I Know You

by Annabel Kantaria

  Sarah holds her hands up. ‘Okay, okay. Leave it with me. I’ll come up with something. And don’t worry, it won’t be anything completely crazy. Just something nice. I promise.’

  I know you have a ‘special place’

  I mean, who apart from a five-year-old has a ‘special place’? And, if that’s not sickening enough, where exactly is your special place? Shall I say it, or will you?

  Disneyland. Yes. You heard.

  Have you any idea how that sounds to a normal adult?

  So, it’s your first holiday together. He suggests Florida, wanting to impress you with a fancy art-deco hotel in Miami Beach, and you fling your arms around him, batting your stupid eyelash extensions and say, ‘Disneyland! Oh, please, please, pretty please?’ and he has no choice but to oblige you.

  The most revolting thing is, he doesn’t mind.

  Let me say that one more time: Disneyland.

  Yeah, yeah: you went there as a child and you want to share it with him. I know your type, all cuddly jumpers, teddy bears and wholesome memories – makes my stomach turn just thinking about it. And him, he always was such a sucker. He hates roller-coasters but he does them for you, doesn’t he? Splash Mountain and Space Mountain? You get on that stupid log flume and you ride up that cranky old mountain through all those stupid forest animals singing and, all the way along, he can’t admit how much he hates it and how petrified he is because you’re wriggling in your seat, telling him you were practically born on that ride; that you first rode it when you were, like, still in the womb. And then you come out at the top and there it is, the fifty-foot drop, and your hands are in the air and he can’t scream, not in terror, because he wants to look like he’s enjoying it so he squeezes his arm tight around you and you think he’s being all manly and protective.

  Did he tell you about his fear of heights?

  Didn’t think so.

  You don’t buy the photo; he rushes you past the booth so you don’t catch sight of the terror on his face as you tip over the edge.

  And then, when he thinks it’s over, you shake the splash out of your hair and jump up and down on the spot, pulling him across the park towards Tomorrowland like a kid wanting candy from its mum, and the realization dawns on him that there’s only one reason why you’re doing that.

  Space Mountain. The King-Lord-President of the Disneyland rides.

  And what can he do, what can he say? ‘I hate heights, I feel claustrophobic in the dark, the lights trigger my migraines, please don’t make me go on this?’

  Ha ha ha.

  ‘Sure thing, honey,’ he says in a phoney American accent that makes you laugh, and you have no fucking clue. He lets you lead him by the hand to Space Mountain but all the while he’s hoping the queue’ll be too long and you’ll give up but you’ve pre-booked, haven’t you? You’ve used a Fast Pass to get in without queuing. He’d know that, too, if he checked your Instagram.

  I wish I’d seen his face.

  And when it’s all over, the three minutes of hell in the dark, he gets out and maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the relief, but he gets down on one knee and he only asks you to marry him.

  Fuck you. Fuck fucking Disneyland.

  Thirteen

  Jake’s asleep on the sofa when I get back from book club. I look at him, his legs stretched out in front of him; his head lolled sideways, a little line of dribble trailing to the sofa cushion, and I smile to myself. Keanu Reeves? I always thought Keanu had eyes that hold secrets – dark secrets at that. A year ago I wouldn’t have said that he and Jake had similar eyes – I’d have said Jake’s were mischievous – but it’s funny how quickly mischievous eyes can turn into secretive eyes. When I first saw Jake, I didn’t even really fancy him – there never was that spark, that jolt of attraction. I’d thought he looked a shade too close to boring – too neat, clean and ironed, like a mummy’s boy, and ‘reserved Englishman’ wasn’t my type. I’ve never told him that. It was actually Jake’s voice that drew me to him. That and the length of his fingers; the slimness of his wrists. Silly things. Maybe I should have looked at the bigger things.

  I step over to him now, lean down, balancing myself on the back of the sofa, and kiss his cheek. He jumps awake and I see the momentary confusion as he tries to work out where he is and why. I wonder if ‘she’ flashes through his mind.

  ‘You’re back.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just gone eleven.’

  ‘Did you have a good time?’

  ‘Yes. Book club was great, but you’ll never believe who I met. Do you remember a girl called Caroline Mackenzie? You went to school with her?’

  He squints his eyes for a moment, then a smile spreads slowly across his face. ‘Oh my god. Cazza? Really?’

  I snort. ‘I don’t think she’d like to be called Cazza these days. She’s all silk and diamonds and “excuse-me-la-di-dah” like she’s the Queen of England. Caroline Hughes-Smith now. Married to the honourable Mr Toby Hughes-Smith, as she went to great lengths to tell us.’

  Jake’s sitting up now, paying attention. ‘Do you have a picture of her?’

  ‘Hang on.’ I do a quick search but her Facebook’s locked and her profile picture is tiny. I enlarge Sarah’s cover photo – the one with her in it – and hand it to Jake. He peers at the screen.

  He raises one eyebrow. ‘Wow. Cazza. Looking good.’

  I beat down my irritation. ‘What was she like at school?’

  Jake laughs to himself. ‘One of a kind, that’s what she was.’ He shakes his head, still smiling in a way that I don’t like, and gives me back my phone. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Well, these days she’s the world’s number-one expert on pregnancy and birth, even though she’s never had kids.’ I can’t keep the bitchiness out of my voice.

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Jake. ‘Rattled your cage, did she?’

  I tut. ‘No. Anyway, how was your day?’

  ‘Fine. Usual.’ Jake drags himself up off the sofa and holds his hand out to me. ‘Come on. Let’s get to bed. It’s late.’

  May god forgive me, but I don’t tell him about Keanu’s eyes.

  Fourteen

  The day after book club, I’m just checking Instagram – Anna’s posted a pile of books with ‘#books #amreading #bookclub’ – when a WhatsApp pops up from her. I laugh to myself: how quickly my life’s become all Anna-Anna-Anna. The message is a picture of an envelope and a baby’s rattle. I’m about to text ‘how sweet!’ when another message arrives: ‘When can I call you?’

  ‘Oh my god, I don’t know what to do!’ Anna says on the phone a moment later. ‘You saw the rattle?’

  ‘Yes – it’s nice. Cute.’

  ‘Someone put it through my door last night.’

  ‘And…?’ Although I’m up, my brain’s not fully awake and I’m not connecting the dots.

  ‘In the middle of the night. Like 4 a.m.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Who’s it from? Does it say?’

  ‘No, that’s the point!’ Anna cries. ‘Don’t you see? Let me spell it out: someone put an anonymous package through my door at 4 a.m. last night. Oh god, I heard the letterbox. I can’t tell you how terrified I was. I lay in bed, frozen, like, waiting for whoever it was to break in. I couldn’t breathe I was so scared.’

  ‘Oh no, you should have called me. Not that I could have done anything, but…’

  ‘Your phone was off,’ Anna says flatly.

  ‘Ah. Yes. I turn it off at night. So then what did you do?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep – I kept waiting for someone to break a window, so I took a shoe – a high-heeled one – and I went downstairs. Oh my god, I was so scared. And there was that envelope on the doormat.’ She pauses. ‘I looked at it for ages, I mean, it could have been anything.’

  ‘But you opened it in the end?’

  Anna tuts.

  ‘And it was just the rattle?’

  ‘Isn’t that bad enough?’

  ‘No note I’m guessing?’

>   ‘It just said in thick black marker: “for the baby”.’

  ‘Okaaay…’

  ‘Oh, never mind. Sorry to have bothered you,’ Anna says sharply and I feel bad for not taking her seriously.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’ve really no idea who it’s from? No other clues anywhere?’

  ‘No!’ Anna’s voice is both exasperated and panicky.

  ‘Do you want me to come over?’ I ask.

  I hear her breathe in and out slowly, as if she’s trying to calm herself.

  ‘It’s probably just from some well-meaning stranger,’ I say. ‘I mean, people have seen you walking about town…’ I break off, realizing that her bump, especially under her coat, is not that obvious.

  ‘What sane person would be putting rattles through anyone’s door at 4 a.m.?’ she asks.

  ‘Maybe they were coming back from a night out?’ but even I can see that no one comes back from an all-nighter and puts a baby’s rattle through a stranger’s door.

  ‘You’re more obviously pregnant than I am,’ Anna says. ‘Why isn’t it you? Not that I wish it was, but you know what I’m saying? There are hundreds of pregnant women in Croydon. Why me?’

  ‘Has anything else like this happened before?’

  Anna sighs.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘I just…’ she breaks off. ‘I don’t know. I’m probably just being paranoid, but I just get this feeling that… god, I sound mad… sometimes I just feel that I’m being watched.’

  ‘Oh, I get that sometimes, too,’ I say. ‘It’s not easy alone in a big city when your husband’s away. But it’s always nothing. Just my own paranoia. Anyway, no offence, but why would anyone want to watch you?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ she snaps. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. I knew you’d think I’m imagining it.’

  ‘No, no! Not at all,’ I say. ‘But it’s a funny time, you know, with our hormones up the creek, and you alone with Rob overseas. It’s not easy. I know that.’

  Anna sniffs. ‘Thanks.’

  But all the while, I’m thinking about Simon from the walking group. The only person I know who I can imagine doing something like that is him, and that would be because he was shy, not for any malicious reasons. Though I would have thought he’d have been more likely to put something through my door than Anna’s. He hasn’t shown a lot of interest in talking to Anna, to be fair.

  ‘Maybe I should call the police,’ Anna says.

  ‘What?’ I can’t hide my surprise. ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s not normal to put anonymous packages through people’s doors at 4 a.m.,’ Anna says. ‘What if it’s something else next time?’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ I say, losing patience now. ‘That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think? Whoever did this probably meant well. Or maybe it was just kids having a laugh. What do you call it? ASBOs or something, who stole their baby brother’s rattle and put it through the door of the pregnant woman. And, to be fair, what exactly would the police do? It’s not as if gifting someone a rattle’s a crime.’

  ‘Maybe they could watch the house? Drive past a few more times?’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’ I say. ‘But I doubt they have the resources. Can you do anything to add more security to your house? Do you have an alarm?’

  ‘I do. There’s an alarm, and I have those extra bolts I had put in.’

  ‘Okay.’ Job done, I’m thinking.

  Anna sighs. ‘Okay, well, thanks.’

  We hang up and I can’t help feeling she’s somehow disappointed in me; that my response wasn’t what she was hoping for. But I ask you: if someone puts a gift for your baby through your front door, would you go running to the police? Course you wouldn’t. To this day I feel I gave her the right advice.

  Fifteen

  I’m just deconstructing my conversation with Anna in my head and making my coffee when my phone rings again. It’s an unknown number and I hesitate for a moment before picking up, but it’s only Sarah.

  ‘Taylor! It was so good to see you last night,’ she says. ‘But I felt we didn’t get a chance to chat, just the two of us. Do you fancy lunch today? God, I’m not the sharpest this morning… I could do with a good slap-up lunch to clear the cobwebs. What do you say, neighbour?’ Then she laughs. ‘In fact, I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll see you at the Italian on the corner at 12.30.’

  And who am I to argue?

  ‘Oh my god,’ she says, slumping into a chair opposite me at the restaurant after giving me a hug and a perfumey kiss. ‘I’m hanging today.’

  I laugh. ‘You certainly were a generous hostess.’

  ‘I should drink more water,’ she says. ‘I never learn. I wonder how Caro is.’

  I shrug. ‘The benefits of being pregnant. It was a fun night. Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, you’re welcome. Do you think it went okay? Do you think everyone enjoyed it?’

  ‘It was great, and I like the book we chose. I can’t wait to get into it.’ In fact I’ve brought it with me in case Sarah was late. I’ve been dabbling in the first chapter, reluctant to start it when I haven’t got time to give it much attention, yet desperate to begin so I finish before the baby comes.

  ‘It got good reviews,’ Sarah says. ‘The book bloggers like it, and that’s always a good sign. Anyway, what are you having?’

  ‘I was thinking about the lasagne. Can’t beat a good lasagne.’ My mouth’s watering already.

  ‘Mmm,’ Sarah nods. ‘And it’s very good here. But I need something creamy. Ah, bingo.’ She puts the menu down and taps it. ‘Carbonara, with fettucine. That’ll hit the spot.’

  ‘Jake always has that,’ I say. ‘He says it’s good.’

  Sarah waves over a waitress and, after we’ve ordered our food, she asks for a large glass of wine.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you? Hair of the dog,’ she says, winking at me. ‘Thanks for bringing Anna last night. You two are sweet together, what with your matching bumps. She seems nice.’ She laughs. ‘God, if either of you ever change your mind about having your babies, I’ll be there like a shot with the adoption papers!’

  I give a little laugh and fiddle with the napkin. ‘I doubt that’s likely to happen.’

  ‘Shame,’ Sarah says with a smile.

  ‘So, what did you think about Caroline’s confession?’ I say, keen to move the conversation on. ‘The mistress thing? I wasn’t sure what to make of that.’

  ‘I know! Who knew.’ Sarah raises her eyebrows. ‘What a dark horse. I was dying to ask but she clearly didn’t want to say. Don’t you worry. I’ll do some digging.’ She rubs her hands together and cackles. ‘I love a bit of sleuthing!’

  ‘Have you met her husband?’ I ask. ‘Do you think she’s cheating on him?’

  Sarah shakes her head. ‘Honestly, I’ve no idea. Maybe it was before she was married. If you were cheating on your husband, you wouldn’t simply announce it to people you’ve just met, would you? Not unless you’re some sort of a narcissist or drama queen.’ She pauses and I suspect we’re both weighing up the chances of that. ‘Honestly,’ Sarah says, ‘she’d be absolutely freakin’ pterodactyl nuts to cheat on Toby. He’s loaded. Hedge funds.’ She takes a sip of her wine and inhales between her teeth. ‘But you never really know what goes on in someone else’s marriage, do you?’

  ‘So, how do you know each other, anyway?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, we met in Waterstones.’ Sarah laughs. ‘Yes, really! We were both looking for the same book. It was The Night Manager. The shop only had one copy, so I said to her, “Why don’t you buy it and I’ll buy it off you when you’re done?” So we had to stay in touch. Nuts, isn’t it?’

  ‘How funny,’ I say, because what I can actually picture is Caroline looking Sarah up and down in the shop and telling her to ‘eff off’.

  ‘So, haven’t you got work today?’ I ask Sarah.

  ‘Oh. I do the company social media once a week from home. I’m allowed to go out for lunch!’

  ‘I see.
Of course.’

  ‘Ooh, would you look at that.’ Sarah nods towards the door, where two men in business suits have come in. A waitress shows them to a table. Sarah nods appraisingly. ‘Not bad. Got to keep an eye out these days.’

  ‘Wedding ring,’ I say, ‘at least on the one I can see.’

  Sarah laughs. ‘Doesn’t stop them. Watch this,’ she says.

  She gets up, then sashays past the table the men are sitting at. I watch as both of them follow her with their eyes. She goes up to the counter and looks for a minute at the desserts under the glass, then sashays back past them, hips swinging. She’s a little overweight but has good curves. The men both look again, and exchange a word or two.

  ‘Typical,’ I say when she sits back down. ‘But it’s quite a leap from looking to cheating.’

  ‘Well, as you’re happily married, I’ll just leave it there,’ Sarah says, raising an eyebrow. She takes a sip of wine. ‘At least, you think you’re happily married…’ She laughs then realizes what she’s implied. ‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry. That was out of order.’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s okay.’

  Sarah sighs and fiddles with her cutlery. ‘You know, it’s not so easy being single at my age. Despite everything, I do miss being married. Don’t fuck yours up.’

  ‘I’m trying not to. But it does take two to get it right.’

  ‘And it only takes one to fuck it up,’ she says bitterly, ‘unless the other’s prepared to turn a blind eye.’ She sighs again. ‘Anyway, we’re not here to dissect your marriage. My problem now is I’m forty-two and single. I have two tweenage boys, and I want another baby before it’s too late. If I don’t find someone, it’s going to have to be the sperm bank. It’s not ideal, but I want the baby more than the husband.’

  ‘Oh, well… I…’ What I want to say is that I’m not smug, sitting there with everything that she wants: a baby and a marriage. I want to say that my marriage has been shattered and I don’t know if we can get it back together; that I’m so grateful for the pregnancy; that I’d rather be back home in California; and that the reason I’m here in Croydon is because I want things to work out with Jake; I don’t want us to be another divorce statistic. But I can’t find the words. It seems too deep for Tuesday lunchtime in an Italian restaurant full of businessmen.