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.
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