The Best of Friends Alex Day (best short novels .TXT) 📖

interject, suddenly realising the time, ‘I think she’d just prefer us to get there in time for the lunch she’s making. Drink up!’

Dan nods and finishes his coffee in one gulp. ‘Sure. Let’s go.’

The Porsche is parked outside on the street. ‘The car park was full when I arrived,’ he explains. ‘And people are so careless. The spaces are really tight, everyone’s in a hurry, and I’ve had a couple of scratches and scrapes. All those mums dropping their kids off here, there, and everywhere, rushing and not even noticing that they’ve bumped someone. Sometimes I think it’s safer to stay out here.’

He gestures to the road, which is wide and spacious, and fairly sparsely occupied. As he does so, we both see Miriam approaching, scurrying along in her characteristic head-down, determined way, like Mrs Tiggy-Winkle.

‘Look at you two!’ she cries as she spots us. ‘Don’t you look the vision of health and vitality! You should be the pictures on vitamin supplement boxes!’

Dan and I catch each other’s eyes and I suppress a giggle. She’s truly batty.

‘The ones for the more mature age-groups, I presume you mean,’ I laugh. And then, realising what I’ve insinuated, add, ‘Only speaking personally, of course.’

Dan grins and Miriam beams.

‘I must get a snap for the foraging newsletter,’ she goes on, in what seems to be a non-sequitur.

‘Why?’ I enquire, mildly.

‘To show the benefits of eating wild food – you are the living proof!’

Before we can comment further, she’s whipped out an ancient iPhone and started snapping away. I know I’ll look dreadful, my hair, only just released from its ponytail, still staying resolutely behind my ears rather than framing my face the way I want it to, my cheeks still flushed from the strenuous exercise of the match.

‘Fantastic!’ exclaims Miriam, appearing happy with her work. ‘You could be a couple, you two; you match each other somehow.’

I’m overcome with mortification – poor Dan, being associated with insignificant lil’ ol’ me when he’s used to the glamour queen that is Charlotte. Miriam’s peering at her phone, bending over, and I make a what–is-she-on? face at Dan above her head. He grins, unphased as ever.

‘Look!’ cries Miriam, wielding the phone at us. ‘Just look at you!’

Nervously, I take a peek. We stand there, the crown of my head fitting neatly underneath Dan’s chin, perspiring gently in the sunshine. Or at least I am. Dan looks immaculate, a George Clooney-esque aura of perfection about him.

I shrug. ‘I honestly think you’re mad,’ I say to Miriam, ‘but if you must use it, I suppose it’s my only chance of ever being a cover girl!’

Dan also gives his blessing.

Escaping Miriam’s clutches, we get into the car. The Porsche does the journey in nanoseconds. Fast cars, expensive jewels, a beautiful house and a gorgeous husband; there’s plenty to envy in Charlotte’s lifestyle.

It’s a good thing I’m not the covetous type.

Chapter 19

Charlotte

My phone pings to signify a message. It’s from Miriam and I don’t open it immediately as the potatoes need basting – yes, potatoes are on the menu, due to public demand. When everything is back under control a few minutes later, I pick up my phone to see what Miriam wants – something about next week’s foraging schedule or the exact quantities required for sorrel pesto probably.

I punch in the passcode and see, instead of what I’m expecting, a photo. It’s of you and Dan, standing outside the tennis club. Dan’s gaze is directed straight at the camera. Typical. He never loses an opportunity to pose. But you. You look as though you’ve been caught unawares; your eyes are averted and you’re glancing down as if hurriedly smoothing your skirt or checking the buttons of your shirt are done up correctly.

Or as if you don’t really want the photo to be taken.

Using my thumb and forefinger, I zoom in on your face. Our country air and locally-foraged produce seem to suit you. Your gently tanned skin glows with health – though you should watch that. Too much sun is so ageing. But you look lovely and I wish, not for the first time, that I could think of someone who would be suitable for you, someone I could introduce you to. I know you’re lonely, I know that more than anything else you desperately want a man, but unfortunately, though Biglow has many positive attributes, a healthy supply of single, eligible gentlemen is not one of them.

Perhaps you should sign up to one of these online dating sites. I don’t think they’re just for young people anymore; apparently there are ones that specialise in the over-forties. Or maybe Guardian Soulmates would be best – you are a bit of leftie, and Guardian readers are mostly bleeding-heart liberals, just like you. Or eHarmony, maybe. It worked for a friend of a friend of mine; unlikely though it sounds, she found eternal love with a man from Minehead who breeds miniature schnauzers. Perhaps I’ll suggest it, when the time is right. The dating agency, that is, not the breeding of irritating yappy pooches!

I take another look at the photo. Something catches my eye and I hesitate, zooming in again, even further than before. The earrings you’re wearing are very pretty. And they look expensive. They must date from your former life, when you had a husband and he had money to spend on you. If I remember, I’ll ask you where you – or rather, he – got them. Finding a new jewellery emporium is always fun.

I’m absorbed in contemplation of your accessories when the sudden blaring of the front door bell makes me jump out of my skin. My heart skips a beat and a shock of fear runs through me. I let the phone drop from my hand and focus on steadying my breathing. I’m just regaining control when a deafening ring, combined with a low thumping, disturbs the silence anew. My mobile. I glance towards it, then irritatedly snatch it up, fear replaced by annoyance. It’s