I See You(23)

I have a shower and wash my hair, spraying perfume on my wrists and rubbing them together, letting the scent fill the air around me. I put on a dress I haven’t worn for a while, and am relieved to see it still fits, and pull out a pair of black patent heels from the tangle of shoes at the bottom of my wardrobe. When Simon moved in I squashed up my clothes to make room for his, but even so he has to keep some of his belongings in the loft conversion. The house has three bedrooms, but they’re all tiny: Justin’s is a single, and Katie barely has room to move around her double bed.

Simon’s waiting for me in the lounge. He’s put on a jacket and tie, and he looks the way he did when I first saw him come into Hallow & Reed. I remember him meeting my polite smile with something far warmer.

‘I’m from the Telegraph,’ he told me. ‘We’re running a piece about the rise in commercial rental prices: independents being priced off the High Street, that sort of thing. It would be great if you could talk me through what’s on your books at the moment.’

He met my eyes, and I hid the ensuing blush in the filing cabinet, taking longer than I needed to find a dozen or so particulars.

‘This one might be interesting for you.’ I sat down at my desk, a piece of paper between us. ‘There used to be a gift shop there, but the rent went up and it’s been empty for six months. The British Heart Foundation will be in there from next month.’

‘Could I speak to the landlord?’

‘I can’t give you his details, but if you give me your number I’ll pass it on.’ I blushed again, even though the suggestion was perfectly legitimate. There was a crackle in the air between us I was sure I wasn’t imagining.

Simon wrote down his number, his eyes creasing into a frown. I remember wondering if he normally wore glasses, and if he had left them off through vanity, or forgetfulness; not knowing then the frown was simply a side effect of concentration. His hair was grey, although not as thin as it is now, four years on. He was tall, with a lean frame that fitted easily in the narrow chair by my desk, legs crossed casually at the ankle. Silver cufflinks just showing below the sleeves of his navy suit.

‘Thank you for your help.’

He seemed in no hurry to leave, and already I didn’t want him to.

‘Not at all. It was a pleasure to meet you.’

‘So,’ he said, watching me intently. ‘You’ve got my number … may I have yours?’

We hail a taxi on Anerley Road, even though we’re not going far, and I catch the fleeting look of relief in Simon’s face as the cab pulls over and he sees the driver’s face. Once, when Simon and I were first dating, we jumped in a black cab, our coats pulled above our heads against the rain. It was only when we looked up that we saw Matt’s face in the rear-view mirror. For a second I thought Simon was going to insist we got out, but he stared out of the window instead. We sat in silence. Even Matt, who could talk the legs off the proverbial donkey, didn’t try to make conversation.

The restaurant is one we’ve been to a few times, and the owner greets us by name when we arrive. He shows us to a booth by the window and hands us menus we both know off by heart. Fat strands of tinsel have been draped over the picture frames and across the light fittings.

We order what we always have – pizza for Simon, seafood pasta for me – and it arrives too quickly for it to have been cooked from scratch.

‘I looked at the adverts in the Gazette this morning. Graham had a pile in his office.’

‘They haven’t promoted you to page three, have they?’ He cuts into his pizza, and a thin trickle of oil oozes from the topping on to his plate.

I laugh. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got the necessary attributes for that. The thing is, I recognised the woman in the advert.’

‘You recognised her? You mean it’s someone you know?’

I shake my head. ‘I saw her photo in another newspaper – she was in an article about crime on the Underground. I told the police about it.’ I’m trying to keep it light, but my voice breaks. ‘I’m scared, Simon. What if that photo in Friday’s paper really was me?’

‘It wasn’t, Zoe.’ There’s concern in Simon’s face; not because someone put a photo of me in the paper, but because I think they did.

‘I’m not imagining it.’

‘Are you stressed about work? Is it Graham?’

He thinks I’m going mad. I’m starting to think he’s right.

‘It really did look like me,’ I say quietly.

‘I know.’

He puts down his knife and fork. ‘Tell you what, let’s say the photo was of you.’

This is how Simon addresses problems, boiling them down to their very essence. A couple of years ago there was a burglary in our street. Katie became convinced they were going to break into our house next, and the thought stopped her sleeping. When she eventually dropped off she had nightmares, waking up screaming that there was someone in her room. I was at my wit’s end. I’d tried everything; even sat with her till she fell asleep, like she was a baby again. Simon took a more practical approach. He took Katie to B&Q, where they bought window locks, a burglar alarm, and an extra bolt for the garden gate. Together they fitted security measures to the entire house, even coating the drainpipes with anti-climb paint. The nightmares stopped instantly.