Книга - I Know You

I Know You
Annabel Kantaria


‘Draws you in and doesn’t let you go. Gripping, chilling and twisted.’ Judy FinniganYou trust me. You shouldn’t. That picture you just posted on Instagram? I’ve seen it.The location you tagged? I’ve been there.You haven’t been careful enough, have you?Because I know all about you.But when I meet you, I won’t tell you that.I’ll pretend. Just like you do.You’ll like me though. You’ll trust me enough to let me into your life.And then I’ll destroy it.







ANNABEL KANTARIA is a British journalist who now lives in Dubai with her husband and children. She has edited and contributed to women’s magazines and publications throughout the Middle East and returns regularly to the UK.


Also by Annabel Kantaria (#ulink_be468782-192a-56fd-a42d-9c75501bd72a)

Coming Home

The Disappearance

The One That Got Away








Copyright (#ulink_499dad1e-cb7c-55c9-ac1b-c28db6a1addb)






An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Annabel Kantaria 2018

Annabel Kantaria asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008238698


Praise for Annabel Kantaria (#ulink_82a1fec0-0162-52b7-bcba-0ed91a42d533)

‘Draws you in and doesn’t let you go. Gripping, chilling and twisted.’

Judy Finnigan

‘Twists and turns abound.’

Hello!

‘Compelling…fans of Jodi Picoult and Liane Moriarty will enjoy this.’

Candis

‘A clever, tense thriller.’

Heat

‘A gripping debut. You won’t be able to put this down.’

Bella

‘A compelling tale of marriage, deceit and unfinished business.’

Amanda Brooke


For Sam


Contents

Cover (#u77ae8394-6e94-5aea-805d-de67947567e7)

About the Author (#u4631c416-3adb-548e-9cb4-b2886cfd34f7)

Booklist (#ulink_017ca72b-4a1d-5888-8230-3b8282bf9757)

Title Page (#u9246c71c-c931-58c9-852c-63b023b7d84b)

Copyright (#ulink_809a9a52-2d2c-56fd-8b91-280b84d86ee8)

Praise (#ulink_cd41f727-23b9-5232-a394-4ff0c982836f)

Dedication (#ue60b6a88-1ff1-530c-a7dc-7192e12d8a62)

Prologue (#ulink_6b4fc968-0096-59a6-b5ac-03df6e171c55)

One (#ulink_b0e7e225-ca33-5c33-9e73-9c50d4e5d4e1)

Two (#ulink_ea01575e-687a-572a-93d0-73c6802dbbec)

Three (#ulink_6f691463-e18b-5eed-86fb-53c132c02640)

Four (#ulink_9bee78c9-b375-5016-a9ce-b3afe63252dc)

Five (#ulink_5fbdb298-17c1-5dea-b27e-cdeeb8388ed1)

Six (#ulink_cf9da8cc-45ad-5e05-b547-6270db740780)

Seven (#ulink_56c3f971-41da-591c-a45e-1472edd323cb)

Eight (#ulink_3f5810f0-6b35-5c0b-ba68-3abecfdaace5)

Nine (#ulink_3bb7c29d-0e49-5097-9f49-054134e0c015)

Ten (#ulink_4d9508d2-1b71-5818-887c-b6aa68847991)

Eleven (#ulink_bbc6d9ca-531e-5bee-8a16-3e43bf640d9d)

Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-one (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-two (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-three (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-four (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-five (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-six (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-one (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-two (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-three (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-four (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-five (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-six (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Fifty (#litres_trial_promo)

Fifty-one (#litres_trial_promo)

Fifty-two (#litres_trial_promo)

Fifty-three (#litres_trial_promo)

Fifty-four (#litres_trial_promo)

Fifty-five (#litres_trial_promo)

Fifty-six (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#ulink_bfafb1ba-594e-53cf-b19f-fe9a4c1f969f)

I stare at the computer screen, my eyes flicking as they keep up with the feeds rolling down the pages like ticker tape. The only movement in the room comes from my hand clicking on the mouse, and the occasional staccatoburst of my fingers on the keyboard ringing out like gunfire in the silence of the house. Everything around me is still, which is exactly how I like it. The curtains are drawn, and just one beam of sunlight escaping through an imperceptible gap illuminates dust motes suspended in the stale air. Not that I notice. My attention is focused entirely on the 24-inch monitor I’ve angled to face me, the iPads on the desk next to me, and the screen of my mobile phone. All show live social-media feeds, internet searches and live chat rooms.

My fingers flick over the keyboards, the key strokes rattling in the silence of the house as I follow the fast-moving feeds. I lean towards the screen, my attention focused 100 per cent as I scroll, click and type, and then the printer whirs into action, spooling out a colour picture. I pick it off the tray and stare at it almost lasciviously: new material. Even though there’s usually something fresh each day, I’m pleased. It’s a good one. I roll my chair over to the filing cabinet and locate the right scrapbook from the top shelf, then I flick through it, smiling to myself as I go through the familiar images. While the other books all show pictures of people, this one has images of things: cars, streets and houses. Some are older now, their corners starting to curl: I didn’t used to laminate.

I run the new image through the laminator, picking it off the machine while it’s still hot, then carefully fix it in the book using corner mounts. Without the images of her blonde hair and his easy smile, this mightn’t be as interesting a scrapbook as the others to a stranger’s eye – but you have to trust me: it’s way more valuable.


One (#ulink_e3196389-1c50-5289-aa9a-d6b793a4440e)

I remember well the day this story started. It was the day I joined the walking group: the day I met Simon; the day I met Anna. It was a wintry December day – dry and bitterly cold. People had their Christmas trees up and fairy lights hanging in their windows but it wasn’t close enough to Christmas for the real excitement to have begun; for people to have started realizing just how few days they have left to rampage through department stores, grabbing aftershave and perfume, leather gloves, lingerie and watches.

The day I joined the walking group marked the beginning of a cold snap that lasted well into February. December to February. By March, when tiny green buds were starting to form on the trees, and flowers were beginning to push their cheerful colours through the earth, by then it was all over. Three months of brutal cold before spring started. That’s all we’re talking about here. Three months.

So let me begin. My mother always told me to be choosy. She’s not really in this story, though I feel she should be.

‘Be choosy with your clothes, be choosy with your make-up, be choosy with what you put in your mouth and with whom you share your bed,’ she used to say, leaning back against the kitchen counter, her arms consumed by marigold gloves. ‘But most of all,’ she would say, ‘be choosy with whom you make friends.’

It was good advice, and I was thinking about it as I pulled on my socks that December morning. I tied the laces on my walking boots and hunted around for my gloves, my hat and the warmest jacket I owned – the one stuffed with ultra-light down, like everyone seemed to have in those days. In my head, there was nothing more serious than the need to keep warm and the need to make some friends.

‘All very well, Mum,’ I said out loud. I was talking to myself a lot back then. ‘But beggars can’t always be choosers.’ If only Mum could see me now, two months into married life in London with no friends to call my own, she’d tell me to come straight back home, that’s what she’d do. And maybe I should have gone home: for sure, if I had, things would have turned out differently. That’s easy to say now. But that day, I zipped up my jacket, found my purse, and set off for the park, my head full of plans.

I still remember how, despite the jacket, the cold hit me the moment I stepped out of the house, the door slamming shut behind me in a gust of wind that must surely have blown in directly from the Arctic. I paused for a moment, unused to those British winters: unused to those blue-sky days that looked so inviting when you were cosy inside but felt as if they’d strip raw any uncovered flesh the moment you stepped outside. I adjusted my scarf to cover my cheeks, pulled my woollen hat further down onto my head, and took in the bare-limbed trees, the parked cars, the cracked, grey paving slabs, the litter blowing in the gutter, and the cans rattling against the kerb. I took in next-door’s fat tabby cat licking its paws, and the tired-looking, grey-coated people, their faces turned down, hurrying to work. I remember feeling jealous then – of their jobs, their purpose, and of their colleagues; of their silly water-cooler chats, coffee runs and birthday whip-rounds.

‘This is it, babe,’ I said out loud. ‘This is London.’

I set off down the street looking, I hoped, more confident than I felt. I was on a mission to meet people because, as Jake joked at that point, I had exactly three friends: Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. It was difficult to believe that I should have no real friends in London and, hand on heart, I was having trouble to adjusting to the fact that I knew no one. I’d laughed at his joke but it had hurt. There were days back then when I’d thought the loneliness would surely drive me insane; when I felt as if the darkness inside me was going to explode out and flood the house, engulfing me like a seabird caught helplessly in a slimy slick of oil. It makes me squirm now, but back then I’d see myself floating down the hall, arms and legs glued to my body, eyes bulging, choking on loneliness, and I’d have to breathe into a paper bag to stop myself hyperventilating. I never told Jake about that. Maybe I should have done – who knows? – but, ultimately, that’s why I decided to join the walking group.

At the end of my street, I turned a smart right, crossed the main road, headed towards the park, and arrived bang on time. And so the story begins.

*

I see the walking group at once: a mish-mash of people gathered beneath a huge old oak. Some, in sportwear, are stretching hamstrings and quads, others are clutching take-out coffees and, had I been worried about what to wear, I realize right there that there’s no need: there’s a whole range of active wear between the two groups. I turn my back to the group and snap a smiling selfie with them in the background, then upload it to Instagram as I walk towards the group. ‘Hiking, London-style! #lloydpark’, I write for the caption, adding a little heart emoji, full of the knowledge that my friends back home will find the image everything it’s not: cute (Taylor in a hat!), quaint (London parks!), and moody with the dark sky and bleak trees (weather!). Hollywood Hills it isn’t. Already my phone buzzes with Likes.

They say you judge a person in seven seconds, and I’m perhaps even quicker than that. I scan the group as I approach, my eyes sweeping right and left through them, ruling out those standing with friends and those too old. I’ve nothing against the elderly, don’t get me wrong, but I’m looking for a specific type of person – a new best friend – and, for that, there are criteria.

I wonder now what would have happened had I turned up earlier or later in the year; had I gone to a different supermarket, seen an ad for a different walking group; read a flyer for a different kind of hobby. I go over and over how things might have been different. But this is the day I join this walking group, and I spot a potential friend at once. There’s something about her face, her hair, her clothes, and the way she holds herself. She looks like one of my friends – my real friends back in the States. What I feel is familiarity: that woman standing there in the skinny jeans, the brown boots and the olive-green coat looks like she should be in my tribe. I take a deep breath and wend my way through the other walkers, smiling politely, until I get to her.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘It’s Jen, isn’t it?’

She looks at me and purses her lips. Squints her eyes.

‘You don’t remember, do you?’ I give a little laugh and shake my hair back as I lean in towards her as if we’re sharing a joke. I have the kind of face that’s generic to a lot of people: a symmetrical, pretty face, with a smile so friendly you think you know me. You’ve ‘seen’ me, you’ve seen thousands of me, and this ‘do I know you?’ tactic often works. But not on this day: the woman shakes her head slowly.

‘I’m sorry. Head like a sieve. Remind me,’ she says.

‘I’m Jake’s wife. We met at dinner at Richard and Kate’s the other week…?’ I falter. ‘At least, I think it was you!’ I laugh again, and shrug. ‘Or have I made a huge mistake? I’m rubbish at faces.’

She tuts and shakes her head. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh god. No, I’m so sorry. I can be such an idiot!’

Now she’s smiling but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘No worries. It’s okay.’ She’s already looking past me, towards the gates of the park.

I thrust out my hand. ‘I’m Taylor, by the way.’

‘Polly,’ she says, giving my hand a limp shake, and I picture myself telling Jake that I’d met a real, live person called Polly. It’s such an English name. There’s something so pure and sweet and rosy about it. It’s like I hit the English-names jackpot. In my head, I fast-forward our friendship like a movie: Polly and Taylor. I imagine nights out, holidays together, us telling our other friends how we met at a walking group ‘way back in the day’. I’ve already said that I lived in my head a lot in those days, haven’t I? Loneliness is a bitch.

‘Glad to meet you,’ I say to Polly, changing the subject. ‘So what’s the deal here? It’s my first time.’

‘Oh, it’s fairly relaxed,’ she says. ‘We sign in with Cath over there…’ she points to a woman with a clipboard, ‘and then we all start walking. It’s about an hour’s walk.’

‘Great. And we end up back here?’

‘Yes. Sometimes we go a different route; Cath tries to show us different parts of the town and park but, yes, we end up back here.’

‘Hi!’ We’re interrupted by a fresh-faced woman who approaches behind me.

‘Hey!’ says Polly. The other woman turns out to be called Bex. And this is where it all goes wrong. From the moment Polly and Bex start talking to each other, two things become clear. One, that this is a weekly date for the two of them; and two, that I’m the gooseberry. I make my excuses, turn around and fall into conversation with a tall man who’s standing behind me: that’s how I come to know Simon.


Two (#ulink_3e7eb654-6b34-5223-b0ed-f075b85d5bf3)

By the time we get back to the starting point of the walk, I feel as if I know the vast majority of Simon’s life history. It’s not his fault, and I’m not complaining – it’s just I’ve been so starved of conversation since the move that I don’t stop asking the poor guy questions. I don’t ask him how old he is but I’d guess from the greys starting to lighten his hair at the temples, from the crow’s feet that line his face, and perhaps from the self-deprecating maturity with which he talks about his situation, that he’s in his late forties, maybe even just gone fifty. He’s divorced but is ‘fine about it’ because it means he can live with his dad – he’s the only child and pretty much his dad’s full-time carer. The dad, whom he curiously refers to as ‘Father’, has a lot wrong with him. Simon uses technical terms with which I’m not familiar but I imagine his dad being housebound, perhaps even confined to his bed. I can picture Simon bending over him, tending to him with never-ending patience – though maybe he’s not like that at all. Maybe he’s impatient, snapping at his father, resenting the fact that his life’s ebbing away as he wipes dribble from his mouth, shampoos his thin, grey hair, and trims his yellowing nails. Some external carer, a volunteer or something, comes occasionally, and that’s when Simon slips out to do things like go to the library, and walk with this group.

‘I come here for the company,’ he says as we trudge, head-down into the wind, so I ask him who he usually talks to.

‘Oh, no one specific. I just come to be among other people. Not necessarily talking to them.’ He laughs. ‘You’re honoured I’ve put up with you for a whole hour.’

We both laugh then because surely it’s as obvious as day is day that he’s done all the talking.

‘So tell me about you,’ he says. ‘Have you lived here long?’

I open my mouth to reply but am rendered mute by the memory of that evening when Jake had sat me down on Santa Monica beach, the huge, red sun kissing the horizon and the soft air balmy against my skin, and suggested a fresh start in Britain.

‘London!’ he’d said, arcing his hands as if to embrace the entire city, and I’d pictured the lights, the shops, the buzz and the bars of the West End, not exactly Croydon.

‘A smart little townhouse,’ Jake had said, ‘for us and this little one…’ He’d patted my tummy where the baby was then about the size of a lime. ‘What do you think?’ Only it hadn’t been a question, it had been an ultimatum, and we’d both known what he meant: move away and give our marriage a fighting chance, or stay in Santa Monica and let it flounder on the rocks of his infidelity.

I’d plumped for the dream. Jake’s dream. My marriage. But I’m not about to tell Simon that.

‘No, I’m new to the area,’ I say finally.

He asks when the baby’s due, which I think is a brave question given how subtle my bump still is for thirty-two weeks, especially under the Puffa-style jacket that muffles every dip and curve, and he doesn’t even pass comment on my American accent.

I’m just saying bye to him when the walking group finally does cough up the result I was hoping for. Maybe it’s a payment from the universe or something for me for giving so much attention to Simon, but I see a woman I didn’t spot at the start, and she’s exactly what I’m looking for. With blonde hair and wearing a bright blue jacket, she stands out from the crowd and I wonder why I didn’t see her before. I make my way over to where she’s standing alone.

‘Good walk?’ I say, giving her my best cabin-crew beam.

‘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 (#ulink_f9882a0d-facd-5160-a13c-0266fc136dba)

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 (#ulink_94a13aa8-2689-5d64-96d7-c439776889ce)

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.

‘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 (#ulink_768f4f42-76c9-575a-b0cf-b5cc46e2cb6f)

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. Where 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?

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 (#ulink_7495de9d-0b18-5ac9-9fd3-f8eaf1401edc)

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 (#ulink_7c2f35d8-a1ec-5331-9e88-cde6b8788587)

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.

‘Thanks,’ she says, ‘they look delish.’

‘You’re so welcome.’ I rub my hands together. ‘Right, shall we start with your dining table? Is that where you want it?’

Anna sighs. ‘I don’t know.’

I purse my lips to make it look like I’m thinking when clearly it’s a no-brainer. ‘Well, if it’s of any help at all,’ I say, ‘I have a similar layout and I’ve played around with it a lot.’

‘Oh wow,’ Anna says. ‘Same house?’

‘No. Same living area but we have the extra room downstairs which I don’t think you do? Shall I show you what I’ve done? I shan’t be offended if you don’t like it.’

‘Really? That would be fantastic.’

‘It’s no problem,’ I say. ‘Right. So, I have the dining table in this section, closest to the kitchen, so you can separate out a food/eating area.’ I look at Anna and wonder if, like me, she ends up eating dinner on her lap in front of the television when her husband’s away – or skipping dinner because cooking for one’s such a depressing activity – but she nods.

‘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 (#ulink_6c3a36a6-e240-5410-a1fc-9315b23f75e5)

‘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 black 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 (#ulink_9acce2c8-fe49-5c67-b252-bd42b58eecb5)

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 (#ulink_b50211fc-4591-5e53-886c-c86a4d3528e8)

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.

We pass through the ticket barriers and onto the platform. ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ I say. I’m so full of the joy of giving and sharing, I feel like it’s Christmas Day and I’m about to give a child something really cute and fluffy like a kitten. Anna looks quizzically at me as I get out my phone and click on Photos, then I turn it towards her so she can see the screen.

‘Look. It’s a mood board I did for you. What do you think?’

‘Oh my god. You did this for me?’ She takes the phone.

I nod. ‘It was too big to carry up to London so I photographed it for you. I’ll send it to you so it’s on your phone, too.’

‘Oh wow.’ Anna’s enlarging the image and looking at all the different pictures. ‘Oh my god, the style looks so … “done”. It looks amazing. And you think this would be possible to do in my living room?’

I nod again, feeling like Croydon’s answer to Kelly Hoppen. ‘You have a lot of those colours there already. It’s just a matter of getting a few more bits – some cushions, throws et cetera – and some accessories. Easy-peasy. I thought we could start in John Lewis, have a mooch in Zara Home, and maybe pop down to Habitat and Heal’s after, if you’ve got the energy. What do you think?’

‘Sounds great,’ says Anna. She closes the photo then clicks on another. ‘Ooh, is this another one? What’s this? Do you mind?’

‘Oh that? That’s one I did using the colours Jake and I have in our house,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if it’s your style… We go for a sort of New England look. Coastal, I guess.’

I watch, secretly pleased she’s found the other mood board until I remember with a jolt the collage I made of her pregnancy pictures, which suddenly now seems inappropriate. I pretty much snatch my phone back, click it closed and drop it into my bag. She doesn’t seem to notice anything peculiar.

‘Oh my god, it’s gorgeous,’ she says, smiling as if she’s just seen a holy vision. ‘Do you think I could do that?’

‘You like it?’

‘Yes! I love it! If I had to describe how I want my house to look, that would be it! Can we do the blue one? Please?’

Honestly? I’m surprised. From what she already owns, I didn’t have her down as a New England type – but who am I to argue? I’m chuffed to bits she likes my style.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘It’ll mean buying a few more bits, and perhaps covering your sofa and painting some of your wooden pieces, but we can do it. Sure.’

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ says Anna.

‘Look, here’s the train now,’ I say, looking down the track so Anna doesn’t see how much I’m smiling.

*

It’s nearly five o’clock by the time we get back to Croydon. I don’t know about Anna, but I’m exhausted. We’re laden down with bags of all shapes, weights and sizes, and my steps, as we head towards Anna’s, get slower and slower. The wind’s still blowing and it takes all my energy to walk against it with the bags bumping against my legs as if they’re on a sadistic mission to trip me up.

‘Look at us hunched into the wind like a couple of old ladies,’ I say. ‘Wow, London’s exhausting. That really took it out of me.’

‘This wind really doesn’t help.’

‘At least it’s not raining.’ I imagine trying to hold up an umbrella as well as carrying so much stuff. ‘That would be awful!’

‘Dreadful.’ She pauses. ‘Soon we’ll be pushing prams everywhere.’

‘I can’t even imagine.’

We struggle on in silence until we reach Anna’s house.

‘Finally!’ says Anna, dropping her bags and searching for her keys. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea before you head home?’

‘Thanks. Just what the doctor ordered.’ I follow Anna into her house. The musty smell’s still there but I’ve got a plan. I rummage in one of the bags and pull out an elegantly boxed reed diffuser.

‘Ta da!’ I say, presenting it to Anna. ‘Sorry it’s not wrapped, but “happy new home”! Just a little house-warming gift.’

‘Oh wow,’ says Anna. ‘Thank you.’

‘I thought you could put it here in the hall, then it’ll be the first thing your guests smell when they come in.’

‘Great idea,’ says Anna. ‘I love it. Thank you so much.’ But she doesn’t unwrap it; she simply puts it down on the hall table and heads into the kitchen to make the tea. I look at it for a moment, then I open it and set it up.

I go through to the kitchen where Anna is putting on the kettle.

‘Do you mind if I sit?’ I ask as I pull out a dining chair and collapse onto it with a sigh. I slip off my shoes and circle my ankles, then I roll my shoulders in small circles, trying to release some of the tension from all that bag-carrying.

‘Make yourself at home,’ she says. ‘Sugar? Sorry, I’ve forgotten.’

‘No thanks. I’m sweet enough. Oh, by the way,’ I say, suddenly remembering, ‘Jake and I were wondering if you’d would like to come for dinner one evening when Rob’s back in town. What do you think? It was actually Jake’s idea!’ I laugh, unsure why I want him to get the credit for this.

‘That’s kind of you, and we’d love to,’ Anna says as she pours the water into two mugs, ‘but I don’t know when Rob’s next back. He often can’t confirm until a day or so beforehand.’

‘Sure. Or maybe you could come on your own? We won’t bite.’

‘That would be great,’ Anna says. ‘Maybe a better plan, actually. Rob’s usually really tired when he comes back. He often just wants to relax at home, to be honest. Boring old fart that he is.’ She smiles. ‘Right. Have you got the energy to open some of these bags? I’m dying to see what everything looks like.’

It takes a good hour to arrange things – an hour in which I feel a bit like a magician waving my wand over the house. Anna’s face lights up as her living room transforms in front of her eyes. I take a few pictures of my handiwork.

‘Right, we just need to get some pictures in those frames and get them up on that wall,’ I say as we stand back to survey the room, ‘and, if you painted that bookcase white or even a combination of white and maybe a pale, chalky blue, it would make a world of difference. It would come up a treat with some Annie Sloan paint, and it’s not difficult to do.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

I smile. ‘I’m happy to help. Painting furniture’s my therapy!’

‘You’re amazing. It’s incredible what a difference you’ve made,’ Anna says, and I seize the chance.

‘Would you mind if I put some pictures online? It’s the first “project” I’ve done and it might help me drum up some business if I decide to do this professionally.’ Anna opens her mouth but I interrupt. ‘I could tag you, if you like? Or not.’

‘Oh, I…’ Anna begins, then she shrugs. ‘Be my guest. As long as I’m not in them.’

‘Why not?’

‘You never know who’s out there,’ she says, then laughs. ‘I’m not paranoid, I’m just…’ she frowns as she searches for a word, ‘wary.’ She tells me the name of her account, and I type it in as if I don’t know it, then click follow. ‘Perfect. Done. I’ll tag you when I upload them.’

Anna leads me to the door then turns to me. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘It’s a pleasure. So, are you up for the walking group on Wednesday?’

‘Yes, sure. See you there.’

‘You will do!’

‘If Simon doesn’t get to you first!’ Anna waves from the door. ‘Safe journey!’

We both laugh and I’m still smiling to myself as I set off, thinking back over the day. Anna’s a good shopping companion, open-minded and willing to go along with whatever I suggested; never shy of paying for things, either. I’ve been shopping with friends who, when it comes to actually making the decision, never actually buy anything – and where’s the fun in that?

Later, when everything’s happened – a lot later, when the police have bowed out, the dust has settled and life has moved on as it inevitably does – I remember this day with Anna. I remember how happy I was.


I know what your favourite restaurant is

Wahaca.

A Mexican chain, where ‘the food is fast, fresh and feisty’.

You may deny it – if asked, you’d probably name some fancy place where all the celebs go – but the trail’s there, isn’t it? Six check-ins in two months. Instagrammed: crispy prawn tacos. Instagrammed: Mexican feast. Instagrammed: huitlacoche empanadas. Instagrammed: ancho chicken tacos #fresh #streetfood #marketfood #lovemexico #clean #authentic. Nom fucking nom.

Oh, you think you’re such a foodie. The phrase ‘street food’ falls out of your mouth like diarrhoea. To listen to you, anyone would think you’re the first person to have discovered authentic Mexican food; that you’ve single-handedly pioneered Wahaca’s success; that it’s entirely down to you that Time Out’s called it London’s ‘trendiest chain for chatting and chowing down’. You spout off about ‘fresh’ and ‘honest’ ingredients to anyone who’ll listen. It’s like you think you’re Deliciously fucking Ella.

But what do you actually do to earn the label of foodie? Did you know the best chefs before they became famous? Do you travel the world seeking them out; do you go to places just to immerse yourself in the food culture? Have you ever travelled rough from Hanoi to Saigon, living hand to mouth and eating the best op la, pho, and bun rieu? That’s street food for you, princess. That’s being a foodie.

Oh no. You think all you need to do is check-in every time you eat out, and Instagram your food from above, and you think that makes you part of the in-crowd, don’t you? One check-in at the Wimbledon branch. Two in Covent Garden – could it be more ‘cringe’? Three check-ins on the South Bank.

That’s your favourite, isn’t it? Those containers in their bright colours overlooking the laconic sludge of the Thames. ‘It’s so authentic,’ you bleat, but you’re not lying: your favourite thing in the world is to eat there then walk along the South Bank, watching the street artists, listening to the buskers, watching the boats and pretending you’re some kind of trendy London type. It makes me want to puke. Can I tell you something, sweetie-pie? You’re no foodie: you’re boring. You’re pathetic. The only food you are is fucking vanilla.


Eleven (#ulink_c8b2bcc2-14e6-5a16-b74d-ee5fa6a223a3)

Long before I reach the walking group’s meeting point, I see her straight blonde hair and bright blue coat sticking out among the sea of browns and olives that ebbs and flows around her. On Instagram, she’s posted a collage of shots she took on our shopping trip ‘#new friends’ and I’m on top of the world. I sneak up behind her.

‘Do you come here often, young lady?’ I say in my creepiest voice. She spins around defensively, almost as if she’s going to strike out, then her face softens as she realizes it’s me.

‘Hey. Morning! No sign of lover-boy today so it looks like you’re stuck with me.’

‘Oh, I suppose I’ll survive!’ I say, rolling my eyes to hide how pleased I am that I’ll get her to myself.

A few minutes later we set off. The others fall into groups and we tag along near the back of the raggle-taggle string. Anna takes a quick picture of a squirrel that’s unusually close to the path.

‘Instagram!’ she sings, slipping her phone back into her pocket.

‘So, how’s Rob?’ I say, taking deep breaths of the fresh air. It’s cold and damp, not really the blue-sky day I’d hoped for, and there’s a heavy scent of petrol fumes in the air, but at least it’s not raining.

‘Fine, I guess. I haven’t spoken to him,’ says Anna.

I tilt my head. ‘Really?’

‘It’s difficult with the time difference and everything…’ She shrugs. ‘We message. Talk once a week.’

‘I guess you’re more used to being apart than I am. I’m on the phone with Jake most nights.’

I don’t point out that it’s him who calls me, and that I suspect it’s only to prove that he’s not out with a woman. Not that a phone call proves anything, of course, but he doesn’t seem to see it that way.

‘How long have you guys been married?’ Anna asks.

I kick a pile of brown leaves, sending them flying into the air.

‘You should never do that,’ Anna says. ‘There might be hedgehogs under it.’

I look to see if she’s being serious, then apologize, thrown off-balance that I might have upset her.

‘No worries,’ she says. ‘Don’t do it again. So, how long have you been married?’

‘Two. And together for one before that.’

‘Not so long then.’

‘How about you and Rob?’

‘Seven years married. And you know what they say about that.’ Anna rolls her eyes.

‘Seven-year itch?’ I ask, and she takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. It surprises me. Young couple, pregnant wife – I’d assumed, I suppose, that their marriage was a garden of roses. But I, of all people, should know that’s not necessarily true.

‘It’s difficult keeping things alive when we’re apart so much,’ Anna says carefully. ‘I only see him for a few nights every four to six weeks. Sometimes it feels as if he spends more time on aeroplanes than he does with me. It’s a joke I even got pregnant. And now…’ she exhales. ‘Now, I guess I’ll be pretty much raising this baby alone.’

‘But he’ll come home for the birth, won’t he? Stick around a bit?’

She shrugs. ‘You’d hope so, wouldn’t you?’ We walk a few steps while I digest this, then Anna speaks again. ‘God knows what he gets up to when he’s away.’ She looks away from me, across the park.

‘Surely not a lot? It’s Qatar, isn’t it?’ I’m really out of my depth now but, from what little I’ve heard about Middle Eastern countries, I imagine Rob’s living in some sort of compound with other male members of staff. Segregated from the women. Or is that Saudi Arabia? I’m ashamed how little I know, but it can’t be like California, can it, where temptation-in-a-bikini is all around.

Anna sighs. ‘I think it’s pretty relaxed in the big hotels. They can get alcohol and stuff. There are clubs and bars, and pretty, young cabin crew a-plenty.’ She shuts her eyes. ‘I just try not to think about it. So how do you and Jake keep it alive while he’s away?’ she says.

I laugh, thrown off guard by the question. ‘I’m hardly the right person to ask.’

‘Oh, come on! I need some tips.’

I go to kick another pile of leaves and remember I mustn’t. ‘I just try to keep him interested, that’s all. So he doesn’t look elsewhere. But, you know… with the baby…’

‘It’s safe, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Course it is. It’s just…’

Anna smiles. ‘I know exactly what you mean. The most important thing is to get the baby to full term, right? After what you’ve been through.’

‘Yes!’

‘And surely he understands that? I mean – it’s his precious son and heir, right?’

‘Exactly. Yes, of course.’

We smile, understanding each other perfectly.

‘But before that. What did you do to keep him interested?’ she asks. ‘You’ve got to have some tricks up your sleeve, right?’

I suck my teeth. ‘Well, we’d talk on the phone…’

‘Like… dirty talk?’ She’s peering at me, her curiosity naked.

‘Sometimes. And I’d send him pictures. Nothing that’d be worth hacking my iCloud for. Just a bit of a tease.’

‘To keep him interested?’

‘Yeah. You know how it is… handsome man; travels a lot…’ I exhale, plastering over the wound of Jake’s infidelity in my head; thinking further back to a time before I’d caught him cheating. ‘I dunno. I might buy some fancy new underwear when he was coming home after a longer trip. Not every trip, just now and then. And he likes a bit of role play, so – wow, this goes back to before we were married, I don’t think we’ve done it in ages – god, I’m embarrassed to say, but I’d get some dress-up costumes. We used to be quite playful.’ I laugh, self-conscious now, and sneak a sideways look at Anna. ‘It sounds seedy, doesn’t it? It was just a bit of fun.’

‘It’s not seedy, and I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I hope you didn’t mind me asking, but who else can you ask but your girlfriends?’

I shake my head. ‘It’s fine. You don’t do any of that, I take it?’

‘Rob’s not the sort. He’s more your wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am type. You know, straight-up, no frills. If I put on fancy underwear he’d think I’d got a boyfriend coming over.’

I can’t imagine lovely Anna with someone who sounds, frankly, so dull. ‘How did you two meet?’

‘Long story. Boring story. Not-telling-you story.’

I pout to disguise my hurt. ‘Really?’

‘It’s not worth the breath. But let’s just say I was vulnerable at the point at which he came into my life and I think that’s got something to do with the fact we got together. He was what I needed at the time. Manly. Protective.’ She looks off into the distance and I remember the picture of him in her house; how much taller than her he is.

‘Sounds intriguing, not boring.’

Anna sighs. ‘It’s a story for another day.’

We walk in silence for a while. It hurts that she doesn’t want to tell me after everything I’ve just told her. It’s like three steps forward, one step back but I don’t want to push too hard.

‘So have you made any other friends?’ she says.

‘Well, funny you should mention that,’ I say, ‘but I’ve been invited to join a book club.’

‘Wow, I used to be in a book club in Bristol.’ She laughs to herself. ‘Fun times. Who’s running that?’

Even as she’s speaking, my mind’s running at high speed. Sarah said I could bring a friend, and Anna’s within walking distance.

‘Would you be interested?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I’d have to check, but it’s run by a woman in my street. It’d be awesome to have you there – if you’re a reader, I mean. Don’t join if you don’t like reading. What do you think?’

‘Really?’ We’re walking quite fast and Anna’s face, as she turns to me, is flushed. ‘I’d love that. Thank you!’

And, for the first time since I arrived in London, I feel I’m doing something useful – making friend connections – and it fills me with happiness, which is probably why, when footsteps run up behind us and I turn to see that it’s Simon, I give him a huge smile.

‘Hello, Taylor,’ he says, falling into step with us. ‘I thought that was you. Very distinctive walk you’ve got. And you’re Anna, aren’t you?’

Anna nods and gives him what I realize is clearly a fake smile and he smiles back then looks away.

‘How’s your dad?’ I ask.

He smiles again and I notice a couple of hairs sticking out of his nose. They quiver with every breath. He pushes his glasses back up his nose. ‘He had a much better week, thank you for asking.’

‘Good. And what about you? How was your week?’

He gives me another smile and shrugs. ‘Comme ci, comme ça. It is what it is.’

‘How long have you been caring for him?’ I ask.

‘It’s been a year since I moved in to Father’s place. I had to. It was too difficult otherwise. I couldn’t be everywhere at once.’

‘There’s no one else who can help?’ I realize what a daft question that is as it comes out of my mouth. Anna, who’s remained silent throughout this exchange, gives me a sideways look.

‘I don’t have any siblings,’ says Simon. ‘It’s okay. I don’t mind. It can just be a bit intense sometimes, which is why I enjoy coming to this group – getting outside, seeing other people, feeling like I have a normal life… Otherwise I tend to live my life vicariously through social media.’ He gives a nervous laugh.

‘Don’t knock it,’ I say. ‘Saved my life. When I moved here. I didn’t know anyone. If it wasn’t for social media, I think I’d have been dragged away by the men in white coats by now. My husband likes to joke that my best friends are Twitter and Instagram.’

‘Lol,’ he says with an ironic smile. ‘You are quite prolific.’

I do a double-take. ‘What?’

He taps the side of his nose with one finger. ‘Oh yes, I’ve checked you out already. I liked a couple of your posts. On Instagram, and Twitter.’

‘Really?’

‘Hmm. You won’t have known it was me: my account’s a load of random letters and numbers.’ He waggles his eyebrows at me. ‘I don’t like to give anything away.’





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/annabel-kantaria/i-know-you/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.