I Know You. Annabel Kantaria

thanks. I’m sweet enough. Oh, by the way,’ I say, suddenly remembering, ‘Jake and I were wondering if you’d would like to come for dinner one evening when Rob’s back in town. What do you think? It was actually Jake’s idea!’ I laugh, unsure why I want him to get the credit for this.

      ‘That’s kind of you, and we’d love to,’ Anna says as she pours the water into two mugs, ‘but I don’t know when Rob’s next back. He often can’t confirm until a day or so beforehand.’

      ‘Sure. Or maybe you could come on your own? We won’t bite.’

      ‘That would be great,’ Anna says. ‘Maybe a better plan, actually. Rob’s usually really tired when he comes back. He often just wants to relax at home, to be honest. Boring old fart that he is.’ She smiles. ‘Right. Have you got the energy to open some of these bags? I’m dying to see what everything looks like.’

      It takes a good hour to arrange things – an hour in which I feel a bit like a magician waving my wand over the house. Anna’s face lights up as her living room transforms in front of her eyes. I take a few pictures of my handiwork.

      ‘Right, we just need to get some pictures in those frames and get them up on that wall,’ I say as we stand back to survey the room, ‘and, if you painted that bookcase white or even a combination of white and maybe a pale, chalky blue, it would make a world of difference. It would come up a treat with some Annie Sloan paint, and it’s not difficult to do.’

      ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

      I smile. ‘I’m happy to help. Painting furniture’s my therapy!’

      ‘You’re amazing. It’s incredible what a difference you’ve made,’ Anna says, and I seize the chance.

      ‘Would you mind if I put some pictures online? It’s the first “project” I’ve done and it might help me drum up some business if I decide to do this professionally.’ Anna opens her mouth but I interrupt. ‘I could tag you, if you like? Or not.’

      ‘Oh, I…’ Anna begins, then she shrugs. ‘Be my guest. As long as I’m not in them.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘You never know who’s out there,’ she says, then laughs. ‘I’m not paranoid, I’m just…’ she frowns as she searches for a word, ‘wary.’ She tells me the name of her account, and I type it in as if I don’t know it, then click follow. ‘Perfect. Done. I’ll tag you when I upload them.’

      Anna leads me to the door then turns to me. ‘Thank you so much.’

      ‘It’s a pleasure. So, are you up for the walking group on Wednesday?’

      ‘Yes, sure. See you there.’

      ‘You will do!’

      ‘If Simon doesn’t get to you first!’ Anna waves from the door. ‘Safe journey!’

      We both laugh and I’m still smiling to myself as I set off, thinking back over the day. Anna’s a good shopping companion, open-minded and willing to go along with whatever I suggested; never shy of paying for things, either. I’ve been shopping with friends who, when it comes to actually making the decision, never actually buy anything – and where’s the fun in that?

      Later, when everything’s happened – a lot later, when the police have bowed out, the dust has settled and life has moved on as it inevitably does – I remember this day with Anna. I remember how happy I was.

       I know what your favourite restaurant is

      Wahaca.

      A Mexican chain, where ‘the food is fast, fresh and feisty’.

      You may deny it – if asked, you’d probably name some fancy place where all the celebs go – but the trail’s there, isn’t it? Six check-ins in two months. Instagrammed: crispy prawn tacos. Instagrammed: Mexican feast. Instagrammed: huitlacoche empanadas. Instagrammed: ancho chicken tacos #fresh #streetfood #marketfood #lovemexico #clean #authentic. Nom fucking nom.

      Oh, you think you’re such a foodie. The phrase ‘street food’ falls out of your mouth like diarrhoea. To listen to you, anyone would think you’re the first person to have discovered authentic Mexican food; that you’ve single-handedly pioneered Wahaca’s success; that it’s entirely down to you that Time Out’s called it London’s ‘trendiest chain for chatting and chowing down’. You spout off about ‘fresh’ and ‘honest’ ingredients to anyone who’ll listen. It’s like you think you’re Deliciously fucking Ella.

      But what do you actually do to earn the label of foodie? Did you know the best chefs before they became famous? Do you travel the world seeking them out; do you go to places just to immerse yourself in the food culture? Have you ever travelled rough from Hanoi to Saigon, living hand to mouth and eating the best op la, pho, and bun rieu? That’s street food for you, princess. That’s being a foodie.

      Oh no. You think all you need to do is check-in every time you eat out, and Instagram your food from above, and you think that makes you part of the in-crowd, don’t you? One check-in at the Wimbledon branch. Two in Covent Garden – could it be more ‘cringe’? Three check-ins on the South Bank.

      That’s your favourite, isn’t it? Those containers in their bright colours overlooking the laconic sludge of the Thames. ‘It’s so authentic,’ you bleat, but you’re not lying: your favourite thing in the world is to eat there then walk along the South Bank, watching the street artists, listening to the buskers, watching the boats and pretending you’re some kind of trendy London type. It makes me want to puke. Can I tell you something, sweetie-pie? You’re no foodie: you’re boring. You’re pathetic. The only food you are is fucking vanilla.

Eleven

      Long before I reach the walking group’s meeting point, I see her straight blonde hair and bright blue coat sticking out among the sea of browns and olives that ebbs and flows around her. On Instagram, she’s posted a collage of shots she took on our shopping trip ‘#new friends’ and I’m on top of the world. I sneak up behind her.

      ‘Do you come here often, young lady?’ I say in my creepiest voice. She spins around defensively, almost as if she’s going to strike out, then her face softens as she realizes it’s me.

      ‘Hey. Morning! No sign of lover-boy today so it looks like you’re stuck with me.’

      ‘Oh, I suppose I’ll survive!’ I say, rolling my eyes to hide how pleased I am that I’ll get her to myself.

      A few minutes later we set off. The others fall into groups and we tag along near the back of the raggle-taggle string. Anna takes a quick picture of a squirrel that’s unusually close to the path.

      ‘Instagram!’ she sings, slipping her phone back into her pocket.

      ‘So, how’s Rob?’ I say, taking deep breaths of the fresh air. It’s cold and damp, not really the blue-sky day I’d hoped for, and there’s a heavy scent of petrol fumes in the air, but at least it’s not raining.

      ‘Fine, I guess. I haven’t spoken to him,’ says Anna.

      I tilt my head. ‘Really?’

      ‘It’s difficult with the time difference and everything…’ She shrugs. ‘We message. Talk once a week.’

      ‘I guess you’re more used to being apart than I am. I’m on the phone with Jake most nights.’

      I don’t point out that it’s him who calls me, and that I suspect it’s only to prove that he’s not out with a woman. Not that a phone call proves anything, of course, but he doesn’t seem to see it that way.

      ‘How long have you guys been married?’ Anna asks.

      I kick a pile of brown leaves,