Annabel Kantaria - I Know You

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.