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

him,’ I mutter, unable to meet his gaze as I speak. ‘We were probably both—’

‘No,’ Dan interrupts, forcefully. ‘Don’t excuse him or find reasons to justify what he did. There are none, and that’s final.’

I manage a weak smile and nod resignedly. ‘You’re right.’ Then I laugh and, with a wave of my hand, dismiss the conversation. ‘But let’s not talk about miserable things anymore.’

I pick up the menu and Dan mirrors my action.

‘We should order – that poor guy’s about to come back over again and anyway, I’m starving. All that vigorous exercise …’

Dan grins and then glances over at the waiter, who is by our side and bowing respectfully in seconds. Dan is clearly well-known here and holds a lot of clout. I guess all restaurants love their rich clients, the big spenders. No reason not to.

‘OK, let’s choose,’ Dan says, as the waiter hovers silently with his pad. ‘I really recommend the green papaya salad, and we must definitely have a pad Thai, but then I also love chilli …’

His voice floats over me as I sink back and relax, loving the feeling of being taken care of. Dan is so capable, so competent with everything from building a multi-million-pound fortune to ordering the best dishes on a Thai menu. Justin had nothing like his style and Charlie never had two beans to rub together.

The food arrives and I tuck in with alacrity. I wasn’t lying when I said I was hungry and I haven’t had anything this good since the Sunday lunch Charlotte cooked a few weeks ago. Which, incidentally, I noticed that she barely touched, pushing her helping around her plate and only picking at the vegetables and a little of the meat. Of course she didn’t have so much as a single potato on her plate, though they were sublime, flaky and crispy and delicious, just as roasties should be.

Dan notices my enjoyment of his choices from the menu.

‘It’s so good to be with someone who actually eats!’ he exclaims.

I know I should be embarrassed about my healthy appetite but at the same time I can tell he’s genuine in his appreciation – and unlike such a comment coming from a woman, there’s no side to it, no buried agenda or insinuations contained with it that perhaps I should exercise more restraint. He just really likes the fact that the meal he’s paying for is being enjoyed.

His phone rings a couple of times whilst we are eating and he checks it, briefly glancing at the screen, but doesn’t answer.

‘Someone wants to get hold of you!’ I say, the third time it happens.

He shrugs. ‘The office. Some of the Americans I deal with don’t have any concept of work-life balance. They’re workaholics.’

I nod. Ironically, Charlotte has made this very accusation against Dan many times. I can see that making money becomes addictive and hard to restrict to the hours of nine to five on weekdays – but maybe it’s not as simple as that. The next thing Dan says confirms my thinking.

‘But then again,’ he muses, suddenly dejected, ‘I can hardly talk. I’d be at home more myself if I felt wanted there. But sometimes, well, sometimes Charlotte seems as if she can manage quite well without me.’

I frown sympathetically. ‘That sucks,’ I say.

He doesn’t reply, just gives a resigned grimace and goes back to the papaya salad. I’ve had to give up on that – far too much chilli for me to handle.

When the meal is over, Dan leans back in his chair and gives a satisfied sigh. ‘That was great,’ he states, conclusively and I’m in full agreement. ‘But now I feel like going home and relaxing. Want to join me for a coffee and a nightcap?’

I hesitate for a moment. I don’t really fancy going to the manor and then walking to my house alone late at night across the green and down the dark road to the unfashionable enclave where I reside. Though there’s little danger of encountering hooded thugs lingering on street corners, sometimes it’s the dead silence and emptiness of the countryside that I find scarier than urban noise and bustle – especially at night. Like so many other things, I’m just not used to it.

‘Um, I’m not sure …’ I begin, wanting to tell Dan the reason for my reluctance but not wanting to come across as a total wimp.

‘Oh!’ he utters, as if reading my mind. ‘Of course, you’re worried about how you’ll get home. But I’ll give you a lift back or, even better, you could always stay over.’

My face flushes red hot and I shake my head. I’m feeling flustered, not wanting to seem rude by turning down his invitation. It’s kind of him to ask and even kinder of him to be concerned about what might be holding me back. But I’m just not sure I should, if it would be appropriate to go back to his house with him.

Dan is studying me intently. ‘I mean,’ he continues, ‘it’s not as if we’re short of bedrooms. Charlotte always has the guest room made up and ready in case of a chance visitor. You could have a swim and sauna in the morning before you go. It costs a fortune to heat that pool; I’d like to see it being used.’

‘Well,’ I say, still hesitant. ‘That does sound very tempting, I must say. I suppose I could borrow something of Charlotte’s to swim in. What luxury! Your very own wellness spa.’

‘It’s nice,’ agreed Dan, ‘but terribly underused. The family take it for granted.’

‘I guess that’s always what tends to happen,’ I muse, ‘when it’s there all the time; it’s easy not to be appreciative.’

‘So come!’ says Dan, gently. ‘Be appreciative. I’ll be eternally grateful.

I can’t help but laugh. He really is such a sweet, kind, generous man. ‘I’d love to,’ I reply, all reason to resist swept away.

The Porsche has us home in moments.

In Charlotte’s elegant drawing room, I accept the tumbler Dan proffers. I