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

away with the humiliation and ignominy he’s dealt out to me, seemingly without giving a second thought to my feelings? I’m going to keep him – but I’m not going to make it easy. My resolve strengthens when I think of the boys, his sons, his flesh and blood. Sam’s confused little face haunts me. I don’t know if he believes the work trip story. All he wants is for his dad to come home.

By the time you arrive, bearing a large casserole dish and your usual duplicitous sympathetic-but-encouraging smile, I’m all over the place, my hair wrapped in a towel because I decided I needed to lay the table before drying it, clothes strewn across the ironing board because I can’t make up my mind what to wear. I want to look smart, resolute, and purposeful, clearly not someone who can be pushed around or suppressed. The Charlotte that I always was, and will be again. But I also want to look seductively vulnerable so that Dan sees what he’s done to me and feels deep remorse for it. That’s a tall order for anyone’s wardrobe and make-up bag and whether I can achieve it or not, I’m not sure yet.

I take your red coat, hang it neatly in the cupboard, then make tea for us. It sticks in my craw to be offering you hospitality but I don’t want you to know that I know. Not yet.

Plonking down the mugs of tea, I sweep aside the mess I’ve created on the breakfast island, which is littered with napkins and napkin rings, silver cutlery, recipe cards for desserts, and a huge packet of plastic straws that Sam got out for some reason and, as always, left lying around. It looks like I’m expecting twenty people for dinner, not just one, and that one my husband of twenty-five years.

You have clearly come to the same conclusion.

‘Gosh,’ you say, rolling your eyes. ‘I’m worried you might be over-thinking this!’

I break a weak smile and nod. ‘I know. I’m going to clear it all up. I’ll make it look like I threw everything together at the last minute because I’ve been so busy going out and having fun.’

You take a deep breath and then pause, biting your lip, that habitual tic I’ve noticed you fall into when you’re thinking or are worrying about something.

‘It’s not my place to tell you what to do, but …’ you say, enunciating each word carefully and slowly as if you’re having to work really hard to get them out.

I bite back the retort, ‘No, it isn’t, you two-faced bitch’. Your statement is instantly recognisable as one of those ‘everything before the but is bullshit’ moments. And so it turns out to be, when you proceed seamlessly to tell me precisely what I should do.

‘Honestly, I’ve held back from saying this; I’ve been tactful and tried to understand where you’re coming from. But the truth is that I can’t believe you’re even thinking of giving him a second chance. He’s treated you so badly. If I were you, I’d let him run off to whoever it is who’s caught his eye this time and be done with him. If you try to force him to choose you, to love you, surely you’ll always have that nagging doubt about whether it’s genuine. And after all, only a few months ago you weren’t sure you even wanted to be with him anymore anyway.’

‘Right,’ I say, because it’s all I can manage. I’m trying to work it all out. To understand Dan. To understand you. I could confront you here and now, lay down in front of you everything that I know.

But I am sure that revenge, unlike curry, is a dish best served cold.

I turn to where I’ve placed the dish on the worktop and lift the lid. A dense, mouth-watering aroma of thick spices engulfs me – cumin, coriander, and turmeric. I’m not that big on curry but this smells delicious. I take a teaspoon from the drawer, dip it in, and taste a mouthful of the sauce. It’s an explosion of flavours that starts off tasty and then, when it hits the back of my throat, has me coughing and choking with the chilli hit.

‘Fuck,’ I splutter, when I regain the power of speech. ‘That is one hot curry!’ It’s funny how the one thing that a sense of smell can’t detect is the heat of the spice.

‘I did perk it up a bit from the cafe version,’ you apologise meekly. ‘But I said I would, remember?’

‘Yes, absolutely, you did. It’s … well, it’s fine. Lovely. Thank you.’

You look at your watch. ‘No bother at all,’ you reply, sounding relieved. ‘I need to be off now though, to take Jamie to a cinema party. He and Luke are waiting in the car. Do you think Sam’s ready?’

You’re taking him for a sleepover so that Dan and I have the place to ourselves. Agnes doesn’t work weekends and we no longer have an au pair. Hana left in the summer and I haven’t got round to replacing her. With only Sam at home, maybe I won’t. So the house is empty. No one to hear the screams, I think to myself, with a hollow, inward laugh, as I fetch my youngest son from the games room. He leaps and bounds down the hallway, distracted from the worry over Dan’s absence by the prospect of a fun night with his friend. He shows you a flint arrowhead he found on a school nature walk last week that he’s bringing with him to impress Luke with. When I was a child, we found them all the time but they’re rarer now. I guess so many have been collected over the years. I take a picture of you and him examining it. His enthusiasm and pride is cute and heart-warming.

Despite this happy moment, a twinge of fear plucks at my heart as I hand you back your red coat and see