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.
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
