I See You(24)

‘Okay,’ I say, finding the game oddly cheering. ‘Let’s say the photograph really was of me.’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself the same question.’

‘You’d notice someone random taking a photo of you, surely?’

‘Maybe someone took it with a long lens,’ I say, realising as I do how ridiculous it sounds. What next? Paparazzi outside the house? Mopeds zooming past me; a photographer leaning to one side, in an effort to get the perfect shot for a tabloid splash? Simon doesn’t laugh, but when I acknowledge the absurdity of the suggestion with an embarrassed grin, he cracks a smile.

‘Someone could have stolen it,’ he says, more seriously.

‘Yes!’ That seems more likely.

‘Okay, so let’s imagine someone’s used your photo to advertise their company.’ Discussing the advert like this, in such a rational, dispassionate way, is gradually calming me down, which I know was Simon’s intention all along. ‘That would be identity theft, right?’

I nod. Giving it a name – and one so familiar – instantly makes it feel less personal. There are hundreds – probably thousands – of identity fraud cases every day. At Hallow & Reed we have to be so careful, double-checking ID documents and only ever accepting originals or certified copies. It’s frighteningly easy to take someone’s photo and pass it off as your own.

Simon is still rationalising what’s happened.

‘What you have to consider is this: would it really hurt you? More than – say – if someone used your name to open a bank account, or if they cloned your card?’

‘It’s creepier.’

Simon reaches across the table and puts both his hands over mine. ‘Remember when Katie had that problem at school, with that gang of girls?’ I nod, the mere mention of it filling me with fresh rage. When she was fifteen, Katie was bullied by three girls in her year. They set up an Instagram account in her name; posted photos of Katie’s head, Photoshopped on to various images. Naked women, naked men, cartoon characters. Infantile, puerile stuff, that blew over before the end of the term, but Katie was devastated.

‘What did you tell her?’

Sticks and stones, I said to Katie. Ignore them. They’re not touching you.

‘The way I see it,’ Simon says, ‘is that there are two possibilities. Either the photo was simply of someone who looks like you – although not nearly as beautiful’ – I grin, despite the cheesiness of the compliment – ‘or it’s ID theft, which – although irritating – isn’t doing you any harm.’

I can’t argue with his logic. Then I remember Cathy Tanning. I produce her as though I’m playing a joker. ‘The woman I saw in the newspaper article; she had her keys stolen on the Tube.’ Simon waits for an explanation, his face registering confusion.

‘It happened after her photo appeared in the advert. Like the photo of me.’ I correct myself. ‘The photo that looked like me.’

‘Coincidence! How many people do we know who have had their pockets picked on the Tube? It’s happened to me. It happens every day, Zoe.’

‘I suppose so.’ I know what Simon’s thinking. He wants evidence. He’s a journalist, he deals in facts, not supposition and paranoia.

‘Do you think the paper would investigate it?’

‘Which paper?’ He sees my face. ‘My paper? The Telegraph? Oh, Zoe, I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not really a story, Zoe. I mean, I know you’re worried by it, and it’s a curious thing to happen, but it’s not newsworthy, if you know what I mean. ID theft’s a bit old hat, to be honest.’

‘You could pitch it, though, couldn’t you? Find out who’s behind it?’

‘No.’ His abruptness marks an end to the conversation, and I wish I’d never brought it up. I’ve blown this whole thing up to be more than it is, and driven myself insane in the process. I eat a piece of garlic bread and pour more wine to replace the glass I hadn’t noticed myself finishing. I wonder if I should do something about my anxiety levels. Mindfulness. Yoga. I’m becoming neurotic, and the last thing I want is for it to affect things between Simon and me.

‘Did Katie tell you about her audition?’ Simon says, and I’m grateful both for the change in subject, and for the softness in his voice that tells me he doesn’t hold my paranoia against me.

‘She’s been ignoring my texts. I said something stupid this morning.’

Simon raises an eyebrow but I don’t elaborate.

‘When did you speak to her?’ I ask, trying not to sound bitter. I’ve only got myself to blame for Katie’s silence.

‘She texted me.’ I’ve made him feel awkward, now, and I rush to reassure him.

‘It’s great that she wanted to tell you. Honestly, I think it’s lovely.’ I mean it. Before Simon moved in, when things were already serious between us, I used to try and engineer occasions when he and the children would be together. I’d remember something I’d left upstairs, or go to the loo when I didn’t need to, in the hope I’d come back and find them chatting happily together. It hurts me that Katie didn’t text me, but I’m glad that she wanted to tell Simon.