Her Best Friend's Secret
A gripping, emotional novel about love, life and the power of friendship
Anna Mansell
Books by Anna Mansell
How to Mend a Broken Heart
The Lost Wife
I Wanted to Tell You
Her Best Friend’s Secret
Contents
Prologue
Amanda
Emily
Lolly
Jess
Emily
Lolly
Amanda
Jess
Emily
Amanda
Emily
Jess
Lolly
Emily
Jess
Amanda
Emily
Amanda
Emily
Lolly
Jess
Emily
Jess
Amanda
Lolly
Jess
Lolly
Jess
Emily
Lolly
Amanda
Jess
Amanda
Emily
Jess
Amanda
Jess
Emily
Lolly
Amanda
Jess
Amanda
Jess
Amanda
Lolly
Amanda
Emily
Lolly
Emily
Amanda
Emily
Jess
Lolly
Amanda
Lolly
Emily
Jess
Amanda
Jess
Lolly
Jess
Amanda
Lolly
Emily
Jess
Amanda
Jess
Emily
Amanda
Jess
Lolly
Emily
Amanda
Lolly
Amanda
Jess
Lolly
Jess
Emily
Three Months Later
Amanda
Emily
Jess
Lolly
Epilogue
I Wanted to Tell You
Anna’s Email Sign-Up
Books by Anna Mansell
A Letter from Anna
The Lost Wife
How to Mend a Broken Heart
Acknowledgements
For Victoria
Prologue
Emily gazed out of the train window at Dawlish. The English Channel, rough as it was today, crashed against the sea wall, spraying the carriages with salty droplets. The last time she’d done this journey, it had been the other way, leaving Cornwall for a new life in L.A., at the behest of her father’s legal career some twenty-four years ago. She’d been back several times in the last few years, pretty much whenever Jackson afforded her the time, but never on the train. Public transport? Jackson wouldn’t hear of it. Things like that had been exciting in the early days, the way he cared for her, took control, she felt loved, she felt special, she felt like a princess… a feeling she now knew she’d grown more and more uncomfortable with. Suffocated. Controlled.
Another wave crashed against her window, the water like tiny pebbles smashing against the carriage. There was something she loved about trains: the romance, the possibility, the chance to daydream as the world whizzed by. Only daydreaming this time felt dangerous. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to let her mind wander into the what-ifs and maybes. She especially didn’t want to revisit the last text Jackson sent to her because she couldn’t allow anything to make her think twice about this return journey. She had lied to him and he had no idea. She shook off a flicker of guilt; she’d made the right decision, it was time to make a change. Besides, it was too late to go back now. And irrespective of what she had – or hadn’t – done, New York wasn’t home any more. Her old life wasn’t right. She was forty. A new life beckoned, albeit out of the blue. A life as far away from her old one as she could possibly imagine. And if she was going to make it work, there was only one place she could be: Cornwall. Home. The only place anything had ever made sense.
Amanda
It was Amanda’s third shower of the day. Thursdays could be like that. Thursdays at the end of the month, particularly so. She got it; she’d be the same. Except when she used to get her pay cheque it was a gorgeously unusual pair of Irregular Choice shoes that she’d spend the surplus on, not sex. Still, she wasn’t judging, she had bills to pay. And she desperately wanted to invite her daughter Zennor on holiday. She missed the bones of her, the way she used to laugh at Amanda’s jokes, or complain at her when she moved a stray hair from her face. Amanda missed showing her teenage daughter tenderness because long before she moved out, Zennor didn’t want to see it, or feel it any more. Amanda had always hoped it was a phase, just hormones getting in the way of being open to signs of love and affection from her mother. But then she moved to live with her dad and things got progressively worse. She rarely picked the phone up to Amanda now, never mind allowed her to show her love. Could they get that back? With a week in the sun? She had to at least try so the extra cash from all these clients might just make the pipe dream a reality.
Amanda perched on the edge of the bath, drying herself, leaning into the memory of her last holiday: Tenerife, the warmth of the sun on her back; two weeks of lounging by the pool with a good book. Admittedly, her last trip away had been paid for by a client, the kind of client who genuinely just wanted her company. An escort in the truest sense. The kind of escort job she’d signed up to do when this business was first offered as a viable alternative to cleaning holiday lets down in St Agnes. She hated cleaning. She was crap at it. And at £10 an hour – on a good day – it was a tenth of what she could earn an hour doing what she did now; and she’d never once had an orgasm whilst cleaning the grout on a fishing loft conversion.
Not that she got them with Mr Tenerife. The physical side of their relationship didn’t progress beyond escorting, but they’d become good friends. He’d tell her how he felt less lonely when with her. That she had been one of the things to turn his life around after his wife passed away. Companionship on his terms. They read books side by side, put the world to rights over dinner, she’d listen to him reminisce over his life and times, she’d hold his hand as he spoke of regrets: the lack of children being his biggest. When he grew too ill to visit her, she popped in to see him, first at home, then at the hospice. When he passed, she hadn’t expected the grief that followed. She still missed Mr Tenerife.
There was a knock at the door, loud and purposeful. She could tell a lot by a door knock. She could tell if she’d be the one guiding them in, taking it slowly, settling their nerves. Or if she’d open the door and be suffocated by some bloke’s desire to get his end away. This was definitely an end away kind of guy. Today that suited her though, not least because she’d promised George next door that she’d pop round and re-programme his heating.
She unhooked the silk negligee from her bathroom door, looking longingly at the hoody and lounge pants she was desperate to get in to today. She slicked on lip gloss, ruffled her hair to life, then headed for the front door.
She could see his reflection through the glass. Tall. She liked them tall. He shifted weight from one foot to another. He was broad too. Broad and tall.
Broad, tall and knocking again. Broad, tall and eager then. This might actually be fun.
‘Hi,’ she said, smile wide, hair flicked, cleavage gently accentuated as she coquettishly leaned against the door. ‘I’ve been waiting, oh!—’ God. Was that…? Was Sixth Form Trev stood in her doorway? Imaginatively titled because he was in the year above Amanda at school and his surname was Trevelly. ‘Well, hi!’ she said as he pushed through the door, giving her a grin and a wink. She clicked it shut behind her, wondering why the hottest boy from school was now standing in her hallway, all grown up and about to pay for her services, some twenty plus years later. ‘Well… I didn’t expect to see you… I mean… wow.’
He took off his jacket, slinging it on the bannister. ‘Is that okay there?’ he asked, his come-to-bed eyes apparently seeing past her fluster.
‘Yeah, of course. No problem. Uhm, so… again, wow.’
‘What?’ He took a step towards her, groin first.
Amanda recomposed herself. ‘Sixth Form Trev!’ she said, because that was definitely not the name he’d booked under, she might have neatened up her shave had she known. ‘Is that really you?’
‘I’m no longer in the sixth form and most people use my proper name these days, but yes, it’s me.’
Christ. The number of times she’d thought about shagging Sixth Form Trev, back in the day. ‘Do you… remember me?’ she asked, resisting letting her own groin touch his because probably they needed to sort out the housekeeping first.
His face didn’t flinch but he let out a low laugh. ‘Amanda Kenwyn. If I’m not very much mistaken.’
‘Perhaps I’ve not aged that much,’ she purred.
‘No more than me.’ He took another step towards her. She shifted her weight as he leaned closer, she could feel him ready to go.
‘And you’re okay about that?’
Trev fixed her with a look that suggested he was more than okay with that. She swallowed. He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers at first before kissing with an urgency she rarely got from first-time clients. His breath was heavy, his kisses hot. ‘Where do you want me?’ he asked, looking around her hallway.
‘Eager?’
‘It’s been a while…’
She bit down on her lip, resisting the suggestion that they could start off in the lounge, then work through every room in her modest Truro town house. At no additional cost.
‘Through here,’ she said, moving past him and down the hallway to her back room. He followed, his clothes rustling as he dropped them to the floor. ‘The money goes on the side. Do you need a shower first?’
A black ginger and neroli candle burned, the scent welcoming her as she opened the door to her work room, the inviting clean bed sheets turned her on even more and as he dropped two £50 notes on the side, she knew she just had to pretend she was doing him a service, and very much not the other way around…
Emily
Emily looked down at her iPhone. Three thirty. Eighteen exhausting hours ago she’d checked in at JFK Airport. The flight home hadn’t been delayed but every single part of her journey since arriving back on UK soil had taken forever. She’d made it as far as Truro but the branch line was down so she had no choice but to get a bus back, her heart – and spirit – deflated on realising there was anything up to two more hours before she’d finally make it home. It was only ever at times like this that she considered whether buying a house in the remote, tiny Cornish village of Gorran Haven had been a mistake. Not that she’d let on to her father when she finally called her parents to explain why she’d not be visiting them in the Hamptons this weekend. She knew that whatever he thought of her buying a sixteenth century farm cottage in a village with barely any phone signal, she would feel peace the second she walked through the stable door. And if Jenny from down the lane had done the shopping as she promised she would, Emily would have no cause to leave the house for days. After the last few weeks… months… jeez, it was probably longer, Emily could not be happier about that. Home. Somewhere nobody gave a shit about who she was, who she’d worked with, what awards she had or hadn’t won. Somewhere she could dress how she liked, eat what she wanted, be the person she wanted to be without criticism or judgement. Nobody remotely cared and that was everything she needed right now.
Making her way across the glossy pavements, wet in the Cornish mizzle, she headed from Truro train station, down through town, over to the bus stop. She passed Mannings, the hotel Jackson always made them stop at if they ever visited Cornwall. She always wanted to be by the sea but he felt being in the city was better, even though he’d complain at how quiet it was compared to New York. There was no comparison she’d say. That’s why she liked it. He never got the point of Cornwall and couldn’t understand why she had wanted to buy a place there. He’d taken no interest in it and had never even bothered to visit. He wanted her in New York. He wanted her on hand for auditions, for networking, for smiling and being pretty whenever he needed her to be. She looked down at the clothes she had left their apartment in, twenty-four hours earlier. Elasticated waistbands just as advised. A loose-fitting shirt. Comfortable clothes for an uncomfortable appointment.
Her phone dinged with a message, her Apple Watch replicating the announcement. His name came up and she scrolled down to get rid of yet another desperate text. What was it now? Thirty? One just before the appointment she had ignored because she’d already started having doubts, then every hour after the fact. Thirty texts. Roughly the same number in emails. God knows how many phone calls, initially from his assistant before Emily’s absence was escalated to him calling directly himself. He’d probably also been the one to get the theatre company manager to call on the pretence of checking she was okay after the run had finished. The curtain had come down; the applause dissolved; when she could no longer hear the ringing in her ears, Emily could hear herself think. And whilst she didn’t know what she did want, she was pretty certain of what she didn’t want. Now, with an ocean between them, however long this journey had been, it was only a matter of time before she’d stop looking backwards and start feeling better. She hoped.
Head up. The statue of The Drummer in Lemon Quay in sight, Emily headed back towards the bus station. She marvelled at the drummer’s nakedness, the controversy having made it over to NY via social media, though now it seemed seagull poo pretty much protected his modesty. There was a new Primark open and some kind of food market set up in white tents across the pedestrian precinct. There was a big sign for ostrich burgers and Emily wondered when things had got so artisan.
‘Emily?’
She pulled up sharp at the sound of her name. ‘Emily Nance… is that you?’
In true professional style, Emily painted on the smile that went with signing autographs and taking selfies. The village might not give a damn who she was but she supposed it might be different in Truro, or maybe Falmouth. She spun round, ready to greet her fan. ‘Of course it’s me, hi!’ She tried to hide the American drawl she’d picked up, it had no place now she was home.
‘Oh my god! You haven’t changed a bit!’
Emily peered at the woman before her. She was pretty, a neatly cut bob. Her eyes sparkled and her smile was friendly. She didn’t have a camera phone or a pad and pen for signing. She had a white tunic on, a name badge pinned. Lauren. Lauren?
‘God, it’s been bloody years, hasn’t it! How many? Twenty? Actually, it must be more, what year did you go? Ninety-seven? Ninety-six? Jesus, how are we so old? Though you look amazing. How are you? How’s life? I heard you were in New York now! Did L.A. get a bit much? You’re still acting though, right? I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were doing it, though I don’t know why, you always said you’d be an actress.’ The woman pulled her into a hug. It wasn’t one of those actor type hugs that don’t feel like the person actually wanted to touch you, no, this was like a meant hug, with added squeeze and real-life affection. ‘How the bloody hell are you?’
And as the woman released Emily, her smile grew
familiar, her blonde hair was shorter now, but it was the same colour. It was as fine as it ever was. Her mouth was painted with the same shade of frosted pink lipstick she used to wear back when they were teenagers. Emily’s heart leaped. ‘Bloody hell, Lolly? Lolly! It never is… Lolly Teague?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s me!’
‘Lolly.’ Emily took a moment, unsure how to feel about such familiarity standing before her. It was what she’d come home for but now it was in front of her…
‘I know I’ve said it, but, god you look amazing. I saw that film, the one about the woman who climbed Everest on her own, which by the way was incredible! Did you actually have to climb Everest or was it all CGI? I said to my husband, “Surely she can’t have had to climb it.” We watched it at the Regal. It was amazing. HD and everything, your skin looked phenomenal and I was like, “Can that possibly be real, we are all so old now,” and look at you, here in Truro. Stood right before me in real life definition and,’ she peered at Emily’s skin, ‘yes, it bloody well is real.’
Her Best Friend's Secret: A gripping, emotional novel about love, life and the power of friendship Page 1
