I Know You

by Annabel Kantaria

  ‘Of course.’ As I say the words I spot the woman from last week in the blue jacket: Anna Jones. My heart skips.

  ‘I’m just going to register,’ I tell Simon, and head towards her. As I get close, I catch her eye and smile.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good. You?’

  ‘Yeah, good, thanks. I was just going to sign in. Have you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  We walk together over to Cath, where I watch her write her name. At least I can admit I know it now.

  Anna watches me write my name, too. ‘Taylor. That’s unusual,’ she says.

  ‘It’s American. I’m from the States.’ I want to add ‘obviously’ but sometimes people don’t pick up on my accent and, sometimes, those that do are quite hostile. ‘Just don’t hold it against me,’ I say.

  Anna laughs. ‘It’s okay. I lived there for a while.’

  ‘Really? Whereabouts? I’m from California!’

  ‘Houston. My husband works in oil and gas.’

  ‘How was that?’

  She shrugs and we both laugh.

  ‘I hear you,’ I say, then I flounder for something else to say. ‘So, do you live around here these days?’ is all I can come up with even though I already know the answer. And, as I say it, I realize what a stupid question it is. People aren’t going to travel far to come to a local walking club. But Anna smiles again.

  ‘Yes. But I moved here a couple of months ago. I’ve been all over the place. Most recently, Bristol. It’s down in the west,’ she adds.

  ‘So why Croydon?’ I ask.

  ‘I wanted to be closer to London. It ticked my boxes.’ Anna shrugs. ‘Good connections. I have friends in Brighton. And I like to be relatively close to an airport.’ She laughs. ‘I feel trapped otherwise. I blame it on my flying days.’

  I do a double-take. ‘You flew?’

  ‘Yes. Once upon a time.’

  ‘Oh my god. Me too. Delta. I quit because of this.’ I pat my bump. ‘And obviously moving here. Happy days!’

  ‘Yeah. Happy days,’ Anna echoes, then she nods at my bump. ‘How far are you?’

  ‘Thirty-two weeks.’

  She puts a hand to her own tummy. ‘I’m twenty.’

  ‘Congratulations!’ I say, and I feel as if Christmas has come: not only is this woman nice, she’s pregnant!

  ‘Thanks! Anyway, look,’ Anna says, her eyes suddenly looking past me. ‘Seems you’re needed.’ And I see Simon approaching with his gangly walk, head tilted to one side and a smile on his face.

  ‘Ready?’ he says, nodding towards the rest of the group where the first people have started to move off.

  Anna puts both hands up. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, ‘join us,’ but she’s already walking away, looking for someone else to talk to, and irritation towards Simon surges through me.

  ‘How was your week?’ he asks, and all I can think of is the connection I feel with Anna. How I can’t let her get away. Yet, as I watch, she wanders over to Polly, who seems to be without Bex, and the two of them chat for a minute before starting the walk together without a backward look at me. Am I jealous? Am I ever.

  I know what you read

  #throwbackthursday (#tbt) is your most-used hashtag. Did you know that? You really do love your throwback shots. But let me give you a friendly word of warning: so many throwbacks makes people think there’s nothing interesting about you now; that the only interesting things you did are in your past. You ought to think about your feed, sweetie-pie; think about how you come across to other people.

  Can you guess what your second-favourite hashtag is? It’s actually two, which, up until Friday last week, were tied in second place. #amreading and #nomnom. Go figure.

  We’re actually friends on Goodreads. Do you know that? Probably not. You just say yes to everyone who wants to follow you – never check them out; never check their own pages – you just assume they want to follow you because, well, you’re so fucking marvellous, who wouldn’t?

  And guess what? Every time you rate a book, I get an email. Right into my inbox – sometimes I have to pinch myself, you make my job so easy.

  But, dear god, I wish you would read something more interesting. I called you ‘Mainstream Meg’ for a while. Yet you go around telling everyone you have ‘eclectic’ taste; that you read ‘a bit of everything: biographies, non-fiction, romance, thrillers, self-help’. Why do you make out you’re so much better than everyone else?

  And yeah, I see you on Twitter, rapping with the book bloggers, Tweeting publishers and authors like you’re part of this literary circle when really, sweetie, I have to tell you they’ve no idea who the fuck you are. They don’t care. They’re not interested. They Retweet for PR, it’s a publicity thing; you’re doing their job for them. So here’s a tip: give it a rest, and go read some interesting books. Loser.

  Five

  I don’t remember what I spoke about with Simon that day at the park. I wonder if the hour passed quickly or slowly; we probably talked about the weather – the cold, dry snap had gone on longer than usual, as I recall. People were talking about it, desperate for rain; the reservoirs were empty, and there was talk of a hosepipe ban in the south that summer. I’m bound to have asked Simon if it was always that cold, and we probably spun that out for a good twenty minutes. I certainly didn’t know then what he did for a living; I was still under the impression that he cared for his dad full-time, since that was all he’d mentioned. It’s funny what people reveal to you; how they slowly unpeel themselves. What I do remember is that, as we headed back into the park at the end of the walk, I couldn’t wait to make a beeline for Anna.

  ‘Good walk?’ I ask, touching her arm so she spins around, surprised.

  ‘Oh, yes thanks. It’s good to get moving. I’d never be motivated to walk for an hour if it was just me alone. So, mission accomplished.’ She checks her FitBit. ‘Yes! Step count complete.’

  I ask what her goal is. Ten thousand, she says. That’s the figure that sticks in my mind anyway, but ten thousand is everyone’s goal, is it? Maybe I’m putting words into her mouth. Maybe it was more, or less. It doesn’t matter.

  ‘Do you usually make it?’ I ask, telling her that mine’s set on eight thousand, and that I struggle even with that.

  Anna sighs, a heavy sigh, as if the whole world’s conspiring to prevent her from reaching her step goal. ‘Not usually. Not unless I make an effort, like this. Which I guess is why I’m here. I hate the gym.’

  ‘Me too.’

  There’d been an awkward pause then. I suppose it was a crossroads moment when the friendship – or lack of friendship – could have gone either way and, to this day, I remember how desperate I was to stop her from leaving. Maybe there’s always a connection between those who’ve flown; those who’ve known the same excitement, fears and physical demands of constant air travel – a bond, I suppose, with our siblings of the skies. I remember scratching around for a way to keep Anna talking; clocking the plain gold band of her wedding ring, and wondering if I could ask something about her husband. What I really wanted was to ask for her phone number but it seemed too forward to ask for her contact details given we’d only exchanged a few sentences. But, even from that early on, I felt a connection with her, and I was always a good judge of character: it was one of my selling points. Already I knew she could be the friend I’d been searching for. I remember having the ridiculous idea that meeting her was like seeing food when you’ve been starving, only being asked to wait before you eat it.

  ‘See you next week!’ Simon calls from where I’ve left him a few feet away. He gives me a cheery little wave, his hand up by his face, and his smile some sort of silly munchkin-type thing.

  ‘Bye,’ I call back. ‘Have a good week!’

  ‘Right,’ Anna says. ‘I suppose I’d better get going.’

  ‘Would you like to grab a coffee?’ I blurt. ‘If you’ve got time?’

  She
doesn’t say yes as quickly as I’d like. I hold my breath while I watch conflicting thoughts move across her face, then finally she says, ‘I really should get going,’ and my heart literally hits my boots.

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  Perhaps she notices that my smile’s flat, because then she dithers, looks at her watch and says, ‘Oh, maybe I could come for a quick one.’

  ‘That’d be great!’ The words slip out of me in a gush of relief. ‘Do you know anywhere near here?’ she asks.

  I shake my head and we both laugh.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I’ve got my car, and I know how to get to the shopping centre. Shall we go there?’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  *

  We go to Costa. A ubiquitous chain that soon becomes a recurring part of our friendship; a constant. On that first day there are other choices, but Costa’s there, safe, reliable, consistent – and, even with the morning bustle, there are tables available. The central heating feels hot on my face after the cold of the park. We take cold bottles of freshly squeezed orange juice from the chiller.

  ‘I’m going to have a muffin, too,’ Anna says. ‘I’ve earned it. Oh my god, look at that one. Is that crumble on top?’

  She asks for the muffin at the counter then turns to me.

  ‘What I’m really craving is a milkshake, only I don’t think you’re supposed to have them when you’re pregnant. I don’t know if it’s an old wives’ thing or true – I read it in a Facebook mums-to-be group. Something to do with soft-scoop ice cream, I think.’

  ‘Wow, I didn’t know that. There’s so much to learn, isn’t there?’

  ‘You can say that again. I’d be lost without those pregnancy groups. Fountains of knowledge, they are.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m on a couple, too. There’s always someone, somewhere, who’s just been through what you’re about to go through, isn’t there?’

  ‘Have you ever tried those mothers’ morning things?’ Anna asks as we move over to a table. ‘You know, ones you see in the cafés?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I did give one a try.’ I give her a flat smile and widen my eyes, trying to look terrified. ‘Have you been to one?’

  ‘No. Why are you looking like that? What happened?’

  I laugh. ‘It wasn’t my thing. Let’s just say that. Twenty women all pushing their opinions on everyone else. Everyone’s better than the next person; everyone’s got to get one up on the next person. God, they’re so judgemental. You can count me out of that. I’d rather jump into a tank of piranhas!’ While I talk, Anna slices into the muffin and sets it up for a photo.

  ‘Yeah, same,’ she says as she holds the camera above the muffin and takes the picture. ‘Sorry. Instagram. Just a sec.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m just as bad.’

  I check my phone while she fiddles with her photo then she puts her phone down and leans back in her seat, her attention once more on me.

  ‘There, done. I can relax now. What were you saying?’

  ‘Umm… oh yeah, the online forums? They work better for me. You can ignore people there if they’re too annoying. Though, bar the odd one or two, they’re generally a helpful and supportive bunch. I got into it when I was trying to conceive. There are so many support groups for that.’

  ‘Did you have problems?’

  I sigh. ‘Not as such. I got pregnant all right: keeping them in was the problem.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Anna says.

  ‘It’s okay. But I did become a little obsessed for a while when I thought it would never happen.’ I pat my belly. ‘But we’re here now, aren’t we? And that’s all that matters.’

  ‘I had the opposite. This bubba wasn’t planned, if I’m honest. My husband – Rob – he works in Qatar.’ She pauses. ‘I’m not really sure how it happened.’ She puts her fingertip into a little puddle of condensation that’s dripped off her juice bottle, and traces out the letter ‘R’ with her nail. Then she looks up at me and smiles. ‘But it is what it is, I guess.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  We smile, no words needed, as the gossamer veil of friendship falls over us, swathes us, binds us.

  ‘How often does Rob come home?’ I ask, trying out the name on my tongue; a name I hope will soon be rolling off it: Anna ‘n’ Rob’, Rob ‘n’ Anna – maybe our new best friends.

  ‘He tries to come for a few days every four to six weeks but it’s not always possible, and the flights aren’t cheap. You can’t EasyJet back from Qatar.’ She smiles.

  ‘It can’t be easy. Especially pregnant.’

  She sighs. ‘It has its pros and cons. And I take bump photos for him – you know, to show him how it’s going; keep him feeling connected.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say. ‘What a lovely idea. You’re not planning to move there yourself?’

  She gives me a look that says ‘over my dead body’. ‘No point,’ she says. ‘It’s only a one-year contract.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  There’s a silence for a minute and I take a sip of juice, wondering what to talk about next. I don’t want her to think I’m boring. I’m worrying about this when Anna speaks again.

  ‘So, you seem to have made a friend.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That bloke you walked with? He seems to like you.’

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘You don’t half attract them.’

  I squint at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Puppy-dog eyes.’ Anna takes a sip of orange juice, raising an eyebrow at me as she does.

  ‘What? The guy’s pushing fifty and lives with his father.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he can’t have puppy-dog eyes,’ Anna says.

  ‘I’m pregnant!’

  ‘It floats some people’s boats.’ She’s laughing at me now. The pair of us are laughing like real friends and I love it.

  I tut. ‘Oh stop, that’s disgusting.’

  ‘Ooh,’ says Anna, holding out both hands in front of her, fingers splayed, and licks her lips, ‘I love pregnant bellies… can I have a feel?’

  ‘Shut up!’ I ball up a napkin and throw it at her and we both laugh.

  ‘Do you ever get that?’ she asks. ‘People asking to feel your belly?’

  ‘Yeah, sometimes. And they can F right off or I’ll put their feely fingers where the sun don’t shine,’ I say in a London accent.

  Anna laughs, then finishes her juice and pushes the cup to the side. ‘Right,’ she says, ‘It’s been lovely chatting but I guess I really should get going. There’s a mountain of work at home with my name on it.’

  She sees my surprise and I kick myself for assuming that everyone who walks in the park in the daytime doesn’t work.

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m an indexer and proofreader. I do a bit of copy-editing, too. Freelance stuff. Maybe write the odd bit of below-the-line copy for advertising.’

  ‘Wow. It must be nice to be able to work from home. I’d love that. It’s the perfect solution.’

  In my head, a little movie plays of me dandling the baby in one hand while knocking off some professional paid job on a fancy laptop, and it’s at this point that I realize that it doesn’t have to be flying or nothing. That if I worked, I’d meet people; have colleagues, friends. I’d be valued for doing more than keeping house. Suddenly I’m flooded with the feeling that the world’s my oyster; that I could retrain to do anything I like.

  ‘Is there something you could do at home?’ Anna asks as if she’s followed my train of thought.

  My brain moves at lightning speed: Anna’s recently moved… I wonder if she needs some help. ‘I like interior design,’ I say carefully. ‘Maybe I could get a qualification or something, and give that a try?’

  ‘Fantastic.’ Anna laughs. ‘God, I could really do with an interior designer right now.’

  Bingo. ‘Really?’

  ‘Bloody hell, yes,’ Anna says. ‘Getting the house sorted is driving me crazy. I don’t have a clue with stuff like that. Wher
e to put things, how to pull everything together. It’s like I’m interiors-dyslexic. Rob’s not bad but he’s obviously not here.’

  ‘I could help you if you like.’ I smile, trying not to look too keen. ‘It’d be great experience.’

  ‘Could you really?’ Anna looks so happy.

  ‘Yes!’ I say. ‘I’d love to. Honestly.’

  ‘Okay,’ she shrugs. ‘If you’re sure, why don’t you come over on Friday?’ She names a street. ‘Give me your number and I’ll message to confirm.’

  I give myself a mental high-five: nicely done, Tay. Nicely done.

  I know how you met

  On a flight. Because it had to be something different, didn’t it? Something special.

  New York to London. BA176. Thirty-one flights a day to choose from and you end up on the same one; not just on the same flight, but sat next to him.

  It must be fate. How sweet.

  Six hours and fifty-five minutes. Neither of you can sleep. A couple of movies? A drink or two. Something to eat. Is it long enough to get to know someone? To fall in love?

  I know, I know – but he thinks it is.

  From the moment you sit down, he’s captivated.

  He’s so easy, he makes me want to puke. I can see it now. The way you slip your neat little arse into the seat. What are you wearing? Skinny jeans maybe. Flat pumps. A t-shirt showing off your tits. Hair tied up. Lip gloss. You have a pashmina: of course you have a pashmina, an expensive one at that. You wriggle yourself back in your seat, look for the seat belt and touch his hand by accident. ‘Sorry!’ You smile at him – and him, he’s such a sucker.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. He nods and gurns a smile like a puppet and you giggle. Does he give you that line about being a nervous flyer? Is that why you tell him how much you fly? He picks up the safety card from the seat pocket and says something really dumb like, ‘Bet you know this off by heart!’ and you laugh and say, ‘Actually, I wrote it.’ ‘Really?’ he asks and you laugh, like – you really believed that?