The Best of Friends by Alex Day (accelerated reader books .txt) 📕

hurtful and it’s not as if it’s untrue – though ‘powerful’ would have been a kinder choice of word, or ‘athletic’ perhaps. I’d even settle for ‘strong’. I scrutinise myself again, standing side-on and flexing my biceps, moving my forearm up and down. Sadly, I concede that ‘sturdy’ probably is the most apt description. Despondency threatens to descend and I shake it off. I’ve got the chance to do something I enjoy and, moreover, that I am good at for an hour and I’m going to focus on that, not on all my many and various physical faults.

And not on what’s arrived in the post, either. I kick the letters on the mat to the side so I can open the door, not even bothering to pick them up and check them. I don’t want or need to know their contents right now.

I take Jamie and Luke to the manor and see them through the gate. They gambol happily towards the house, chatting eagerly about the paper chase they’re soon to take part in. I’m grateful they’re engaged in a healthy outdoor pastime for a few hours. If the newspapers are to be believed, most pre-teen boys spend more time accessing hardcore porn on the internet than exercising in the fresh air. I don’t linger to watch them go inside but instead turn hurriedly away, hoping I don’t encounter Dan; I need the solo walk to psych myself up for the game.

I get to the club bang on eleven and hesitate outside the automatic doors for a moment, debating with myself whether to wait or go in. Waiting might make me look feeble, as if I need Dan’s permission or accompaniment to enter those hallowed doors. Going in, on the other hand, carries the risk of looking too eager and overly keen, and I don’t want to give Dan that impression. I want him to think I’m like Charlotte: confident, self-assured, coolheaded.

‘Hi there.’ His sonorous voice, so cosmopolitan, rooted somewhere between the UK and the US, cuts short my dithering. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

‘Oh no,’ I blurt out, ‘no, I only just got here myself. No waiting.’ I laugh, nervously and unnecessarily. Bang goes that idea of being like Charlotte.

Dan is eyeing me up and down and I shift awkwardly from one leg to the other.

‘You’re changed already,’ he says, sounding surprised. He is in his jeans (a different pair, not egg-stained) and I kick myself. I should have realised that the cool people change when they get here.

‘Looking good,’ he adds, as if to mitigate my obvious discomfort.

‘Uh, thanks,’ I manage to stutter. He’s being so kind and trying to put me at my ease but I wish he didn’t feel he had to. At the same time, though, something stirs inside me, a twinge deep down in my belly that I haven’t felt for a long time. Since Justin and I split I’ve become invisible, a woman past her best, cast aside, unwanted. I force myself to relax, to take Dan’s compliment and enjoy it – a passing appreciation that’s better than being forever ignored.

‘After you.’ Dan gestures me ahead of him and we turn towards the doors. ‘I hope you don’t mind but it’s just us, I’m afraid, after all – the other couple have had to pull out. Family commitments or something.’

He frowns as he says this, as if family getting in the way of anything is unfathomable, but then turns it into an infectious grin that has me smiling too, though I don’t really know why. We are inside the building now and I have a sudden, heart-wrenching assault of memory induced by the smell of rubber trainer soles, of freshly-laundered kit and, drifting in from open windows, of newly cut grass. It takes me back nearly twenty-five years, to when I was my county’s top female player for one blissful season. It didn’t last. Things that good rarely do.

Puberty made me heavy and sluggish and at the same time I lost interest in the constant training and practice, the gruelling matches and the relentless competitiveness. By the age of twenty I had given up competing and only took part on a recreational basis. I can still play a decent game; I was in the Barnes ladies’ team and I’m confident that I’ll be able to give Dan a run for his money, although I was looking forward to the cover that doubles provides. Singles is so much more exposing. Dan will be able to see clearly all my flaws and faults; as he doesn’t seem to have any himself, this is all the more troubling.

A flurry of activity to our right catches my eye and, like a tornado coming into land, a woman whirls towards Dan and grabs hold of his arm.

‘Dan!’ The voice is earthy and has what might politely be called a ‘local’ accent. ‘The best player in the club! My favourite member!’ There’s a pause and then a loud, hooting laugh rings out. ‘As the actress said to the bishop!’

I would have laughed myself in any other situation but I’ve realised, immediately, that this is the infamous Naomi, source of Charlotte’s anguish.

‘Naomi. Lovely to see you.’

Dan’s greeting, cool and collected, confirms my supposition. On hearing his measured tones, Naomi seems to visibly calm down and shrink a little, like a mating bird that halves in size once its boastful, plumped-up and ostentatious feathers are smoothed.

‘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