Annabel Kantaria - I Know You

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

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

Ping.

I leap over to the phone. It’s her.

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

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

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

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

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

Seven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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