that is apparently judged particularly harshly to buy the thermometers and the chocolates, to liberate the miscellaneous accessories from the work supplies cupboard.

  On the other hand, it was also utterly incompetent. Laughably so. Who could have imagined that tampering with a box of chocolates would not be noticed? That the needle holes would be ignored?

  Being a criminal is bad enough. Being a stupid one, worst of all.

  But, I sometimes wanted to counter, the idiotic, simple-minded, tiny-brained, mini-skirted Josephine had not only picked up the chocolates from the doorstep, left by God only knows who, but she had taken them inside, opened them, and put one in her stupid, pouty mouth. So my work had fooled one person, albeit the thickest person on the planet.

  I didn’t say it, though. Even I could see that this would not help my case.

  Chapter 39

  Charlotte

  We get to the hospital.

  Even before I’ve stopped outside A&E, I’ve got the window down and I’m screaming for help. An ambulance has just discharged a patient and there’s a paramedic waiting to close the doors. Seeing me hollering as if hell has boiled over, he runs over through the pelting rain. Within minutes, a whole team is there, assessing the situation, getting Dan onto a stretcher. I don’t care what anyone says about the NHS, these people are amazing. Inside the building, out of the wind and wet, equipment is wielded, lines inserted, urgent instructions issued and commands followed.

  Only Dan is oblivious to all the activity, unconscious now, his inert body long and lean. Lifeless.

  My hand moves to his cheek, still gently caressing. I cannot stop touching him. His eyes flicker open.

  ‘Sus,’ he says. ‘It was … it was … I slept with …’

  He stops. Mustering all the life left in him, he utters one last word.

  ‘Susannah.’

  Your name is like the blade of a knife slicing through my heart.

  Dan’s confession. His deathbed confession? I can’t bear to think that is the case. Of course, he has no idea that I know already, that I have known for days.

  In retrospect, I understand that your interest in my holiday in Corsica, in when I was going and how long I’d be staying, was never about me. It was about when Dan would be alone and open to your tender ministrations. I think of how you promised to ‘keep an eye on Naomi’, assuring me that you’d make sure she didn’t get her hands on Dan when in fact it’s your grubby mitts that have been all over him.

  You’ve always been consumed by envy, have never been able to bear the sight of me and my family, with our money and status and position in the village, our beautiful home, our perfect life.

  You’ve always wanted to destroy me. And I know what you’ve done in your efforts to achieve it.

  Poison.

  Our food, that you made out was to facilitate our reconciliation, was laden with poison. I suppose you must have wanted us both to go under. It’s difficult to think that you intended our children to be orphans, but, as they say, hell hath no fury …

  They’re moving Dan’s trolley again, towards bright lights that shine like beacons. The operating theatre? The doors open wider and Dan is borne away from me by a uniformed phalanx of nurses,
doctors, consultants, anaesthetists. In my befuddled state, I don’t know who or what they all are.

  But I know what you are.

  You are a bitch, a man stealer, a prize cow who thought she could take my precious husband right from under my nose. But you’re out of luck.

  Dan’s not going to die, whatever’s happened to him – he’s far too strong. And when – not if – he overcomes this crisis, he has money to pay for any treatment, any medicine, whatever is needed. Surely his money will be enough?

  At this thought, my legs give way beneath me and I’m on the floor, the tiles in front of my eyes not so white this close up, but spotted with colours of cream and beige and studded with particles of mud and dirt. As I’m scooped up by more of the uniforms, I swear one thing to myself. That I’m not going to die, either.

  I need to survive so that I see you in prison.

  Chapter 40

  Susannah

  Dan is in hospital, in intensive care.

  The story goes around the village like wildfire, spreading from one gossip to another, changing and morphing with each retelling. He tried to commit suicide, Charlotte attacked him with a knife, he’s paralysed for life from the neck down, he’s made a miraculous and unexpected recovery, an intruder stabbed him, they had a car accident because of the terrible weather, he’ll definitely die, he’ll definitely survive, he’s on the mend, he’s six feet under …

  I try to call Charlotte, ostensibly to offer my sympathy, but in reality to ascertain the truth. To find out if Dan is all right, if he’s alive, what the prognosis is. I’m frantic with worry, fretting and fussing around the cafe, muddling orders, dropping things. Whatever’s gone wrong between us, I truly believed myself in love with him, I truly believed that we had a future together. Feelings like that don’t just disappear in a puff of smoke.

  But Charlotte doesn’t pick up.

  Naomi’s devastated, too.

  ‘Who would have thought it? Dan, of all people? My beautiful boy, my Dan?’ she keeps saying, as if she’d given birth to him and then fallen in love with him. Weird. ‘I never could have imagined something like this …’