I Know You

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.

Three

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 inside out. In one, there was a tall bear of a man and I stared at it, wondering who he was. Her compositions were careful; her pictures way more than just snaps. Lots were of details: her nail polish; a piece of jewellery or an accessory; a plate of food. I don’t know how long I spent looking at her pictures but after some time – half an hour maybe? – my back had started to ache and I’d gone into the kitchen. I remember wondering if the clock was broken, its hands stuck at 2.30 p.m., but my watch confirmed the news: the hump of the day wasn’t even broken; the afternoon still stretched ahead like a road through the Mojave Desert.

I looked for Anna on Twitter but ended up spending the bulk of the afternoon in an online discussion about whether or not you should find out the sex of the baby. Inevitably perhaps, someone got pissed with me. She – or he, I suppose it could be – sent me a rant spread over three Tweets and I sat there wondering if there was any point in defending myself; if there was any point in anything. I just felt so beaten. Lonely and beaten. Remember that before you judge me later; remember that this story is born from loneliness. Unless you’ve experienced it, you’ve no idea where it can lead you. Do I sound defensive? You can blame Jake for that.

*

Around six that day, when Jake’s due home, I start to get restless. I get up from the sofa, go to the front door, and squint through the peephole, disappointed when I see the emptiness of our parking space. On the hall table, tanned versions of Jake and me smile up at me from a photo frame. It’s a casual picture from our wedding day. Standing above us, the photographer caught us laughing as the guests showered us in dried rose petals. I close my eyes – the day had been perfect. Jake and I had had the barefoot beach wedding I’d always dreamed of, on an island off Key West. Although that picture’s now in a box in the basement, just thinking about it brings back the warm caress of the sun on my skin, the sound of the palms rustling in the gentle breeze, and the blaze of glorious colours: the turquoise of the sea, the white sand, and the vibrant pinks and purples of the bougainvillea that trailed around the resort, dripping off the white plantation-style balconies of the guest cottages. Easy days. Simple times.

Waiting for Jake to get home, I remember the way he’d grabbed my hand and led me and our friends barefoot down the beach to board the catamaran for our sunset drinks reception… I sigh – it seems a lifetime ago – then I leap as the doorbell rings. I didn’t hear the car.

I’ve a smile on my face as I open the door, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Jake why he didn’t use his key, when I realize it’s not Jake at all, but a smiling woman wrapped in a raincoat. Her brown hair’s shoulder-length and streaked with honeyed highlights, though at the roots I can see a hint of grey, and she’s wearing red lipstick and a foundation that’s slightly too tanned for the pallor of her winter skin. Still, she’s attractive. I’d guess she’s ten years older than me. She tilts her head sideways.

‘Hello!’ she says cheerily. ‘I just wanted to pop by and introduce myself. I live at number twenty-six.’ She nods her head down the street. ‘Saw you and your hubby moving in. Thought I’d give you a bit of space before saying hello.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Taylor.’

She extends her hand. ‘Sarah.’ The wind gusts and she tucks her hair back behind her ears.

‘Would you like to come in?’ I ask. ‘It’s just I’m expecting my husband home any second but you’re welcome to step in for a minute?’

‘If you don’t mind, there’s actually something I’d like to ask you,’ she says, so I lead her into the front room and we stand awkwardly on the carpet. Dinner’s pretty much ready so it’s a funny time to offer tea. Wine? Should I offer her a glass of wine? I don’t think we even had any in those days.

She gives a little laugh. ‘To be honest, I have to admit I’ve come here with an ulterior motive.’

‘Okay,’ I say.

She glances around the room, spots the bookshelves. ‘Oh good,’ she says. ‘You do read!’

Should I have been more guarded with a stranger at my door? Probably – but, ‘I love reading,’ I say. ‘My books were the first thing I unpacked when we moved in.’

‘Fantastic! I know what you mean! Well, I’m not so embarrassed to ask you now, but basically, I’m starting a book club – like a little reading circle. Just a couple of girls in the area where we can get together and have some drinks and nibbles and talk about books. When I saw you moving in I couldn’t help noticing all those boxes marked “Books” and I just wondered if, maybe, it’d be something you might be interested in?’

‘Oh! What sort of books do you read? It’s just…’

‘Oh, nothing too highbrow,’ she says with a laugh. ‘Please don’t worry about that. Contemporary fiction. Latest releases. Anything really.’

‘Oh, okay. Sounds good. Obviously, I might not be able to be in it for long…’ I pat my bump in case she hasn’t noticed it.

‘Oh!’ she says. ‘Very compact! How far are you?’

‘Due late Feb.’

‘Aww.’ She smiles at my bump for a moment, then looks back at my face. ‘Well, look, you’re very welcome. We’d love to have you, and the bump.’ She smiles again. ‘Bring a friend if you like.’

‘Thanks. I’d love to join,’ I say and out of the corner of my eye I see Jake parking the car outside so I start to usher her towards the door. At the hall table, she stops.

‘Oh wow, is that your wedding?’ she asks, picking up the photo and running a finger over the glass.

‘Yes,’ I say. What else can I say?

‘What a beautiful picture,’ she says. ‘You both look so happy.’

‘We were,’ I say. Outside, I hear Jake walking up the path. ‘We are! Anyway, here he is now…’ I pull open the door. ‘Hi, darling.’ I widen my eyes at him to show I’m as surprised as he is at our unexpected visitor. ‘This is Sarah. She lives down the road. Sarah – my husband, Jake.’

Sarah steps back to look at Jake, then leans into him and gives him a showy kiss on the cheek. ‘Mwa. Even more handsome in real life,’ she says with a laugh, wiping her thumb against his cheek to remove a smudge of lipstick, then she’s off down the path. ‘Bye, Taylor! I’ll let you know when the next meeting is. Byee!’

I’m smiling when I close the door.

‘What was that all about?’ says Jake.

‘That,’ I say, puffing up a bit, ‘was my invitation to join a book club. I think I’ve got a new friend.’

Four

When I look back, it seems Jake was away more than he was home in those days. I can’t imagine why I didn’t just tell him I wanted him to spend more time at home. It seems so obvious now, but it didn’t occur to me even to question his work then; to ask ‘is this really necessary?’ Maybe it was necessary. Maybe it wasn’t – but I didn’t want to make an issue of it. The truth is, I was walking on eggshells with him at that point and I didn’t want to smash the lot of them.

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.

Can you guess what your second-favourite hashtag is? It’s actually two, which, up until Friday last week, were tied in second place. #amreading and #nomnom. Go figure.

We’re actually friends on Goodreads. Do you know that? Probably not. You just say yes to everyone who wants to follow you – never check them out; never check their own pages – you just assume they want to follow you because, well, you’re so fucking marvellous, who wouldn’t?

And guess what? Every time you rate a book, I get an email. Right into my inbox – sometimes I have to pinch myself, you make my job so easy.

But, dear god, I wish you would read something more interesting. I called you ‘Mainstream Meg’ for a while. Yet you go around telling everyone you have ‘eclectic’ taste; that you read ‘a bit of everything: biographies, non-fiction, romance, thrillers, self-help’. Why do you make out you’re 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.

Five

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 that’s dripped off her juice bottle, and traces out the letter ‘R’ with her nail. Then she looks up at me and smiles. ‘But it is what it is, I guess.’

‘You can say that again.’

We smile, no words needed, as the gossamer veil of friendship falls over us, swathes us, binds us.

‘How often does Rob come home?’ I ask, trying out the name on my tongue; a name I hope will soon be rolling off it: Anna ‘n’ Rob’, Rob ‘n’ Anna – maybe our new best friends.

‘He tries to come for a few days every four to six weeks but it’s not always possible, and the flights aren’t cheap. You can’t EasyJet back from Qatar.’ She smiles.

‘It can’t be easy. Especially pregnant.’

She sighs. ‘It has its pros and cons. And I take bump photos for him – you know, to show him how it’s going; keep him feeling connected.’

‘That’s nice,’ I say. ‘What a lovely idea. You’re not planning to move there yourself?’

She gives me a look that says ‘over my dead body’. ‘No point,’ she says. ‘It’s only a one-year contract.’

‘Fair enough.’

There’s a silence for a minute and I take a sip of juice, wondering what to talk about next. I don’t want her to think I’m boring. I’m worrying about this when Anna speaks again.

‘So, you seem to have made a friend.’

‘What?’

‘That bloke you walked with? He seems to like you.’

‘Simon?’

‘You don’t half attract them.’

I squint at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Puppy-dog eyes.’ Anna takes a sip of orange juice, raising an eyebrow at me as she does.

‘What? The guy’s pushing fifty and lives with his father.’

‘Doesn’t mean he can’t have puppy-dog eyes,’ Anna says.

‘I’m pregnant!’

‘It floats some people’s boats.’ She’s laughing at me now. The pair of us are laughing like real friends and I love it.

I tut. ‘Oh stop, that’s disgusting.’

‘Ooh,’ says Anna, holding out both hands in front of her, fingers splayed, and licks her lips, ‘I love pregnant bellies… can I have a feel?’

‘Shut up!’ I ball up a napkin and throw it at her and we both laugh.

‘Do you ever get that?’ she asks. ‘People asking to feel your belly?’

‘Yeah, sometimes. And they can F right off or I’ll put their feely fingers where the sun don’t shine,’ I say in a London accent.

Anna laughs, then finishes her juice and pushes the cup to the side. ‘Right,’ she says, ‘It’s been lovely chatting but I guess I really should get going. There’s a mountain of work at home with my name on it.’

She sees my surprise and I kick myself for assuming that everyone who walks in the park in the daytime doesn’t work.

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m an indexer and proofreader. I do a bit of copy-editing, too. Freelance stuff. Maybe write the odd bit of below-the-line copy for advertising.’

‘Wow. It must be nice to be able to work from home. I’d love that. It’s the perfect solution.’

In my head, a little movie plays of me dandling the baby in one hand while knocking off some professional paid job on a fancy laptop, and it’s at this point that I realize that it doesn’t have to be flying or nothing. That if I worked, I’d meet people; have colleagues, friends. I’d be valued for doing more than keeping house. Suddenly I’m flooded with the feeling that the world’s my oyster; that I could retrain to do anything I like.

‘Is there something you could do at home?’ Anna asks as if she’s followed my train of thought.

My brain moves at lightning speed: Anna’s recently moved… I wonder if she needs some help. ‘I like interior design,’ I say carefully. ‘Maybe I could get a qualification or something, and give that a try?’