I See You(36)

‘I knew Katie was perfect for Viola the moment I saw her at the agency,’ Isaac was saying. ‘I sent a quick snap to the guy who plays Sebastian, to see what he thought.’

‘You took a picture of me? You never said! That was sneaky.’

‘On my phone. Anyway, he texted straight back to say you looked perfect. I’d already heard you speak – you were talking to the girl next to you, do you remember? – and I just had an instinct you were the Shakespearian leading lady I’d been looking for.’

‘All’s Well That Ends Well,’ Simon says, with a grin.

‘Very good!’ Isaac says. They all laugh. Katie looks at her watch.

‘We’d better get going.’

‘I’ll drop her off after rehearsal, Mrs Walker. I understand you’re a bit worried about her taking the Tube late at night.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Not at all. London isn’t always the safest place for a woman on her own.’

I don’t like him.

Matt used to laugh at the snap decisions I made about people, but first impressions count for a lot. I watch Isaac and Katie through the lounge window; walking a hundred yards down the road to where Isaac’s managed to find a parking space. He puts a hand on the small of her back as they reach the car, then leans in to open the passenger door for her. I can’t put my finger on what I don’t like, but my senses are screaming at me.

Just a few days ago I resolved to be more supportive of Katie’s acting; if I say anything about Isaac she’ll see it as one more attack on her career choice. I can’t win. At least she won’t be coming home on her own tonight. I heard a report of a sexual assault on the radio this morning, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the victim’s photo had appeared in the classifieds first. Simon usually brings a Gazette home from work, but this week he’s returned empty-handed; I know it’s because he wants me to forget about the adverts. But I won’t. I can’t.

On Friday Simon comes with me to work. ‘Just in case you’re still a bit wobbly,’ he says when we wake up. He holds my hand all the way there. On the District line I see an abandoned copy of the Gazette, and I resolutely ignore it, leaning into Simon with my face pressed against his shirt. I let go of the strap I was holding, and instead put my arms around his waist, letting him balance us both as the train slows for each stop. We don’t talk, but I can hear his heartbeat against my face. Strong and steady.

Outside Hallow & Reed he kisses me.

‘I’ve made you late for work,’ I say.

‘I don’t care.’

‘You won’t get into trouble?’

‘Let me worry about that. Are you okay if I leave you now? I can hang around, if you like.’ He gestures to the coffee shop across the road, and I smile at the idea of Simon waiting all day for me, like a celebrity bodyguard.

‘I’ll be fine. I’ll speak to you later.’

We kiss again, and he waits until I’m safely installed at my desk, before waving and walking away, towards the Tube.

As soon as Graham goes out on a viewing I close down the Rightmove listing I was updating, and bring up Google. I type in ‘London crime’ and click the first link I see: a website called London 24, promising up-to-the-minute information on crimes in the capital.

Teenager shot in West Dulwich.

Man found close to death with mystery burns in Finsbury Park.

This is why I don’t read the papers. Not usually. I know all this is going on, but I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about Justin and Katie living somewhere a knifing hardly raises an eyebrow.

Ex-Premier League player admits drink-driving in Islington.

‘Sickening’ attack on Enfield pensioner, 84.

I wince at the photo of eighty-four-year-old Margaret Price, who headed out to collect her pension and never made it home. I search for Tania Beckett. One of the newspaper articles mentions a Facebook tribute site, and I click through to it. Tania Beckett RIP, it says, and the page is filled with emotional messages from friends and family. In some of the messages Tania’s name is highlighted, and I realise it’s because people have tagged her Facebook page. Without thinking, I click on her name and take an involuntary breath when her page appears, full of status updates.

135 days to go! her last update reads, posted the morning she died.

135 days till what?

The answer is a few updates down, in a post captioned How about this one, girls? The photo is a screenshot from a mobile phone – I can see the battery life marked out at the top; a photo of a bridesmaid dress grabbed in a hurry from the Internet. There are three female names tagged.

Tania Beckett died 135 days before her wedding day.

I look at Tania’s Friends list; thumbnails of identikit girls, all blonde hair and white teeth. My attention is caught by an older woman with the same surname.

Alison Beckett’s page is as open as Tania’s, and I know straight away that the photograph I’m looking at is of Tania’s mother. Her last Facebook post was two days ago.

Heaven has gained another angel. RIP my beautiful girl. Sleep soundly.

I shut down Facebook, feeling like an intruder. I think about Alison and Tania Beckett. I imagine them planning the wedding together; shopping for dresses; making invitations. I see Alison at home, on that dark red sofa she’s sitting on in her profile picture, picking up the phone, listening to the police officer talk, but not taking it in. Not her daughter; not Tania. There’s a pain in my chest and now I’m crying, only I don’t know if I’m crying over a girl I never met, or because it’s too easy to replace her name with my own daughter’s.