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

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