The Best of Friends

The Best of Friends

ALEX DAY

One More Chapter

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © Alex Day 2021

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Cover photograph © Julie Poncet/Arcangel Images

Alex Day asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008455132

Ebook Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 9780008455125

Version: 2021-01-22

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Part 1

Prologue

Chapter 1: Susannah

Chapter 2: Charlotte

Chapter 3: Susannah

Chapter 4: Charlotte

Chapter 5: Susannah

Chapter 6: Charlotte

Chapter 7: Susannah

Chapter 8: Susannah

Chapter 9: Charlotte

Chapter 10: Susannah

Chapter 11: Charlotte

Chapter 12: Susannah

Chapter 13: Charlotte

Chapter 14: Susannah

Chapter 15: Charlotte

Chapter 16: Susannah

Chapter 17: Charlotte

Chapter 18: Susannah

Chapter 19: Charlotte

Chapter 20: Susannah

Part 2

Chapter 21: Susannah

Chapter 22: Susannah

Chapter 23: Susannah

Chapter 24: Susannah

Chapter 25: Susannah

Chapter 26: Susannah

Chapter 27: Susannah

Chapter 28: Susannah

Chapter 29: Charlotte

Chapter 30: Charlotte

Chapter 31: Susannah

Chapter 32: Charlotte

Chapter 33: Charlotte

Chapter 34: Susannah

Chapter 35: Charlotte

Chapter 36: Susannah

Chapter 37: Charlotte

Chapter 38: Susannah

Chapter 39: Charlotte

Chapter 40: Susannah

Chapter 41: Charlotte

Chapter 42: Susannah

Chapter 43: Charlotte

Chapter 44: Susannah

Chapter 45: Susannah

Chapter 46: Charlotte

Chapter 47: Susannah

Chapter 48: Charlotte

Chapter 49: Susannah

Chapter 50: Charlotte

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Alex Day

About the Publisher

PART 1

Whether we fall by ambition, blood or lust,

Like diamonds we are cut with our own dust.

— The Duchess of Malfi, John Webster

Prologue

‘You were jealous, weren’t you? Angry that you had been usurped by the man you thought belonged to you.’

The QC’s voice is calm and contained as always, though the steel beneath its surface is barely concealed.

‘Of course I was jealous. Anyone would be.’ The defendant cannot keep the anger out of her voice. ‘But not enough to …’

She falters, finds herself unable to say the words out loud, perhaps mindful of the jury, twelve pairs of eyes intently fixed upon her, or of the journalists watching from the public gallery, wolves waiting to fall upon their prey.

‘Not jealous enough to do what I’m accused of,’ she continues, her voice little more than a whisper now, her gaze cast demurely – but still somehow defiantly – down.

She’s doing well and seems to have – at least temporarily – won the sympathy of the court, convincing the jury of her innocence, her blamelessness. But the QC has more – much more – up the sombre black sleeve of his capacious gown.

‘And you had secrets, did you not. Things that you’d done that you needed to make sure no one ever found out about.’ It is a statement, not a question.

The woman’s face blanches visibly.

There is a long pause. It’s pin-drop quiet. The QC is playing it for effect, making sure he has everyone on the edges of their seats in this, the greatest theatre in the land. In the silence, the white noise of the building seems deafening. Somebody coughs, and the sound echoes out like a death knell.

‘Didn’t you?’ The QC repeats himself, and now it is a question, prompting her to respond.

‘Yes.’

An audible murmur, like a far-off earthquake or explosion, vibrates around the room. The atmosphere changes in an instant. It’s as if everyone knows that something big is coming, that a hand grenade is going to be launched into the respectful arena of the courtroom. It had been insane for her to ever think it could remain hidden. The truth will out, as the saying goes. But far from setting her free, it may well prove to be the final nail in her metaphorical coffin, the evidence that puts her behind bars.

‘There were things you’d hidden from even your closest friends, weren’t there?’

Silence.

‘One thing in particular, wouldn’t you agree?’

He’s going to reveal it and very soon everyone will know her history. She wills it over and done with. The jackals wait with bated breath, eager for the next titbit to feast upon. The QC inhales deeply before continuing, as if believing that oxygen will be in short supply once he has made the revelation.

The collective gasp that follows seems to prove him right. It emits forth with such force it might have come from the walls themselves. The woman’s blonde hair falls across her face as she drops her head in despair.

The case that has hitherto slithered back and forth has turned on a sixpence. The entire courtroom can see that the defendant has no way back from this.

The QC turns to the judge. ‘No more, m’lord.’

He sits, and his black gown balloons and then descends around him like the darkening sky before a thunderstorm.

Chapter 1

Susannah

A gust of March wind blows across the emerald grass and sends the torn paper pieces whirling into the air in bright swirls of colour – orange, pink, yellow, and blue. I shiver and pull my insubstantial coat tighter around me, wishing I had something warmer to wear. Living in the city for so long has made me soft and I’ve forgotten how to cope in the country, without buildings and pollution and warm tarmac to keep the elements at bay. Now the cold is creeping into my bones and lodging there, insidious and immoveable, joining the pain of my newly single existence, the anxiety that is inherent in knowing that I bear sole responsibility for the day-to-day upbringing of my two young children.

I look over to them, my precious boys, eight-year-old Luke and eleven-year-old Jamie, who are waiting with a bunch of other kids for the paper chase to start, a cacophony of over-excited shouts and cheers emanating from the group. My heart leaps with love and hope at the sight of them, so intent on being part of it all, wanting desperately to join in, to belong. Poor lambs, they’ve been through the mill over the past year, what with their dad’s business collapsing, the money drying up, their family home being sold from over their heads, and all of this culminating in a messy and protracted divorce and a house move which has meant new schools and new everything.

I’ve tried not to let them see me cry but of course it’s been impossible to completely hide my distress. Despite this, they’ve been stoic throughout and I’m so proud of the way they’ve coped. Through it all, they’ve never complained, not once.

They’re not complaining now, not about the bitter weather, nor the fact that, unlike most of the other kids they’re with, they don’t have a father here to cheer them on, to wave their flag. Nor any long-standing friends, either. Along with all the material things we lost when Justin went bankrupt, our social circle deserted us en masse, as if we’d become toxic, liable to infect anyone who came too close with the malaise of failure. Without the status that coupledom conveys, and the outward indicators that everything is perfectly fine – a nice house, good clothes, food from farmers’ markets, foreign holidays – I became a nobody overnight. Being persona non grata myself was one thing, and hard enough to take. But to see my boys similarly ostracised, through no fault of their own, was much, much tougher.

At least right here, right now, that is not the case. The boys, judging by the excitable chatter that surrounds them, seem to have been accepted without question into this new milieu.

For me, things are somewhat different. All around me are gaggles of parents, all of whom seem to know each other, all of whom are already invested in this community in some way or other. I hear snatches of conversations, enquiries as to levels of school satisfaction, decisions on holiday destinations, proclamations about the weather or the political situation. Nobody else is alone, and none of them look like they are currently freezing their balls off as I am. They are all perfectly attuned to their environment, apparently evolutionarily adapted to the countryside in a way that I am not, and sporting the kind of practical, sensible outerwear that would not be found in the department store under the ‘coats’ sign but in ‘outdoor pursuits’, categorised by function and purpose.

Loud laughs waft towards me from one of the jolly groups. Despite how much I stand out in my inappropriate attire – a totally unsuitable lightweight trench coat in a particularly brilliant shade of pillar box red – none of them has so much as spared me a glance. The carapaces of belonging protect them, making their togetherness impenetrable. Even if this weren’t the case it probably wouldn’t change anything because I am utterly lacking in networking skills and too shy to make friends easily. The longest conversation I’ve had with anyone over the age of twelve in the last three months was with the removal men, and that was only to give them instructions – put this box there, that bed in that room, and so on.

A whistle blows and Jamie looks over at me, waves, then takes off his coat and drops it to the ground. He steps into place amidst a long row of boys and girls of similar height. Luke likewise casts aside his anorak without a care. He will be with the second younger group of runners. Smiling despite the bitter wind, I walk over to them and pick up the discarded garments.

‘Good luck, boys,’ I call, receiving a nod of acknowledgement from Jamie and nothing at all from Luke.

Cool and calm as ever, Jamie then turns his attention to quietly scrutinising the competition, sizing them up, whereas Luke, always effervescent, is jumping around wasting energy for the run on by playing the clown. I laugh despite myself. They are cute and funny and infuriating in equal measure but above all, they are mine and they seem to be doing OK, and that’s the only thing that really matters.

The whistle goes again, a different tone this time, signalling that the race has begun. The runners stream past, clouds of vapour hanging in their wake, thrumming footsteps shaking the ground beneath.

As I follow their progress, I catch the eye of a woman standing nearby. She smiles at me. Relief, combined with a profound gratitude, floods through my veins. Someone has noticed me, is ready to welcome me into the fold. I beam back over-enthusiastically, ridiculously and embarrassingly pleased by the attention. I grasp the mettle, determined to overcome my natural timidity, and walk towards the friendly woman, my lips parted ready to introduce myself, my mind working hard on what kind of greeting would be appropriate.

‘Hi, my name’s Susannah, what’s yours?’ or, ‘Hello, I’m Susannah, I’m new in the village. Have you lived here long?’ Unlike the children in the paper chase, I’ve had little chance to limber up for this challenge but, nevertheless, I’m going to go for it.

I open my mouth to speak.

But there’s someone else in front of me, almost, but not quite, elbowing me to one side, and shrieking, ‘Hattie! So lovely to see you,’ and throwing her arms around my erstwhile friend and I realise, with a searing stab of disappointment, that she had not been acknowledging me at all but this other person, the person she already knows and who is already part of her social circle.

Stumbling awkwardly, I march on, having to suddenly veer to my right to avoid careering straight into this Hattie person who is still being vociferously embraced, my smile fixed on my face as if it hadn’t been for her in the first place, but for someone else entirely. The wind whips up anew, seizing a handful of the paper pieces that mark the trail and turning them into a feverish whirlpool of kaleidoscope colours.

How I wish there was something similar to this paper chase in the adult world of social interactions, a designated route to follow, carefully signposted, guaranteed to lead to the desired endpoint.

But of course there isn’t.

I’m suddenly acutely conscious of standing alone on the village green with an armful of coats and a heartful of loneliness. I clutch the garments tighter and trudge towards the finish line. The twenty or so minutes until the first runners return seems like an eternity. During the wait, the mantra ‘fake it until you make it’ runs through my head like an irritating radio jingle, and then changes to a refrain of ‘things can only get better’, and all the while I keep a welcoming and optimistic faux-smile plastered onto my face.

But deep inside, I long for Justin, or perhaps not even for him but for someone … a friend, lover, husband, anyone – just so as not to be always on my own.

Chapter 2

Charlotte

Red.

Bright, eye-catching harlot-red, poison-red, blood-red. Red that spells danger.

You stand out like a sore thumb in that unsuitable coat, which is why I notice you as soon as I arrive on the green. My imagination runs wild, thinking of all the – overwhelmingly negative – things that red symbolises. It must be tiredness, hallucinations brought on by having all my four boys home for the Easter holidays, eating non-stop, playing computer games until the small hours and fighting with an assiduity that would be admirable if it weren’t so exhausting.

I’ve been intrigued by you since Toby first came home with stories of a new family in the village – two boys the same age as him and Sam, and an absent dad. You’ve bought the terraced house at the less fashionable end of the village that was on the market for quite a while. It seems faintly ridiculous that such a small backwater as this should have such a thing as a ‘less fashionable end’ but there’s no doubt that the area has become markedly less desirable since the massive housing estate was built right in the middle of it, providing homes for commuters into the M3 corridor.

Toby, of course, has no idea of such subtleties as the ‘right’ postcode or the ‘wrong’ one, and he’s particularly taken with your Jamie in a way I’ve not seen in him before. So of course I’m interested in Jamie, too. Every mother wants their child to have friends, to be popular. And it’s useful for me to have some inside info on you, brought to me from the innocent mouths of my own children. Of course, like most pre-teen boys, when pressed for details about someone’s appearance or character, Toby has almost nothing to say beyond ‘I dunno’ and ‘just, like, normal’ but I got a little more from Sam and my imagination had already created a picture of you as a devastatingly attractive divorcee with an undertone of beguiling vulnerability.

Exactly the kind of woman I need to worry about. To keep tabs on.

Seeing you for real, though, I observe that, though you are undoubtedly good-looking, you don’t look like the guileful type, the type who preys on other people’s husbands. You look altogether more innocent than that, more ingenue than femme fatale: sweet, self-effacing, hopeful and above all, cold. It will take a bit of time for you to get used to our country weather if you’re a townie. There’s so much I’ll need to tell you, when we get to know each other, when we become friends. Which we will, without doubt. I’m sure of that already.

For a start, you should know that this is a cold place.

Our village nestles in what is known as a frost pocket and winter temperatures fall below what you’d expect for the south of England. A powdery dusting of hoarfrost coats cars, trees, and lawns in the mornings from November right through to May. As if to prove my point, the runners stream by, cheeks reddened not only by exertion but also by the chill north wind.

Spring is a long time coming this year, even longer than usual. Thank goodness for the only two things that have got the boys out of the house this Easter: football on the green and Miriam. I’ll tell you all about her, for sure, although she’ll probably seek you out before I have the chance. She likes to be at the centre of everything, to know all the comings and goings in the village. Miriam truly is Biglow’s uber-mother, always looking after everyone and everything, organising events from the fete to the flower show – and of course, the paper chases.

It’s her raison d’être to spend her time recreating a bygone age, bringing back to life the childhood pastimes of a distant halcyon era, one in which children befriend strangers on trains without fear that they might be child molesters, where obesity and ruinously overpriced, sugar-coated breakfast cereals are unknown and healthy outdoor pursuits eagerly partaken in by all. And whilst they do entail hours of chilly hanging around and making small talk with people I have no particular interest in, I always turn up to her events.

I like to show my appreciation of all she does, and to play my part in a way which befits the owner of the manor house. Feudalism may be long gone but people still like to know the pecking order and to have someone to kowtow to and look up to. How else do you think the royal family survives? But of course the main reason why I’m always there on the sidelines, however inclement the weather, is to support my boys, to cheer them on, to laud them whenever and however I can.

I had so little of that when I was a child; no one ever came to sports day and praised me for my hundred-metre sprint or my discus throw, and told me I was wonderful and they were proud of me (even though I was rubbish and came last every time). It’s such a cliché but I want everything to be different for my children. I want them to have all the things I didn’t have: love and devotion and adulation, a stable family life with a mum and dad and everything just as it should be.

Dan and I fall in and out of love – that’s normal, in long-term relationships, isn’t it? No doubt you and I will discuss this at some point. Right now, the brutal truth is that he gets on my nerves most of the time, and mostly I’m glad he spends such long hours at work so he’s not hanging round the house irritating me. But one thing is certain. We’ll always be together, a unit.

I would never let anything get in the way of that.

Chapter 3

Susannah

There’s something bewildering about drinking tea in the deliciously warm kitchen that throbs with people and voices and the clinking of numerous glasses and not having spoken a word to Charlotte, the hostess, yet. She’s busy distributing trays of elaborate nibbles and pouring liberal quantities of prosecco into outstretched champagne flutes. Brunette hair rippling and gleaming like a TV shampoo ad, she looks amazing. Dressed casually but immaculately in skinny jeans and an oversized, extremely stylish but still cosy cashmere sweater, she’s as pristine and perfect as her house. I’ve only seen the kitchen so far, but it’s to die for – opulent and enormous, white units and marble worktops that glitter under the artfully mismatched copper domes of designer lighting. All the glistening appliances look brand new and the central island must be about five metres long.

Once I’ve finished gazing nervously around me, I start to feel conspicuously alone again. It’s like the first day at my new school, which I joined at fourteen when the money for my private education had run out because my dad had lost his job and his savings were all used up. Everyone else was already in their friendship groups and all the other girls wandered around in tight little cliques with entwined arms and matching hair styles and speech patterns and I knew, just knew, I’d never be able to penetrate their armour-plated solidarity.

My hands grip tighter around my mug. I force myself to remember that I did, eventually, settle in and make friends and although it was never as if I’d been there from the beginning, at least I stopped being the odd one out. I raise my eyes and search the room. There must be people here, other women, other mothers, who I might get to know. Of course it doesn’t happen quickly; it’s not an overnight thing. I need to give it time.

As my gaze strays across the crowds, it falls on Charlotte and our eyes lock. She gives me the smallest, briefest, sweetest smile. There’s a moment when I recall the Hattie incident of earlier, but then my heart leaps and I smile back, a huge grin like that of an over-friendly dog ecstatic at being patted. Quickly, I modify it to something less undignified. Almost immediately, Charlotte’s attention is taken by someone else, another guest congratulating her on the food, the ambience, the decor, the general wonderfulness of everything about her, her house, and her hospitality. But just before she looks away, she smiles again and winks.

The gesture of complicity is so unexpected, and makes me feel so special, that I’m momentarily too stunned to respond. By the time I’ve come to my senses, Charlotte has moved off, snaffled by a red-haired woman with super-long legs, deep in conversation already. I bask for a few moments in the warm glow of her attention, even if so briefly and fleetingly caught. I allow myself the luxury of believing that it’s all going to work out, that this move to the country on which so much depends will prove to have been a good thing after all.