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.
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