Envy of the Best Friend
Amy and Charlottes friendship, you could say, began before they even learned to pronounce Peppa Pig. Their mothers had bonded over milky tea and buggies in the playground, and the girls quickly forged a sisterhood in the sandpitarguing over buckets and spades, sulking, making up, sharing the same questionable-looking ice lolly. Secrets about a first blush in Year 5 to adolescent catastrophes (mostly spots and the tragedy of strict parents) were all shared between them. Their closeness was so legendary, people often doubted the existence of one without the other.
As children, differences were trivial: matching grazed knees daubed with germolene and identical jeans their mums grabbed during a Saturday haul at Primark. But by sixteen, fault lines had emerged.
Amy bloomed as if someone was sneaking Miracle-Gro into her Weetabix. Tall, willowy, with a mane of rich chestnut hair her ever-fashionable mother permitted her to dye chocolate brown, and the sort of perfect skin that paid no heed to hormones or budget beauty products. Her parents indulged her, seeing nothing sinful in a splurge for a high-street dress or designer mascara.
Charlotte, meanwhile, was forever her faded background. Her mother, a practical Glaswegian with Opinions, insisted fine straw-like hair were wasted on anything but a bob. Charlottes dad, a factory foreman from Sheffield, rolled his eyes at the mere mention of makeup: Slaps the mark of a hussy, my girl will have brains. A trip to Boots for skin care was a fantasy; A rinse with cold water will do. Charlottes hair remained stubby, her wardrobe baggy, and her face an unfortunate battlefield with the ghosts of squeezed spots.
Seventeen and a half, armed with Vogue wisdom, Amy settled on a mission. Every girls got an inner stunner; we just need to dig her out, she declared, dumping her hairdryer on Charlottes bed. Thirty minutes in, Amys hands and a cheap LOréal kit had transformed Charlottes sad bob into a rebellious faux-hawk. She offered her some budget skincare, and unearthed from her own wardrobe a simple black turtleneck and skinny jeans. For the first time, Charlotte glimpsed a stranger in the mirror: she had, horror of horrors, long legs and striking grey eyes. Who knew?
Look at you! Amy beamed, Youre a right little treat.
Charlotte blushed to her roots. Little treat. It landed like a backhander.
They both got into uni togetherEconomics. Parental grip loosened, and Charlotte finally exhaled. She grew her hair, mastered the smoky eye, swapped sack knits for softer styles. Her own mousy hair was sent packing in favour of a warm copper. Boys noticed. Well… two noticed, but it was a start.
Still, the curse of the less pretty friend stuck like old chewing gum to her shoe. She wasnt adored, just a bit of a bargain for the blokes who realised Amy was way above their station. Amy was a moth to every flameflitting, glowing, collecting admirers in what looked like some endless X Factor audition: whod bring the biggest bouquet, treat her to the flashiest cappuccino, make her laugh loudest. She lapped it up gracefully, an empress in battered Converse.
Charlotte trained herself to swallow envy as best as she could, but it was like choking down a dry Rich Tea. She longed, just once, for the gaze Amy received. The power! The sparkle! Instead, she hoarded the rare compliments and Amys constant companionshipher only safe havenviciously weeding out jealous thoughts like dandelions on the lawn.
Change arrived one September evening in second year, when two third-years from Journalism appeared in their crowd. Mark, all tall and clever with those earnest, bespectacled eyes; and his mate Dan, a noisy joker. For Amy and Mark, chemistry fizzled like cider at a village fête. Their first glance, and the room dissolved around them.
Dan wasnt subtle. He started in on Charlotte, all banter and gentle teasing. Unfortunately, Charlottes already jealously-inclined heart signed straight over to Marks account, irrevocably and at a loss.
Every group outing became an ordeal of preparation. Flawless foundation, her one come-hither dress, stilettos that felt like medieval torture.
You showed up like that for Dan? Amy giggled, tactless as ever, fiddling with the zip at Charlottes back. Honestly, hed adore you in joggers and a hoodie!
Charlotte would fake a smile, while thinking, Oh, if only you knew, you foolthese heels are for the scholar, not the clown.
She could look goodtruthfully, very goodbut even at full throttle, Charlotte was only ever pretty nice; Amy, on the other hand, could show up in faded trackies and a messy bun and still hijack every male gaze in the pub. Charlotte nursed her bitterness quietly.
Every casual aside Mark made, Charlotte over-analysed for some whisper of deeper meaning. How did you find the lecture on macroeconomics?surely an attempt at connection! His vague, Nice handbag, became, in her addled head, the confession of burning affection. Reason piped upno, hes just polite. He only sees Amy.
It fizzled with Danhe twigged quickly that Charlottes interest was more lets play Scrabble than come-hither, and soon moved on to a first-year with infinitely more pep.
Bit of a shame, Amy sighed, draining yet another Diet Coke as they shared a pizza in the SUs greasiest corner. Hes hilarious, reliable. You two made a decent pair.
As if, Charlotte snorted. Hes as surface as your Mark. Wants the usualfrolic and forget. Saw straight through him.
Amy looked wounded, shoving her pizza aside. Marks not like that. Dont say that. With mehes different.
Oh, do behave, Charlotte retorted, mustering her best eye roll. Well see. Boys are all the same.
But inside, ugly hope took root. She prayed Mark would turn out to be a heel, break Amys heart, dim that dazzling light, so maybe Charlotte could finally be noticed for her devotion.
Like all lovers, Amy and Mark quarrelled. Jealousy, busyness, petty rows. And each time, Charlotte held her breath, hoping this was itthe final bust-up. But Mark was made of firmer stuffeach argument brought a new grand gesture: her favourite truffles, midnight drives to old airfields to watch the stars. He poured himself in.
Just putting on a show, Charlotte whispered, feigning concern, when Amy glowed over a new message from him. So youll lower your guard andpow!hell betray you. Cant stand manipulators.
Give over, Lottie, Amy winced. You dont even know him.
Hes keeping you as his prize, Charlotte snapped, voice trembling, hating every syllable not for being untrue but for being truejust not about her. Hell have a girl in every town. Youre just his trophy.
Amy, baffled, tried to defend him, but Charlotte pressed on. Remember he said about the London internship? Hes being headhunted! Doesnt it bother you? Hes about to up sticks and move two hundred milesjust like that.
Its a brilliant opportunity! Amy insisted. Once Ive finished my degree, Ill join him. We agreed. It makes sense.
Charlotte just shrugged, dosing on doubt. It worked sometimesAmy would interrogate, get moody, spark a new row. But Mark, perversely, seemed to thrive on these hurdleshis love would grow stronger each storm.
Eventually Mark did leave. The offer was too good: an internship at a big media firm in London, with real prospects. He saw their future together, wanted to lay the best foundations. Such things just didnt come up in their Midlands town.
Ill miss you stupidly, Amy sobbed, clutching his jacket the night before he left. Two-hour train journey, pricey tickets
Ill come back every weekend, he whispered, kissing her wet eyelids. Ill save up for our own nest. Wait for me, love.
Off he went. Amy began her vigil. Charlottes life, oddly, improved. No longer seeing Mark every day, her bitterness faded, the envy cooled to a dull ember. She even embarked on a little romance with a drowsy postgrad named Ben.
And then the storm broke. Amy, pale as her mothers Sunday tablecloths, dropped the bomb: she was pregnant. Just a few weeks along.
You mustnt keep it, Charlotte said flatly. Marks ambitious, hell resent you for tripping him up. A baby will ruin everything.
But Amy called Mark anyway. He panicked for two minutes, then pulled himself together. The solution: tell the parents, Amy to join him post-birth, and meanwhile, up the savings and look at London rentals.
Charlottes first reaction: a blunt, gutting pain. He hadnt runhed accepted it. The love was real. And the baby, their new bond, would tie him to Amy forever. Charlottes remaining hopes crumbled, leaving only an angry, blind urge to break them up at any cost.
Amy and Marks life became a game of waiting. They spoke less; Mark was snowed under with work, seizing every opportunity for overtime. Sometimes his calls came so late that Amy, exhausted with morning sickness, had already fallen asleep. She tried to be understanding.
Charlotte, instead, poured petrol on every anxiety.
Has your fiancé gone AWOL again? shed ask, dripping with fake sympathy. Does he even know what youre going through? Some father! He cant even call.
Pregnant Amy, glowing and curvier, was still luminous. Men still noticed. The boldest was Paul, a mate of one of their friends. Even knowing her situation and Mark, he hung around as a platonic chauffeur and brilliant bag-carrier.
Thats a proper man, Charlotte would intone, lolling on Amys bed. Hes there for you, looks after you. Mark wouldnt do that.
One day, Paul, slightly carried away by the role, tried an extra-long, meaningful hug with Amy. She stepped back and told him off. Charlotte, lurking nearby with her phone, snapped a perfectly timed pic. Viewed at the right angle, it looked like an embracea mutual one.
Delete that now, Amy demanded, flushed with outrage.
Absolutely, Charlotte nodded, already filing it under evidence in her mental scrapbook.
The collection grew. She orchestrated outingspicnics, cafesalways with Paul in tow, always snapping away. The photos told the perfect story: heavily pregnant woman, abandoned by fiancé, comforted by a loyal friend.
The time for the coup de grâce arrived. Charlotte claimed she had to rush off to Londona cousins nasty car accident.
“Youll see my runaway?” asked Amy, eyes heavy and hopeful. “Check up on him?”
“Definitely,” Charlotte promised. “Ill find out the truth. If hes lying, youll be the first to know.”
She set off perfectly prepped: salon-styled hair, simple dress, makeup engineered for maximum sympathetic effect. Without Amy’s blinding presence, Charlotte finally stole the attention shed always craved.
Mark, exhausted and homesick, greeted her warmly. She was the piece of his old world, the world with Amy. Over dinner, Charlotte assumed her most tragic expression.
“Mark, I dont know how to say this but you deserve the truth. You cant be a fool.”
She unspooled her spidery web: since his departure, Amy had let herself go, encouraged all the male attention, especially from Paul. One by one, she scrolled through the photossmiling, sitting next to Paul, their shoulders nearly touching.
“Amy never mentioned anyone called Paul,” Mark murmured, hurt and disbelief pouring onto his plate.
“Of course not,” Charlotte sighed, placing a delicate hand on his sleeve. “Its serious. Im telling you because I care. Shes my sister, but you deserve to know if youre being betrayed…”
Charlotte was impeccablethe concerned confessor. Lonely in London, overtired, Marks trust shifted. How could Charlotte, loyal Charlotte, invent such a lie?
He wanted, immediately, to ring Amy, rage, demand answers. Charlotte stopped him.
“Wait. Dont do anything in anger. Youll say something you cant take back. See if she calls you first, notice her reaction.”
That evening at her hotel, Charlotte dialed Amy.
“Amy, I just I dont know how to say this,” voice trembling as if holding back sobs. “Mark hes with someone else here.”
“What?” Amys gasp was strangled.
“He says hes working? Sweetheart, he just cant talk when shes there! Ive seen them together Theyre close, Amy.”
When Amy, in tears, threatened to call Mark, Charlotte advised: “Wait, dont debase yourself.”
The next day, Amy cracked and rang. Mark, burning with new suspicion and Charlottes advice ringing in his ears, saw her name and let it ring out. No answer. To Amy, that silence confirmed the worst.
Charlottes plan ticked along like a Swiss watch. The following day, Charlotte returned to Marks flat, eyes puffy.
“Shes had an abortion, Mark,” she whispered, inner triumph carefully disguised in her voice. “Shes moved in with Paul. Said the baby was a mistake, and youre just a shadow from her past.”
Simultaneously, she called Paul, introduced herself as Amys best friend, and sobbed, “If Mark calls, please protect her. She cant cope with him right now.” Paul, instinctively defensive of Amy, promised.
So when Mark finally rang, Paul answered, voice heavy and hostile:
“Dont call again, mate. You did enough. Leave her alone.”
Charlotte was therehugging Mark silently as he sat hunched on the edge of the bed, head in hands. She made tea, whispered comfort, nursed him. She was, in short, the epitome of patience and support. And she was available, while the woman he loved had allegedly betrayed him.
He didnt love Charlotte. Mostly, he was aching, confused, angry. But her persistent kindness, her adoration, soothed him. Physical intimacy became a sort of anaestheticrough, empty, but distracting. A week later, evicted from her hotel, Charlotte asked to crash and never left.
She withdrew from uni, found an office manager job nearby. Outwardly, she mourned with decorum; inside, she was already planning the wedding.
Amy, meanwhile, faced loneliness and a growing bump. Paul was there, but strictly as a friend. She was sure Mark had fled responsibility, with an invented affair to ease his guilty conscience. Worst of all, no word about the baby. Not a text, not a call.
One tearful evening, she confessed it to Charlotte by phone. Already living with Mark, Charlotte sighed heavily.
“He said the baby is your problem, Amy. He wants nothing to do with it. Sorry to be blunt, but you need to accept it.”
Amy did. Who could doubt your best friend in the worldthe one closest to the source?
Mark and Charlotte soon gave notice at the registry office. The wedding would be small, in a month. Mark moved like a zombie, ordering Charlotte not to tell a soul, especially mutual friendshe dreaded questions, and more than anything, hearing Amys name.
But he couldnt help pouring it all out to Dan over pints. Dan was stunned, wished him luck, then (blame lager and nostalgia) texted Amy: Oi. Marks marrying Charlotte. Bet you didnt know.
For Amy, this was the final twist of the knife. She sobbed for a whole day. Shed always suspected some ghastly error; this confirmed it. He hadnt just abandoned herhed done it to marry the woman she trusted most.
Paul, summoned to mop up the tears, finally pieced together the clues: it all fit too conveniently, and Charlotte benefited too well. He gently voiced his suspicion, but Amy, face buried in a cushion, just shook her head.
“Whats the point, Paul? Theyre together. He chose her. They both betrayed me. Doesnt matter why.”
Paul, however, wasnt ready to give up. He truly caredenough to fight for her happiness. He got Marks number and started calling. Mark ignored it, until one night Paul got through.
“You absolute piece of work,” Paul let rip. “Youre off living it up while Amys here alone, carrying your kid! Care to ask if shes alive or how shes feeling? Or just too busy climbing the ladder?!”
Mark nearly hung up, but carrying your kid stuck and twisted.
“What kid?” he asked coldly. “Shes she had an”
A heavy pause.
“Had what? An abortion? You thick git. Shes nearly five months! Cries herself to sleep thinking youre a coward who ran out. Turns out, youre just an idiot!”
The conversation lasted another forty minutesforty minutes of horror, realisation, and volcanic rage focused on one person. Mark collapsed into a heap when it ended. The flat was filled with Charlottes thingshe felt sick.
He waited for Charlotte to return home: bags, smiles, chattering about dinner. He didnt move from the armchair.
“Pack your bags,” he said, voice dead cold. “Leave. Now.”
She froze, shopping tumbling from her hands.
“Mark? Whats happened?”
“Ive spoken to Paul. I know it all. Every rotten, poisonous move. Go.”
She went pale, lips trembling, tears appearing.
“Mark, Ilet me explain! I always loved you! You must have felt it”
He winced as if shed bitten him.
“Dont touch me. You make my skin crawl. Youre vile, inside and out. Amy was the sun and you a shabby shadow, thinking blocking out her light would make you special. But a shadow without light is just dirt. Leave.”
Every word hit home, smashing her fake confidence. She wailed, hysteria now genuine.
“But where should I go? Its night!”
“Anywhere. Sleep in the street for all I care.”
Charlotte found herself outside with a hastily stuffed suitcase, mascara streaking her cheeks. Yet even now, what she felt wasnt remorse but overwhelming furyat Mark, Amy, Paul, the whole world for not giving her the best bit once more. She huddled on the cold stone steps and wept.
Mark, meanwhile, packed a sports bag as his hands shook. He booked the first train north, leaving in a few hours. He rang Amy. Hearing her wary, quiet voice nearly broke him.
“Amy Its me. Please, dont hang up.”
“What do you want?” Her voice was flat, all the music and softness gone. “To send me your wedding invitation?”
“She was never my fiancée. None of it was real. Charlotte liedabsolutely everything. About the abortion, about Paul. I I was a blind fool.”
Long silence. Then a thin, shaky breath.
“Why tell me now, Mark? To soothe your guilt? It doesnt help. The worst is, now even if youre telling the truth, I dont care. Im too tired to care. Just leave me alone.”
“I cant. Im coming up. Have to see you, explain face to face.”
“I dont want you to. I dont want your explanations, or your face. Disappear, as you already did.”
She hung up.
Amy lay in the dark, hand on her growing bump. If Mark was telling the truth what had Charlotte done? Memories flashed by, odd coincidences and Charlottes relentless disparaging of Mark. That photo with Paul had she deleted it? She felt a fresh, deeper painthis wasnt just betrayal, this was sabotage by her closest friend.
She didnt want Mark to come. If she saw him now, shed shatterlove, pain, resentment, and horror all at once.
Morning. A knock at the door. Insistent. Then thumping, and Paul shouting,
“Amy! Come on, its me! Open up!”
He barrelled in, panting.
“Hes on his way! I spoke to him last night, right? He knows everything! Charlotte set it all upevery photo, every story. It was her plan!”
Amy listened wordlessly, slumping at the kitchen table.
“So what?” she asked quietly. “He knows. Great. He called and apologised. What difference does it make? We cant just go back to before, not after all this. He thought Id do that to our to you, Paul. To our baby.”
Paul went quietjustice done, but not mended. Watching her, he realised: this wound needed more than truth.
“You dont need to forgive, but at least let him explain. Not on the phonein person. For your sake, and”
He nodded at her bump.
Amy closed her eyes. For the baby. That was her only anchor now.
Mark arrived at dusk, holding a battered sports bag, unsure whether to knock. He tapped, slowly then louder.
Silence. He leant his head on the wood.
“Amy please. I know youre there. Ill wait.”
Eventually, the latch turned. She opened the door a crack. Her facepaler, swollen, hollow-eyed.
He didnt wait for an invitation; just gently pushed inside. In the corridor, face to face. His hands hovered, then dropped.
“I” he began, but words failed. “Im so sorry. I didnt come for forgiveness. I cant earn that. Im here because Im the worlds biggest idiot. I believed her lies because because I was scared you could ever stop loving me.”
He choked, unable to look away. Amy stared past him, eventually focusing on his chest.
“Did she live with you?” she asked, voice barely a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Were you together?”
He froze, then nodded.
“Yes. But it meant nothing to me, just something to numb the pain. Like vodka. I hardly remember. It was desperate and empty.”
“Enough,” she interrupted, closing her eyes. “I dont want the details.”
Stepping back, arms hugging herself for warmth.
“You know the worst part?” Her voice wobbled. “I believed her, too. When she span the stories about you, I called you all sorts and sobbed about what a swine you were. Because we trusted her like no one else. She used that, and its terrifying.”
She braved his gaze.
“So now what, Mark? After all this mess, this shadow between us?”
“It cant be like it was,” he answered, his voice strong. “But if youll let me, Ill move here. Give up my job. Sleep on the sofa in halls. Ill take you to appointments, carry your bags, listen to you hate me. Ill stay, because without youand our childnothing else makes sense.”
She said nothing, just disappeared into her room, leaving him stranded in the hall. After a moment, she returned with a duvet and pillow.
“Sofa folds out,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Ive got the midwife at ten tomorrow. You can come, if you like. For nowlet me sleep.”
Mark took his pillow like hed won gold. No hugs, no tearsjust hope.
Life, somehow, resumed. Mark quit his job, managed some remote freelance work. Found a fill-in at the local paper. Drove Amy to appointments, shops, wherever.
The early days, they barely spokejust functional sentences. Salt, please, We need vitamins. Charlottes name was banished, a curse.
One evening, halfway through a pointless series, Amy blurted, without looking up,
“So, what exactly did she say to you? How did she sell it?”
Mark started, then recounted: She started carefulAmy is lonely, spends time with Paul. Then said youd grown close. Showed the photos. When I was reeling, she said youd had an abortion, then showed that hugging shot. Then called Paul and begged him to keep you away from my angry calls.”
Amy nodded, not looking away from the TV.
“Effective. She always was clever, only I never thought shed use it for evil.”
She paused.
“And when you found out, what did you say?”
Marks fists clenched.
“Called her a monster. A parasite. Said shed always been a shadow next to you.”
Amy shut her eyes.
“Harsh.”
“She deserved it.”
“Maybe. Doesnt make it easier. I always thought she just wanted to be youturns out, she wanted me gone.”
“None of this is your fault,” Mark replied firmly. “You were her sister in every way but blood. She did this alone. No one is responsible for anothers envy.”
Time trickled on. Slowly, future-orientated talk re-emergedMarks job search, rearranging the second bedroom into a nursery, baby names. Conversations were careful, as if crossing spilled milk, but conversations nonetheless.
One afternoon, Amy received a text from an unknown number: Sorry. Ive hurt you so much. I destroyed everything I cherished most. Just know that.
She showed Mark. He frowned.
“Delete it. Dont reply. She needs to believe youre suffering and thinking about her.”
“What if shes genuinely sorry?” Amy whispered.
“Shes only sorry she got caught,” Mark replied with certainty. “Had it worked, shed be in your place now, smug and wearing white. Remorse isnt in her.”
Amy sighed and deleted the message. And she knewhe was right, and that truth cut deep.
Eventually, they got marriedno grand affair, just parents and a couple of friends. Paul stood by Amy, bringing his sensible new girlfriend. Cake, a toastMay the truth always trump lies, and may your family be the strongest of allfrom Paul. Amy managed her first real smile in months.
A month later, they movednot to London, but a larger nearby city where Mark found proper work. Rented a modest two-bed.
The labour was rough24 hours of agony, with Mark holding her hand, mopping her brow, whispering love and nonsense. When their daughter emerged, shrieking but perfectdark fuzz on her headMark wept so hard the nurses offered him a put-the-kettle-on platitude. They named her Harriet. Hattie.
Charlotte vanishedsocials wiped, surname changed, rumoured to have moved south, seeking a new start. Sometimes, especially during long nights, Amy would shudder to imagine what might have happened if not for Pauls practical brain. Without him, they might have spent a lifetime despising each other, all thanks to a friend who was always there.
When Hattie was six months old, squealing at pigeons in the park, Amy said softly,
“You know, I think I finally get it. Charlotte didnt take our love from usshe tested its strength. What she broke, she broke. What endured, well maybe thats what was real all along.”
Mark slung an arm round her shoulders, pulling her in. Harriet gurgled in her pram between them, and there, in the English sunshine, all was (for once) well.
