I Know You

by Annabel Kantaria

  ‘Yes,’ she says, smiling back in a muted way. I forget how wary English people can be of strangers. ‘It was good. I was a bit late arriving, though. Thought I’d have to run to catch up.’

  ‘Have you been before?’

  ‘Oh, one other time,’ she says, ‘but I’ve only been in Croydon a month so I’m still finding my way around.’

  ‘Me too!’ I say, perhaps too enthusiastically, then I stand there wondering how I can keep her longer; how I can make sure I see her again. She looks nice. I toy with the idea of asking her out for a coffee but it seems too forward and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Brits, it’s that they don’t do ‘forward’.

  ‘Will you be here next week, do you think?’ I ask in the end, and she shrugs.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Okay, cool,’ I say. ‘Maybe see you then.’

  That’s Anna, by the way. About to become my new best friend.

  *

  I still remember how the afternoon of that day had yawned ahead of me, an Atlantic Ocean of emptiness and boredom; me alone on a pea-green boat, rowing my way towards six o’clock when Jake was due back from wherever it was he’d gone that week. Shrewsbury, I think it was. I changed into some comfy lounge clothes, hauled myself back downstairs while holding tight to the banisters because I was always slightly paranoid about falling down the stairs and killing the baby, made myself a cup of tea, and opened up the iPad.

  Here’s a confession: I spent a lot of time online in those days. Not so much any more. But back then I did.

  Jake didn’t like it – not that he knew the half of it. I used to wonder – I still do wonder – what he’d have done had it been him who’d had to sit at home alone all day in a foreign country with all his friends halfway around the world. If he were in my position, I doubt he’d have been able to amuse himself 24/7 without a bit of online chat. So, as I said, he didn’t like me being online – yet it clearly didn’t bother him enough to tell me that; to talk to me about his concerns. Had he done so, things may well have turned out differently. But the most he ever said at the time was, ‘Join some groups or something,’ and I tried, honestly, I did.

  I saw a ‘Bumps and Babies’ group advertised, and I went along to a coffee morning full of pregnant women. But that’s where I discovered that, despite needing friends like most people need oxygen, my mother’s advice to be choosy really had been absorbed into my DNA. Over the course of those ninety minutes, I learned that I’d rather be alone than be with people I had nothing in common with bar a foetus. I’m not going to say anything more about that morning. Let’s just say I never went back, and park it there.

  Instagram’s my favourite social media, but Twitter was my go-to place for chat. I know there are people who say it’s had its day but, love it or hate it, there was always something going on on there. My news feed moved fast and I loved clicking through interesting articles and joining in the banter with my regular group of mates. What did we talk about? A lot of things, I guess: pregnancy, parenting, babies, airline chat, relocation, expat life and, as Donald Trump came to power, a bit of American politics. I loved that you could duck out if you didn’t like the way a chat was going, and I loved that you could block people who annoyed you. Imagine doing that in a coffee shop.

  But the day of the walking group – the day I meet Simon and the girl in the blue jacket – I’m after something different. I grab the iPad and click onto Facebook. Like a junkie desperate for a fix, I systematically search groups specific to the area, scrolling through the members one by one for her blonde hair and smiling face. I have a good memory for faces and dismiss ten, fifty, a hundred similar faces and then, finally, on a buying and selling page that doesn’t have too many members, I see her. I click on the profile picture and expand it. It’s her. I’m sure it’s her: Anna Jones is her name.

  I know where you live

  You think you’re so discreet, don’t you, so internet-savvy, never posting your details online, hiding behind a screen name. But you leave a trail wider than a jumbo jet streaking across the summer sky. You leave a trail so clear I could follow it with my eyes closed.

  You probably don’t remember taking that picture, do you? The one of the oak tree with the winter sun rising behind it back when you first found the house? Très arty. I agree, the image was stunning, the austere branches silhouetted against the sky like some prehistoric monster rising from behind the row of roofs. You could almost feel the frost in the air. It really deserved all those Likes. But what you forget, my sweet, is the double whammy of Instagram location services and Google Maps, and how useful they are to people like me.

  It takes me half a day. In the general scheme of things, that’s not long. It’s seconds. Milliseconds. Insignificant. Edging along Street View, looking for that tree, in front of those houses, those parked cars, that bus stop, that crack in the road, those paving stones, that manhole cover, I even find myself enjoying the challenge. Do you remember those childhood games of hide and seek? I loved those, too. But this is way more fun.

  And then, when I think I’ve found it, I spin my point of view around and there I am, looking at a house. Your house. The upstairs window from which you took the picture. Is that your bedroom? I think it is.

  A door and a window downstairs, two windows upstairs. That’s all. Nothing in the windows to give a clue: no picture frames, perfume bottles, nothing. A few terracotta roof tiles cantilevered out above the step to give shelter to callers. Below those tiles, a navy front door that could do with a fresh coat of paint. It’s on your to-do list, isn’t it, to get out there and paint it yourself? Oh, come on, admit it – you’re already imagining the Instagram shots: a paintbrush balanced across a tin of paint; brushstrokes of paint on wood; a close-up of the smudge of paint on your adorable little nose. What else can I see? New PVC windows not in keeping with the style of the property. White paintwork. A garden fence that could do with being re-stained. Dirty-grey paving slabs in the front garden. A big, black wheelie bin. Outside, oh look, there it is: your car.

  Nothing remarkable but, to me, it’s gold.

  I walk the Street View back down the road, check the street name, then examine the map of the local area. Nice.

  Three

  Anna Jones’ Facebook page was private, and she had only had one profile picture and one generic cover visible to the public. I still remember how it annoyed me at the time, in the way that anyone who buttoned up their privacy settings on social media annoyed me – and I’d flung the iPad down – but then I’d found her Instagram, and practically yelped with joy to see that that was wide open, my screen suddenly filled with gorgeous square shots to pore over.

  I’d scrolled through them like a child opening a Christmas stocking, lifting and examining each one, and starting to feel as if I knew Anna Jones inside out. In one, there was a tall bear of a man and I stared at it, wondering who he was. Her compositions were careful; her pictures way more than just snaps. Lots were of details: her nail polish; a piece of jewellery or an accessory; a plate of food. I don’t know how long I spent looking at her pictures but after some time – half an hour maybe? – my back had started to ache and I’d gone into the kitchen. I remember wondering if the clock was broken, its hands stuck at 2.30 p.m., but my watch confirmed the news: the hump of the day wasn’t even broken; the afternoon still stretched ahead like a road through the Mojave Desert.

  I looked for Anna on Twitter but ended up spending the bulk of the afternoon in an online discussion about whether or not you should find out the sex of the baby. Inevitably perhaps, someone got pissed with me. She – or he, I suppose it could be – sent me a rant spread over three Tweets and I sat there wondering if there was any point in defending myself; if there was any point in anything. I just felt so beaten. Lonely and beaten. Remember that before you judge me later; remember that this story is born from loneliness. Unless you’ve experienced it, you’ve no idea where it can lead you. Do I sound defensive? You can blame Jake for that.


  *

  Around six that day, when Jake’s due home, I start to get restless. I get up from the sofa, go to the front door, and squint through the peephole, disappointed when I see the emptiness of our parking space. On the hall table, tanned versions of Jake and me smile up at me from a photo frame. It’s a casual picture from our wedding day. Standing above us, the photographer caught us laughing as the guests showered us in dried rose petals. I close my eyes – the day had been perfect. Jake and I had had the barefoot beach wedding I’d always dreamed of, on an island off Key West. Although that picture’s now in a box in the basement, just thinking about it brings back the warm caress of the sun on my skin, the sound of the palms rustling in the gentle breeze, and the blaze of glorious colours: the turquoise of the sea, the white sand, and the vibrant pinks and purples of the bougainvillea that trailed around the resort, dripping off the white plantation-style balconies of the guest cottages. Easy days. Simple times.

  Waiting for Jake to get home, I remember the way he’d grabbed my hand and led me and our friends barefoot down the beach to board the catamaran for our sunset drinks reception… I sigh – it seems a lifetime ago – then I leap as the doorbell rings. I didn’t hear the car.

  I’ve a smile on my face as I open the door, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Jake why he didn’t use his key, when I realize it’s not Jake at all, but a smiling woman wrapped in a raincoat. Her brown hair’s shoulder-length and streaked with honeyed highlights, though at the roots I can see a hint of grey, and she’s wearing red lipstick and a foundation that’s slightly too tanned for the pallor of her winter skin. Still, she’s attractive. I’d guess she’s ten years older than me. She tilts her head sideways.

  ‘Hello!’ she says cheerily. ‘I just wanted to pop by and introduce myself. I live at number twenty-six.’ She nods her head down the street. ‘Saw you and your hubby moving in. Thought I’d give you a bit of space before saying hello.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Taylor.’

  She extends her hand. ‘Sarah.’ The wind gusts and she tucks her hair back behind her ears.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’ I ask. ‘It’s just I’m expecting my husband home any second but you’re welcome to step in for a minute?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, there’s actually something I’d like to ask you,’ she says, so I lead her into the front room and we stand awkwardly on the carpet. Dinner’s pretty much ready so it’s a funny time to offer tea. Wine? Should I offer her a glass of wine? I don’t think we even had any in those days.

  She gives a little laugh. ‘To be honest, I have to admit I’ve come here with an ulterior motive.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  She glances around the room, spots the bookshelves. ‘Oh good,’ she says. ‘You do read!’

  Should I have been more guarded with a stranger at my door? Probably – but, ‘I love reading,’ I say. ‘My books were the first thing I unpacked when we moved in.’

  ‘Fantastic! I know what you mean! Well, I’m not so embarrassed to ask you now, but basically, I’m starting a book club – like a little reading circle. Just a couple of girls in the area where we can get together and have some drinks and nibbles and talk about books. When I saw you moving in I couldn’t help noticing all those boxes marked “Books” and I just wondered if, maybe, it’d be something you might be interested in?’

  ‘Oh! What sort of books do you read? It’s just…’

  ‘Oh, nothing too highbrow,’ she says with a laugh. ‘Please don’t worry about that. Contemporary fiction. Latest releases. Anything really.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Sounds good. Obviously, I might not be able to be in it for long…’ I pat my bump in case she hasn’t noticed it.

  ‘Oh!’ she says. ‘Very compact! How far are you?’

  ‘Due late Feb.’

  ‘Aww.’ She smiles at my bump for a moment, then looks back at my face. ‘Well, look, you’re very welcome. We’d love to have you, and the bump.’ She smiles again. ‘Bring a friend if you like.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d love to join,’ I say and out of the corner of my eye I see Jake parking the car outside so I start to usher her towards the door. At the hall table, she stops.

  ‘Oh wow, is that your wedding?’ she asks, picking up the photo and running a finger over the glass.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. What else can I say?

  ‘What a beautiful picture,’ she says. ‘You both look so happy.’

  ‘We were,’ I say. Outside, I hear Jake walking up the path. ‘We are! Anyway, here he is now…’ I pull open the door. ‘Hi, darling.’ I widen my eyes at him to show I’m as surprised as he is at our unexpected visitor. ‘This is Sarah. She lives down the road. Sarah – my husband, Jake.’

  Sarah steps back to look at Jake, then leans into him and gives him a showy kiss on the cheek. ‘Mwa. Even more handsome in real life,’ she says with a laugh, wiping her thumb against his cheek to remove a smudge of lipstick, then she’s off down the path. ‘Bye, Taylor! I’ll let you know when the next meeting is. Byee!’

  I’m smiling when I close the door.

  ‘What was that all about?’ says Jake.

  ‘That,’ I say, puffing up a bit, ‘was my invitation to join a book club. I think I’ve got a new friend.’

  Four

  When I look back, it seems Jake was away more than he was home in those days. I can’t imagine why I didn’t just tell him I wanted him to spend more time at home. It seems so obvious now, but it didn’t occur to me even to question his work then; to ask ‘is this really necessary?’ Maybe it was necessary. Maybe it wasn’t – but I didn’t want to make an issue of it. The truth is, I was walking on eggshells with him at that point and I didn’t want to smash the lot of them.

  Anyway, after Sarah had invited me to join the book club, Jake and I spent the weekend together. I don’t recall what we did – maybe some sort of preparation for the baby’s arrival, or maybe we just had a lie-in and did some Christmas shopping. The point is, they weren’t perfect, but they were innocent days; days before everything fell apart. I can’t look back at photos from that time now.

  Jake left again the following Wednesday.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ he says as he throws his bag into the trunk. ‘Go back to the walking club.’

  ‘Be good,’ I say to him and the weight of the words hangs heavy between us.

  ‘I’m back late on Saturday,’ Jake says. He slides into the car in that graceful way of his, and my smile doesn’t falter as I lean in to smooth a piece of his hair that’s escaped a heavy gelling.

  ‘Bye,’ I say, waving as the car recedes down the street, leaving nothing but a lingering smell of petrol exhaust. I turn back to the house and a cavern of emptiness hits me in my chest. I still get that feeling sometimes now, if I’m home alone, early in the morning. That day, though, it feels as if the emptiness inside me might actually physically explode, and I have to lean against the doorframe for a moment while I catch my breath.

  I was in a bad way back then. Neither Jake nor I saw it at the time but, looking back, I guess I could have been depressed. I’ve read a lot about it since what happened and, as I said, I think I was. I’m not making excuses, just saying.

  But that morning I don’t question it. I go back into the kitchen: it’s silent bar the whir and occasional shudder of the fridge. The scent of Jake’s cologne still hangs in the air, mixed with the morning smells of eggs, toast and coffee. His cup, cutlery and plate sit unrinsed on the counter. Four days he’ll be away this time. Not long, but it includes half a weekend, and before I can get my defences up, the thought thunders in like a runaway train: why does he need to be away on a Friday night? A Saturday? It’s his fault I question these absences now. I used to trust him. In my head, that ever-recurring snapshot of me picking up his mobile phone; of me clicking on the last conversation in his WhatsApp and finding a sex chat with ‘her’. My heart thuds at the memory, as it did that day. His denial. His tears. My trust broken. />
  Why did I look?

  I take a deep breath and give myself a pep talk as I put the dishes in the sink, squirt detergent onto the sponge, and wash the plates by hand, carefully removing all traces of the coffee and food that’s touched Jake’s lips: It doesn’t mean anything. You’re going to have a great week, I tell myself. He’s learned his lesson. He won’t do it again.

  But a smaller voice persists: Once a cheater, always a cheater, and I squash it back down, visualizing it spiralling down the sink with the dishwater.

  Jobs done, I turn to face the kitchen and sigh again. It doesn’t help that I have no friends to distract me. You can’t cut people away from their natural habitat and expect them to pick up just like that in a new place. Even while I’m thinking this, I’m denying it: as cabin crew I’d been constantly moving and never felt lost. Maybe that’s the problem: here in Britain, I’ve lost more than just my friends and family. I’ve lost my identity.

  And then there’s the reality of what life’s actually like in Croydon. Not in my head, but down on the cold, hard ground. My previous experiences of life in London, staying at smart hotels within a stone’s throw of the city lights, were galaxies away from the reality of life in a street of two-up two-down red-brick terraces. I laugh out loud at my own naivety – a bitter laugh that echoes through the empty house like the cackles of a witch. I wonder when the book club is. What number did that Sarah woman say she lived at? Twenty-six? I make a small detour to walk past her house on the way to the park: peeling paint, a messy front yard, and drawn curtains that prevent me from seeing inside.

  *

  At the park, I see Simon at once. He’s taller than most of the others, his red beanie easy to spot. He gives a little wave so I make my way over to him.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’ I ask. ‘Good week?’

  ‘Up and down. Up and down. Father had a turn this week. Been in hospital.’ He sighs then smiles, his eyes peering intensely into mine through heavy glasses I can’t decide are geeky or cool. ‘I shouldn’t burden you with this. He’s out now. All’s well. Looking forward to the walk?’ His voice is reedy, thin.