I Know You

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?

He’d believe anything that comes out of your mouth.

He hams it up during take-off, acting out the charade that he’s scared of flying. Little do you know that he probably flies as much as you do. But he thinks it’s cute the way you put your hand on his arm and tell him it’ll be okay, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?

You order drinks: a beer and a juice. Neither of you plugs in your headphones – you play with the wire of your headphones in your lap: shall I/shan’t I? But he makes small talk, doesn’t he? Where are you from? What took you to New York? Why are you going to London? The food comes; he orders another round of drinks.

You talk the whole flight. I can hear your voices in my head: his deep and smooth, quiet and confident; yours giggly, flirtatious, reeling him in like an open-mouthed fish in the quiet darkness of the cabin. ‘It’s as if I’ve known you forever.’ ‘How amazing that we ended up on the same flight!’ ‘It was meant to be!’ ‘Serendipity!’

Spare me the crap.

As the plane taxis to the stand, he touches your hand. ‘Can I ask for your number? It’d be cool to stay in touch; meet up when we’re both in the same town.’

Because you’re both such glamorous jet-setters.

You encourage him. Don’t play the innocent here. ‘I suppose it’s fair enough now we’ve spent a night together!’ you say. Giggle, giggle.

But he can’t tear himself away from you. You walk through the airport: through immigration, baggage reclaim together and then you’re by the doors and at the front of the taxi queue and the taxi’s waiting and the cars all around are honking and he does it, he only goes ahead and does it: he bends his head down and kisses you with his disgusting overnight-flight morning breath.

He does, doesn’t he?

I knew it. It’s almost as if I was there.

Six

When I get home, I go straight to Instagram: I want to see how Anna’s muffin shot turned out. It’s good, but what I love most is what she’s written underneath it: ‘#postwalktreat #walkinggroup #newfriends’. I’m so pleased I take a screenshot – I don’t know why, but somehow I just want to keep it forever.

I scroll through her account again and get an idea. Every week she posts a picture of her growing bump – presumably they’re the shots she takes for Rob. I save each of them to my phone and use another app to create a collage showing how she’s grown. I think she’d find it interesting to see the photos together – like a time-lapse – and I imagine the two of us giggling as I show it to her; her laughing with her hand over her mouth; her saying, ‘Oh my god, that’s amazing! How did you do this? Can you send it to me?’

I make a sandwich for lunch and take a look through Anna’s Tweets while I eat. She tends mainly to Retweet, but still I scroll, searching for the jewels among the dross, and I find a few more clues to who she is: she’s not a fan of Donald Trump; she hopes everyone’s okay after the hurricane; she absolutely loves white-knuckle rides; she really enjoyed The Girl on the Train. I note them down on my phone: things for us to talk about.

I go back to Facebook and am about to send her a Facebook friend request when I stop myself. We’ve had a coffee. We’ve agreed I’ll help with her interior design: I should probably wait till we’ve spent a bit more time together. I get up and stretch, shake out my legs, and roll my shoulders as I realize that all the while I’ve been hunched over my phone the day’s tipping fast towards evening. My phone battery needs recharging, as does my own. But Anna still hasn’t messaged to confirm our plan for Friday. I sigh and head to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. This waiting around for a message feels like the beginning of a love affair, all that wondering: was I too forward? Doesn’t she like me as much as I like her? Did I say something wrong?

Why hasn’t she messaged?

I potter about the house, unable to settle, and the potential friendship waxes and wanes inside my head in a rollercoaster of emotions. I try to put the blame on Anna: maybe the invitation to help out with her house was just empty words. Maybe she’s flaky – one of those people who never follows through on what she says. God knows, I’ve met enough of them over the years.

But then I feel guilty for maligning Anna before I even know her that well. She seems really nice, and I’m a good judge of character. There was a time I saved a teenager from being trafficked on a flight from San Diego, all because I’d got a feeling that something wasn’t right about the man she was with. My instinct’s usually right. Oh, come on, I tell myself. Have some faith! Maybe her husband suddenly managed to get back for the weekend; maybe she’s busy with work; maybe she’s got pregnancy brain and simply forgot.

But still, I can’t help but think about the girlie day we might have had. I can’t stop picturing it: the two of us chatting and laughing as we slide furniture about and try out different positions for mirrors, tables and drawers. Maybe we’d have gone out for lunch, or shared a pizza after a hard day’s work; taken a few fun pictures of the process. God knows, it would be nice to have something interesting to put on Facebook after so long.

Looking back, I have to remind myself of how I waited to hear from Anna; of the negative thoughts I entertained about her. It’s almost funny now to think I thought she might not have meant what she said; that I was worried she might not message me. I soon learned that she’s one of the most determined people on the planet, and that, once she sets a course, she sticks with it. It’s actually very admirable.

*

I decide to get some air. Without questioning myself, I put on my coat and slip out of the house. I have no conscious plan in my head but my feet take me, as I suspected they might, towards the street that Anna had named.

I slow down once I reach the road and take my time as I look over each property: they’re all the same type. I walk on down the road until I see, parked at the kerb, a car just like hers. It’s outside a house that has a broken ‘rented’ board lying in the garden. It has to be it. I lift my chin and walk on past, trying to look purposeful while squinting with my peripheral vision to see as much as I can from the front of the house, both hoping and not hoping that Anna will see me walking past. Would it look odd to be walking down the street she named? I could just be out for a walk, or on my way to the bus stop. It would be perfectly reasonable. I get to the top of the street, turn left into another road, walk for a minute or two, then turn around and head back, watching Anna’s house every step of the way as I near it. I can still see it, imprinted on my memory. Without thinking about it, I let myself in through a gate that doesn’t sit properly on its hinges, walk up to the door and knock.

I wait, heart hammering, wondering what I’ll say if she does open the door – and what I’ll say if it’s not her house – but nothing happens. There’s not a sound from inside, but then I hear steps – fast, urgent – on the pavement behind me and I spin around, guilty, caught red-handed, but it’s a just a woman in a black coat, rushing past without giving me a second look. I knock again. Nothing. Braver then, I step back and look up at the windows. All I can see is the reflection of the sky and the houses across the street. Her car’s outside. Where is she? Then I catch myself. What am I doing? I turn back and walk quickly towards the nearby parade of shops, telling myself I’m looking for somewhere we could grab some lunch the next day.

*

Back home, I decide to do something constructive. Proactive, that’s me. I log on to Pinterest and go through my favourite interior-design websites, looking at the latest trends and getting some fresh ideas. I think about what Anna’s interiors style might be: neutrals, brights, shabby, Scandi, modern, contemporary, country? I hope it’s not country – I was never a fan of oak – not then, and not now. Jake and I gravitated towards a coastal, New England style in those days. Well, he didn’t really mind what we did, to be fair, but, on arriving in England, I’d tried to recreate something reminiscent of the Nantucket holiday homes I’d stayed in as a child, though it was by no means as convincing to reproduce that feeling in a damp Victorian terrace in the cold northern-European light. Still, I tried, and what we had in the Croydon house was definitely a nod to New England: plenty of white, with lots of clean, sleek lines that somehow, just about, managed to transform the long, narrow space into something other than the sum of its parts.

If I had to guess, I’d put Anna down as ‘eclectic’ – from what I can see on her Instagram, that’s the most likely. Or maybe she doesn’t have a style at all. Not everyone does. I wonder if she’ll let me take her under my wing; introduce her to my favourite brands; show her how to pull together a look with just a few small purchases. Girlie shopping trips with stops for coffee and cake. I don’t ask for a lot.

At six, she still hasn’t messaged to confirm and I’m antsy with not-knowing. ‘Come on!’ I say to my phone, giving it a shake. I flop onto the sofa with a sigh, click on the television and aimlessly watch a property show. About a year later, it just so happens that I catch the same one on repeat, and the sight of those elderly Brits humming and hawing over houses they were being shown in Florida brings back the misery of that afternoon like a slap. But then, on that December day, with no idea of how events would play out, I simply enjoy the show for what it is. I know the Sunshine State like the back of my hand and just looking at those neat and tidy houses with their lanais over their pools and their green gardens backing onto lakes (‘No swimming! Alligators!’) brings back the scent of the hot vegetation, the prick of the mosquitoes, and the damp glistening of humidity on my skin. I lose myself in the show for a while, absorbing the sense of sunshine, warmth and belonging that I crave so badly. Only when the show finishes do I take a deep breath and send Anna a private message on Facebook, aware as I do so that it’ll probably go into her ‘message requests’ folder rather than her inbox as we’re not connected. Still, I feel as if I’ve done something, and that makes me feel better.

I wait a bit more and, when it becomes apparent that Anna hasn’t even seen the message, I put the phone on the table to charge again. Fine, I tell myself. It’s not happening. I’ll find something else to do in the morning. Again, the feeling of empty blackness takes me over, oozing through my veins as if it’s trying to extinguish me.

Ping.

I leap over to the phone. It’s her.

‘Hey.’ Smiley face. ‘Sorry. It’s taken longer than I thought to finish what I was doing. Can you come on Saturday instead?’

Even though I’ve primed myself for this, I slump against the table. Why keep me waiting all this time and then postpone? All of a sudden, I’m tired, so very tired. Tired of having no friends; tired of trying to meet new people; tired of Croydon, of England, of being on my own; and physically tired from the pregnancy I seem to be handling all alone. With a sudden flash of anger, I type ‘Sorry, I’m busy,’ and it feels good, it feels so good, but then I delete it, and am instantly glad I do because my phone pings again.

‘Can u come around 10? We could have lunch. My treat,’ Anna’s written, and I smile.

‘Sure,’ I type. ‘I’ll bring the coffee.’

Anna sends her address – as if I don’t know – and I sink back against the sofa cushions with relief. Finally.

Seven

I wonder sometimes why I remember so much detail about this period of my life. But I know, really, that it’s because I’ve been over it so many times in my head, for myself more than for the police. I can remember everything from what the weather felt like to which clothes, shoes and accessories – now long-gone – I had in my wardrobe. I remember what beauty products I was into back then, and which shampoo I used – but the perfume is worst. To this day, if I’m walking through a department store and I catch a smell of the perfume I used to wear in those days, it can stop me in my tracks, triggering a wave of emotion that almost knocks me off my feet. The first time it happened, I had to be helped to a makeup counter stool; brought a glass of water; fussed over. I’m more careful these days: I enter department stores through ‘Menswear’, ‘Footwear’, or ‘Home’ if I can. If not, I hold my breath.

My alarm goes off at eight the Saturday I’m meeting up with Anna. I’ve allowed myself half an hour to lie in bed before I get up, like I usually do, but I’m wide awake the moment it rings. It’s the first Saturday in forever that I have a concrete plan involving someone other than Jake and, while I don’t want to get to Anna’s too early, I simply can’t wait for the day to start. It’s like waking on Christmas morning as a kid. I get up, shower and put on the clothes I’d spent half of the previous day choosing, then I make a big bowl of porridge and eat it slowly while I check Anna’s Instagram. She’s added a new image: an inspirational quote about new beginnings, and I wonder if she’s referring to me – to our blossoming friendship – but then I realize it’s far more likely about the sorting out of her house. My finger hesitates over the ‘like’ button but I don’t press it in the end – it’d look odd, wouldn’t it, given I’m not actually following her?

Finally, finally, finally when it’s 9.50, I gather my things and leave the house. Despite being full up to my eyeballs with porridge, I don’t want to turn up empty-handed so I go via a coffee shop, where I pick up some treats and a couple of decaf skinny cappuccinos. It’s an investment, I remember thinking. An investment in our friendship.

As luck would have it, on the day I have time to kill, I’m served quickly and, by the time I walk out, it’s on the dot of ten. I figure a few minutes late is perfect as I don’t want to look too keen, so I walk really slowly to Anna’s. It’s not easy – even then, even heavy with the baby. I’ve always been a fast mover, a no-nonsense walker whose life mission seems to be to get from A to B as efficiently as possible. Flying was an obvious career choice to me. Walking slowly reminds me of the slow-bicycle races of my childhood, when the bike’s going so slowly it’s practically falling over. As I turn into Anna’s street I check my watch: the hands are spread wide like they’re holding a yoga pose – 10.10 – so I walk up to the front door of her house, ring the doorbell and step back, suddenly, after all the build-up, a bag of nerves. I clear my throat and fluff my hair, put down the bag of treats, then pick it up again, run my hands though my hair again, and then I hear a bolt shoot, then another, then a key turns and the door opens. Anna’s in skinny jeans, a blue sweatshirt and socks. Her hair’s scraped back in a messy ponytail, and she looks pleased to see me. I think of her Instagram post ‘#newfriends’.

‘Morning!’ she says in that English way that still makes me smile. ‘Come in!’

She opens the door wider and, as I cross over the threshold, the first thing that hits me is the musty smell of an unloved building, and I feel sorry for her having to live somewhere so beaten. Already I’m mentally in there, opening the windows, flushing fresh air through the place, and positioning scented oil burners and reed diffusers in each room. Sometimes even now I catch that smell in a building and, if I shut my eyes, I’m back there, standing in Anna’s hallway, the coffee and croissants in my hands.

‘I’m sorry it’s a mess,’ Anna says, motioning to a pile of junk mail and free newspapers in the corner. The wallpaper’s faded and peeling; a painted wall dirty with the scuffs of a family long gone. No wonder she didn’t put this on Instagram.

‘Understandably!’ I say. ‘You haven’t been here that long. It took me weeks to get through all my boxes.’

‘Almost. There are still a few.’ She shrugs. ‘You know how it is. We don’t have a lot of stuff, to be honest, but there’s also not a lot of storage, so I’ve been agonizing over where to put everything.’

‘Tell me about it. Why do these places not have basements?’

‘Wouldn’t that be amazing?’ Anna leads me into the front room, which I’m gratified to see is a knocked-through lounge-diner like mine. The furniture’s been placed, but badly, and there are still a couple of packing boxes in the corner – I recognize them from her Instagram and smile to myself. Already I’m assessing what I can do to make the room look better.

‘Most of the furniture’s in the right rooms, I think,’ Anna says, ‘but it’s just making it homely that I need help with. I’ve never been good at positioning things.’ Anna pauses, then waves her hand at the room. ‘So what do you think? Be honest.’

‘It’s nice,’ I say, ‘but we can make it better. Oh, I brought coffee, by the way. Decaf, of course.’ I carefully extract the two coffees, put them on the table and hand the bag to Anna. ‘And some chocolate croissants. To keep our energy up.’

‘Ooh. I’ll get a plate.’ Anna disappears off towards the kitchen and I have a better look around. Like the hallway outside, the room has rather knackered stripped floorboards. A tatty red sofa dominates a mish-mash of a room. I narrow my eyes and try to reshuffle the furniture in my head; what would go where; what would fit where, then Anna’s back with the croissants on a plate.