I had written a draft of my second novel  My Very Best Friend before the course but after discussing it in seminars with one of the Writers-in-Residence I made substantial changes to it.

The novel opens in 1990 with the death of Simon Prentice. Among the mourners at his funeral are his sister Ros, his best friend Andrew (Ros’s ex-husband) and two women, Carla and Becky with whom both Simon and Andrew had relationships. The story moves back in time and covers the years up to Simon’s death, with all four main characters sharing the narration.

Just before his death, Simon reveals the secret, known only to him and Ros, which has hung like a dark shadow over their subsequent lives and the lives of those who became closely involved with them.

One

1992

Simon Prentice is dead.

Ros rang Andrew soon after seven.

'I'm afraid it's bad news,' she said.

'Simon?'

'He had a heart attack early this morning. Becky's just rung me.'

'Is he......?

Andrew couldn't bring himself to say the word. Grandparents died.

Old people. Soldiers. Not Simon.

'I'm afraid so.'

'I'd have given him a couple of years more.'

'I'll have to make the funeral arrangements,' Ros said. 'I'm his sister. Next

of kin. You'll give a eulogy, of course.'

Her voice was flat, unemotional. Usually she loved making arrangements.

'I'll talk to you later.' Andrew said.

The kettle boiled. Andrew's partner Vanessa put the teapot and two cups

on the table. She held her arms out to him.

'I'm sorry,' she said.

Over breakfast he said, 'Will you come to come to the funeral? It'll be next

week some time, I expect.'

Vanessa's face registered conflict, doubt.

'Do you want me to?'

'Up to you. You only met Simon once.'

'I'm booked in for that conference next week, but I could.....'

He slowly poured cereal into a bowl.

'You go to the conference,' he said.

'You don't mind?'

'Of course not,' he said.

At the back of the flat where Andrew and Vanessa lived there was a small park. He sat on a bench. It was early October; the leaves were dropping but the sun was still warm. Two teenage girls were having a game of tennis, punctuated by screams and bursts of laughter. Children were on swings and slides, their mothers watching them, chatting. A boy went by on a skateboard.

A woman with surgical bandages on both legs collapsed on to the seat beside Andrew, gasping for breath. She produced a packet of tissues from her handbag and passed it to him.

‘My best friend’s died.' he said.

‘How old was he?‘

‘Fifty-four.‘

‘No age.‘

They sat in silence for a while, then she turned to him and said in a dispassionate tone, ‘My son was killed in a motorbike crash last year.. My husband never got over it. He died a few months later. I keep going. What else can you do?'

'Thanks for the tissues,' Andrew said.

He walked into town and along the beach. The tide had gone out leaving a wide swathe of clean furrowed sand. He was alone apart from a few dog-walkers and the hunched form of a beachcomber, his machine buzzing like an angry wasp.

A eulogy for Simon. Where to begin?

“Simon Prentice was my best friend for thirty-five years. He could be argumentative, dogmatic, intolerant but he was also unswervingly loyal, supportive, generous, warm hearted, funny.......

Andrew turned and walked back towards the pavilion then crossed the road and went back up the main street.

I can hardly believe that I have lost my best friend, Simon Prentice........

The coffee bar was almost empty; the early breakfasters had gone and it was not yet time for shoppers taking a break for coffee. Andrew's table looked out on to the street. Autumn holiday makers mingled with shoppers and two car drivers were arguing over a parking space. Simon had died but life went on. Andrew thought that the world ought to stop for a few minutes out of respect. It didn't, of course. I keep going. What else can you do?