You Can Trust Me Read Free

retreat from the friendship the four of us had enjoyed up until then. Over the past few years, our visits to each other’s homes have dwindled, though we still meet every few months for dinner or drinks out in Exeter.
    Becky joins in the conversation again as Paul explains how they’re having their house—a rambling Victorian mansion in Topsham—remodeled over the summer. Becky is a maths teacher at the local private school, petite and strikingly attractive, with a mane of glossy dark hair swept up in an elaborate bun and eyes as dark and sparkly as her husband’s. Paul, of course, works for Harbury Media, though as the company’s account director with special responsibility for digital marketing, he is one step lower down the pecking order than Will. Paul has a charming line in self-deprecation, stopping short of false modesty but insisting that his work, though challenging, is dull and that his wife is the one with the brains. On this occasion he is complimenting Becky on her understanding of the structural work being done to their house.
    â€œShe totally keeps the builders on their toes, he says, looking at his wife admiringly. “Brains and beauty.”
    She blushes and kisses him on the cheek. Instinctively, I glance around for Will. Paul and Becky got married the same year as Will and I did, though they seem blissfully happy, while Will and I managed only seven years before his affair. We’ve almost been married as many years since, but the second half has been harder. Right now it’s hard not to feel envious of a couple who are so obviously still in love.
    I ask Becky whether she’s looking forward to the end of term, coming up in the next couple of weeks, and the planned renovations to her and Paul’s house.
    â€œGod, yes,” she says, “but mainly because we’re moving out and letting the builders get on with it until September.”
    â€œWhere are you going to stay?” My eyes flit across the room to where Will is chatting with some of his work colleagues. I don’t know all the women in the group he’s talking to, but I’m certain none of them is Catrina.
    Becky launches into a description of her parents’ place in Spain, where she is heading the day after term ends.
    â€œOf course I’ll miss Paul,” she says, giving her husband an affectionate smile.
    â€œAnd I’ll miss you.” Paul turns to me and grimaces. “Thanks to work, I won’t be able to join her for ages”
    â€œOver a month.” Becky kisses his cheek. “Aw, sweetie.”
    I stare at them, trying to dispel the envy I’m feeling at the ease of their intimacy. Even in the good days, Will and I were never one of those couples who finish each other’s sentences.
    â€œSo where will you stay before you fly out to Becky?” I ask Paul.
    â€œOne of my mum’s places,” Paul explains. “She owns a few houses in the area.”
    I nod. I know very little about Paul’s mother. As a teenager, he had a falling out with her—and with his stepfather, whom he’d loathed. I’m aware they’re in touch, but it’s obvious Paul isn’t close to his mum, even now. Neither Leo nor Martha ever mention her, though I do know that Leo’s marriage to his first wife ended when Paul was very young, long before meeting Martha. Paul has never seemed bitter about that, maintaining with a wry smile that if he’d been married to his mother, he’d have left her too.
    We carry on talking and drinking for a few more minutes. Leo and Martha’s cat, Snowflake, a beautiful white Persian with blue eyes, stalks by, drawing many admiring glances. Will comes over and he and Paul start chatting about motorbikes, the shared passion that sparked their original friendship. Paul has, apparently, just bought a new Ducati. Will’s eyes widen as Paul tells him the exact model. I know he would love a bike himself. Will