I Know You. Annabel Kantaria
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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.
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