I Know You

by Annabel Kantaria

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Then the sofa really looks like it should go there,’ I say, pointing where it currently is, ‘and I had mine there for, like, forever but if it’s there the light from the window means you always have to close the curtains to watch TV. Not an issue if you only watch it at night, but if you’re partial to a little daytime TV – though you probably aren’t since you work,’ I look at Anna, suddenly embarrassed, ‘then it’s better to put the sofa here.’ I point to the mid-section of the long room. ‘You can create a divide if you put the bookcase behind it so it backs onto it. What do you think?’

  Anna’s shaking her head with a big smile on her face. ‘It sounds amazing. Shall we give it a go?’

  Eight

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask when we’ve finished moving the furniture. I’m standing with my hands on my hips, still slightly out of breath from all the exertion, and instinctively I arch my back gently, my hand on my bump, to stretch it out. It’s odd to see a room that looks like ours, with furniture in the same position as ours, but with such different pieces. Nothing of Anna and Rob’s actually matches; there’s no unifying theme. A lot of it looks like it might have come from second-hand shops or have been passed down from friends or family. It’s not a problem, though. If Anna wants, I can easily pull it together with soft furnishings and accessories.

  ‘It’s awkward because it’s such a long, thin room,’ I say, ‘but it works like this. If you want it even more streamlined and can stretch to it, a flat-screen TV fixed to the wall will save you floor space. We have one. It just means the room’s less cluttered.’ I look around for my coffee and take a sip, grimace and put it back down.

  ‘Gone cold?’ Anna asks. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

  ‘Some water would be great, thanks.’ I flop onto the sofa, suddenly aware of how physically worn out I am. It’s only half eleven – too early for lunch – but I don’t want the day to end now. I’m looking forward to going out for lunch with her.

  ‘Do you want me to help with anything else?’ I ask when Anna returns with the water.

  ‘Umm.’ She frowns. ‘I know. Could you help me decide where to put my pictures? I think they’re in this box…’ She opens a box and pulls out three or four framed prints. They’re pretty nondescript and I’m kicking myself for being a snob about them when Anna sighs. She’s holding one out at arm’s length. It’s a stylized picture of some colourful flowers that I know was from Ikea ten or more years ago.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Anna says. ‘They’re a bit tired, aren’t they? We’ve had them for years. They were mine before we got married. Maybe it’s time for something new.’

  ‘It’s up to you.’ I pause, aware that I mustn’t come across as desperate. ‘The sales are on at the moment…’ I cock my head. ‘If you fancy doing a bit of shopping, I’d be happy to come and help you choose?’

  Anna smiles. ‘Really? You wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘Absolutely! I love shopping. Even better when it’s not my money! When do you want to go? This afternoon?’ She looks taken aback and I suddenly think I’ve been too forward. ‘Unless you have something planned?’

  ‘No. I… no, that’s fine.’

  ‘Okay. Great!’ Lunch! Shopping! ‘So,’ I rub my hands together. ‘What about upstairs? Do you need any help there?’

  She hesitates for a beat, which stretches, then she says, ‘Sure. Come and have a look.’

  I follow Anna up the narrow stairs. The master bedrooms aren’t big in these houses but Anna and Rob’s seems more spacious than ours. It takes me a minute to figure out why: our king-sized bed takes up most of the available floor space, but Anna’s standard double leaves more carpet space. Apart from two small bedside tables, it’s the only piece of furniture in the room.

  ‘It’s the same as mine,’ I tell her. ‘If you just turn the bed this way…’ I mime it with my arms, ‘then you’ll open up this area, which means you get better access to the wardrobes and can use this area here. Shall we?’

  Pushing and pulling, we move the bed and stand back, pleased with our work.

  ‘It looks great. Thank you,’ Anna says. She follows my eyes, which are looking at a photo on the bedside table. It’s of her and the man I saw on Instagram.

  ‘Is that Rob?’ I ask.

  She picks it up and hands it to me. Anna looks a lot younger and her hair’s a few shades darker.

  ‘That was when we first got together,’ she says.

  ‘Aww, you look good together.’

  ‘I hope he likes the house,’ Anna says, taking the picture back. ‘He hasn’t seen it yet. There’s not a lot of storage space. I tried to get his stuff in here but it’s a bit of a squash.’ She opens the wardrobe door. ‘I’ve had to give him a load of the hanging space for his shirts. Good job I don’t like dresses!’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s brutal.’

  I step out onto the landing where there’s another door. I put my hand on the knob. ‘Is this the…?’ I raise my eyebrows, remembering the picture of the white cot she’d put on Instagram hashtagged ‘#wishlist’.

  ‘Yes. But I’m not showing anyone.’ She puts her hand on her bump. ‘I don’t want to jinx anything.’

  ‘I get that. Completely. I was the same. Nothing until the baby’s completely viable, right?’

  She smiles at me. ‘Exactly. Rob thinks I’m superstitious,’ Anna says, ‘but still.’ We go down the stairs to the hallway, where we stand awkwardly for a moment, then she pulls her phone out of her pocket.

  ‘Oh no,’ she says, looking at the screen. ‘I know we talked about lunch but some urgent work’s come up. I’m not going to be able to make it after all.’ She looks up at me with an apologetic smile. ‘Why don’t we postpone lunch to Monday? Do the shopping then? My treat.’

  The empty day suddenly yawns ahead of me and there it is: the blackness that’s been kept at bay all morning. It trickles coldly around my heart, trying to find a way in, but I push it back.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, forcing a smile. Then I have an idea. I look over Anna’s shoulder back into the living room. ‘Do you mind if I just take a few pictures? I’ll have a think about what’ll bring the room together so when we go shopping we don’t make any mistakes. Would that be okay?’

  Anna waves at the room. ‘Help yourself.’

  I take a couple of quick pictures of the living space, feeling a bit odd as I do so. Her tone makes me feel as if I may have overstepped the mark by asking.

  ‘Right, I’ll have a think what we can do,’ I say, slipping my phone back in the bag. ‘See you on Monday.’

  ‘Have a great weekend,’ Anna says.

  ‘You too.’ Already I’m wondering what she’s going to be doing all by herself over the weekend. She must be busy with work. I think of my phone with the images of her front room on it. Well, that makes two of us.

  I know where you went on your first date

  It couldn’t have been more Disney if he’d tried. It couldn’t have been more of a cliché; wouldn’t surprise me if he flew over specially when he heard you were in New York.

  The Rockerfeller Center, New York City, December.

  ‘You are assured magical memories that you will cherish forever,’ says the website. Ten out of ten for the perfect date. A public space, nothing too pushy, nothing presumptuous, a little fun, and the potential to go out for a drink afterwards, should it go well.

  As if it won’t go well.

  ‘Meet me at the Rock,’ he says. ‘Dress warmly.’

  And, of course you wonder if he’s taking you skating. Why else would he want to meet at the Rockerfeller Center in the weeks before Christmas? Does he know you can skate? I doubt it, because he hasn’t done his research, has he? Not like I have. He imagines you clinging to him; him holding you up as he sweeps you around the rink: manly, strong. Could there be a more perfect first date?

  And I have to give it to you: you look adorable. Just the right note of sweet and vulnerable and sexy all wrapped up in b
lack leggings and a longline twinset of cashmere sweaters in the palest of shell pinks, with a scarf and gloves, your cheeks rosy with cold and your hair flying. Yes, the rink’s smaller than he thought, not as glamorous – not quite the setting he’d imagined from the movies – but it doesn’t matter. The lights in the adjacent skyscrapers twinkle as dusk falls and he sweeps out onto the ice in the shadow of the enormous Christmas tree.

  But you: you hang back. Of course you do. You watch as he demonstrates skating forwards, a wobbly turn, backwards, another turn, a bit of speed and then a show-off hockey stop that showers you in a spray of ice crystals.

  ‘Come on!’ he says as you stand beside the ice. ‘Don’t be scared! It’s easier than you think. I’ll look after you!’

  And then you step onto the ice, not at all like Bambi: like an Olympic figure-skating champion. You laugh, and then you’re off around the rink, fast, graceful, confident, your hair flying out behind you while he picks his jaw up off the ice. You do a high-speed turn, your hair whooshing into your face, then you look back at him and laugh again as you launch into a leap, a spin, and then a beautifully executed salchow. I know you do it again because he gets a photo this time. It’s there, on Instagram: your silhouette in mid-air looking every inch the ice princess. You’re so proud of that picture, aren’t you? You roll it out regularly for Instagram’s #throwbackthursday. Eight times, so far.

  ‘I love skating!’ you call, and he ploughs over towards you, conscious only now of how unrefined his own moves are. But it doesn’t matter. He’s made you happy. ‘I’ve always wanted to skate here!’ you say, catching his hand and squeezing it. ‘It’s a dream come true!’

  But is that the moment that seals it? Is it as simple as him booking two general-admission tickets to this tourist-trap of a rink?

  I believe it is. By the end of the session, he knows he wants to marry you.

  It’s enough to make me puke.

  Nine

  It’s a measure of how involved I am in creating the mood boards that I don’t hear the car pull up outside the house. Neither do I hear the sound of Jake’s key in the lock and the opening and closing of the front door. If the skin on the back of my neck does that animalistic prickle to warn me he’s about to arrive home, I miss it – not even my famous sixth sense picks up the fact that my husband’s home and quite likely shrugging off his jacket in the hallway. It’s Saturday evening and I’m at the desk, lost in Pinterest images. I’m staring at the screen, click-clicking till my wrist aches as I gather images and send them to a printer that’s constantly whirring into life with a rattle so alarming it makes me think, every time, that it’s about to die. Please don’t die!

  The whole desk’s under siege: I’ve got a little production line going. On the other side of the table from the computer, I gather the images together, cut them to size with a metal ruler and scalpel, and then I laminate them and move them to a piece of A1 foam board on which I’m collating the look I think will work best for Anna. It’s a strong, eclectic style, which I hope she’ll like because I’ve used the colours that I know she likes – the red of the sofa as well as the blue of the sweatshirt she was wearing – and I’ve used some rich yellow to lift it. It’s a triadic colour scheme that looks global, and I think it really works as the yellow pulls in all the random items and makes the whole room look more styled.

  I’ve also got a smaller board on the go with an image of my own living/dining room at the centre – the images surrounding that are all in calming blues and whites. I can’t imagine it’s Anna’s taste, really, but I want to show her what could be done should she wish to invest in more of a change. But the main thing, I think as I tap my lip with my finger and switch a couple of images around on the triadic mood board, is that Anna’s pleased with what I’ve done. I really want to impress her; I want her to think I’m an expert; to give her a reason to look up to me, to respect me and, of course, to want to spend more time with me.

  I swap the position of a couple of the images, step back to view my masterpiece, and nod to myself. Only now will I start fastening the images in place. I pick up my StudioTac then let out a yelp as Jake throws his keys onto the desk next to me and kisses the top of my head.

  ‘Oh my god!’ I fan my face, faking a faint. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack!’

  ‘That’s a nice welcome from my wife after a lonely week on the road,’ Jake says. ‘Sorry. I thought you’d heard me and were deliberately ignoring me… Unless you were giving your lover time to escape out the back?’

  The question hangs a moment too long and irritation flares in me before I’m able to beat it back down. How dare he?

  Jake holds his hands up. ‘Sorry. Unfair. Let’s start again. How was your day, sweet wife of mine?’

  I take a deep breath in and out to clear any residual anger. ‘Busy, dear husband,’ I say. ‘I was lost in…’ I wave my hand at the table. ‘I’m making a mood board for Anna.’

  ‘Lipstick lady?’ It takes me a minute to realize he means Sarah.

  ‘No. This is my friend from the walking group.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Jake loosens his tie, slips it off and hangs it over the back of a dining chair.

  ‘She’s really nice and she lives just around the corner. You’d like her.’

  ‘I look forward to meeting her.’ There’s a pause, then Jakes finally asks how the baby is.

  ‘Coming along nicely.’ I pat my belly. ‘How are you? Good week?’

  ‘Awesome,’ says Jake, rolling his eyes. ‘Training idiots. God, you would think they would have to have some aptitude for or interest in the job before they were hired, wouldn’t you? Come on, let’s sit down. I’m parched.’

  Jake gets a couple of cold drinks and pats the sofa next to him. I sit down so our bodies are touching.

  ‘So what are you doing for this Anna woman?’ Jake asks. ‘Doing up her house?’

  ‘Sort of. She’s quite new in her house and has no idea about furnishings, so she asked me to help. Her husband works in the Middle East. Qatar, I think she said. Or somewhere like that. He hasn’t even seen the house, and she wants it to be nice for him.’

  Jake nods. ‘Yes, I can imagine he doesn’t make it home most nights.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘So you’re doing her interior design for free – lucky girl.’ There’s an edge to his voice. It’s just how he is: every minute of his time is charged to one client or another. He’s not used to doing things for free.

  I tut. ‘I’m just trying to make friends. And maybe, if I’m good at it, it’s something I could turn into a business.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I’m not knocking it.’

  We sit in silence for a moment, then Jake says, ‘Maybe we could have them over for dinner one night when the husband’s back. What do you think?’

  ‘Good idea. I’ve no idea when he’s back, though. She made it sound like he’s hardly ever home.’

  ‘Oh well. Bear it in mind.’

  ‘I will.’ I close my eyes and sigh, thinking about the loneliness; the talking to myself; the constant fight to stop the blackness from taking me over; and the wretched ways in which I’d tried to make friends when we first arrived. Jake doesn’t know but I used to go to the Greek deli and buy things I’d never eat – tubs of olives and feta – just because the woman behind the counter seemed nice and I’d thought maybe we could become friends. The thought of it now makes me cringe. Had I really been so desperate? But as I sat there on the sofa that night, I sensed that things were changing. This was the beginning of a new chapter. I’d got a friend, and no way was I going to let her go.

  Ten

  I’m at the station at bang on ten on Monday morning, ready to catch the train to Victoria with Anna. It’s a blustery day and I sweep into the ticket hall, slightly out of breath from having had to walk into a strong headwind, my coat and scarf flying out behind me. I know at once, even before I’ve scanned all the people in the ticket office, that Anna isn’t there. My
heart shrinks with disappointment.

  There are three sets of people waiting, so I join the end of the line and start stressing immediately about whether or not I should buy Anna’s ticket to save time, or wait to see if she actually turns up. It’s not my best trait, but I get quite anal about tardiness. The first couple in the queue leaves the counter, putting their tickets and purses back in huge handbags, and we all shuffle forward. I want to believe the best of Anna, but it wouldn’t be the first time she’s postponed an arrangement we’ve had. In fact, when I think about it, which I try not to but feel I have to, Anna’s delayed every single plan she’s made with me: the packing day, the lunch, the shopping day. Not cancelled – delayed. You’re being too sensitive, I tell myself, and shuffle another step closer to the ticket counter.

  Too quickly it’s my turn and, until the words actually come out of my mouth, I honestly don’t know how many tickets I’m going to ask for.

  ‘Two one-day travelcards, please,’ I say and, right as I’m wondering if I’ve just made an expensive mistake, Anna bursts into the ticket hall and rushes up to me, pulling her wallet out of her bag as she reaches the counter.

  ‘How much is it?’ She whacks a twenty-pound note on the counter and I almost throw up with relief, not because of the money, but because Anna’s actually turned up. I knew she would!

  ‘Hey! Morning!’ I say, then I do a double-take as I see what she’s wearing. ‘Oh my god!’ I laugh. ‘You’ve got my coat! I swear I didn’t copy you!’ I laugh to show I’m joking.

  But Anna frowns as she looks at her coat and then at mine. The two couldn’t be more different.

  ‘Doh!’ I say. ‘I’m not wearing it! But I have it at home. I swear it’s my favourite!’

  Anna smiles and shrugs as she touches the sleeve of her coat. ‘I love it, too.’

  ‘Like minds!’ We smile brightly at each other. ‘Right, ready for a day of shopping?’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ says Anna. Her cheeks are pink and her hair windswept. She looks pretty and fun and full of life, and I’m so pleased to be standing here with her in this moment. So proud to be her friend.