starting to lighten his hair at the temples, from the crow’s feet that line his face, and perhaps from the self-deprecating maturity with which he talks about his situation, that he’s in his late forties, maybe even just gone fifty. He’s divorced but is ‘fine about it’ because it means he can live with his dad – he’s the only child and pretty much his dad’s full-time carer. The dad, whom he curiously refers to as ‘Father’, has a lot wrong with him. Simon uses technical terms with which I’m not familiar but I imagine his dad being housebound, perhaps even confined to his bed. I can picture Simon bending over him, tending to him with never-ending patience – though maybe he’s not like that at all. Maybe he’s impatient, snapping at his father, resenting the fact that his life’s ebbing away as he wipes dribble from his mouth, shampoos his thin, grey hair, and trims his yellowing nails. Some external carer, a volunteer or something, comes occasionally, and that’s when Simon slips out to do things like go to the library, and walk with this group.
‘I come here for the company,’ he says as we trudge, head-down into the wind, so I ask him who he usually talks to.
‘Oh, no one specific. I just come to be among other people. Not necessarily talking to them.’ He laughs. ‘You’re honoured I’ve put up with you for a whole hour.’
We both laugh then because surely it’s as obvious as day is day that he’s done all the talking.
‘So tell me about you,’ he says. ‘Have you lived here long?’
I open my mouth to reply but am rendered mute by the memory of that evening when Jake had sat me down on Santa Monica beach, the huge, red sun kissing the horizon and the soft air balmy against my skin, and suggested a fresh start in Britain.
‘London!’ he’d said, arcing his hands as if to embrace the entire city, and I’d pictured the lights, the shops, the buzz and the bars of the West End, not exactly Croydon.
‘A smart little townhouse,’ Jake had said, ‘for us and this little one…’ He’d patted my tummy where the baby was then about the size of a lime. ‘What do you think?’ Only it hadn’t been a question, it had been an ultimatum, and we’d both known what he meant: move away and give our marriage a fighting chance, or stay in Santa 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
