I See You(44)

‘How’s the sleuthing going, Zoe?’ Neil is fascinated by the photographs in the Gazette. Every time I see him he asks if there’s any news; if the police have found anything out about the adverts.

‘Sleuthing?’

I don’t want to tell Isaac, but before I can change the subject, Katie is telling him everything. About the adverts, and my photograph, and Tania Beckett’s murder. I’m unsettled by how animated he becomes, as though she’s telling him about a film release or a new book, instead of real life. My life.

‘And she’s found another one, too. What’s the new one called, Mum?’

‘Laura Keen,’ I say quietly. I picture Laura’s graduation photo and wonder where the original is. Whether it’s on the desk of whichever journalist wrote the article, or whether it’s back on the mantelpiece in her parents’ house. Perhaps they’ve placed it glass-side down, for now, unable to handle seeing it every time they pass.

‘Where do you think they got your picture?’ Isaac asks, not picking up on my lack of enthusiasm to discuss it. I’m surprised at Katie for encouraging him, and put it down to a desire to impress. Neil and Simon are eating in silence; Melissa shooting me sidelong glances every now and then, to check I’m okay.

‘Who knows?’ I’m trying to make light of it, but my fingers feel clumsy and my knife clatters against my plate. Simon pushes his empty plate away and leans back, reaching one arm out to rest on my chair. To anyone else he is just relaxing, replete after a big meal, but I can feel his thumb circling reassuringly on my shoulder.

‘Facebook,’ Neil says, with a confidence that surprises me. ‘It’s always Facebook. Most of the ID frauds nowadays use names and photos lifted from social media.’

‘The scourge of modern society,’ Simon says. ‘What was that firm you worked for a few months ago? The stockbrokers?’ Neil looks blank, then gives a short bark of laughter. ‘Heatherton Alliance.’ He looks at Isaac, the only one who hasn’t heard this story. ‘They brought me in to gather evidence relating to insider trading, but while I was there they had one of those initiation ceremonies for a new female banker. Real Wolf of Wall Street stuff. They had a Facebook group going – a private forum so they could decide what to do to her next.’

‘How awful,’ Isaac says, although his eyes don’t match his tone. They’re bright, interested. He catches me looking at him, and reads my mind. ‘You think I’m being ghoulish. I’m sorry. It’s the curse of the director, I’m afraid. Always imagining how a scene might play out, and that one – well, that would be truly extraordinary.’

The conversation has sapped my appetite. I put down my knife and fork. ‘I hardly use Facebook. I only joined to stay in touch with family.’ My sister Sarah lives in New Zealand, with a tanned, athletic husband and two perfect children I’ve only met once. One’s a lawyer and the other works with disabled children. It doesn’t surprise me that Sarah’s kids have turned out so well; she was always the golden girl when we were growing up. My parents never said it, but it was always in their eyes: why can’t you be more like your sister?

Sarah was studious; helpful round the house. She didn’t play her music loud or sleep till noon at the weekends. Sarah stayed on at school, left with good grades and a place at secretarial college. She didn’t drop out, pregnant. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if she had done; if our parents would have been as hard on her as they were on me.

Pack your bags, my dad said, when he found out. Mum started crying, but whether it was because of the baby or because I was leaving, I couldn’t tell.

‘You’d be surprised what you can get from Facebook,’ Isaac says. He pulls his phone – a sleek iPhone 6s – from his pocket and swipes deftly across the screen. Everyone watches him, as though he’s about to perform a magic trick. He flashes the screen towards me and I see the blue-and-white branding of Facebook. My name is written in the search field, and beneath it is row upon row of Zoe Walkers, each with a thumbnail photo. ‘Which one is you?’ he says, scrolling through them. He taps through to the second page.

‘There.’ I put my hand out to point. ‘That one, third from the bottom. The one with the cat.’ It’s a picture of Biscuit sunning himself on the gravel at the front of the house. ‘You see,’ I say triumphantly, ‘I don’t even use my own photo for my profile. I’m quite a private person, really.’ Not like my kids, I think, who let their whole lives play out on Instagram, or Snapchat, or whatever’s flavour of the month right now. Katie’s forever taking selfies, pouting this way and that, then swiping through endless filters to find the most flattering.

Isaac opens my page. I don’t know what I expected to see, but it wasn’t my entire Facebook profile.

￡50k a year and they think they’ve got the right to strike? I’d swap jobs with a train driver any day!

Stuck on a train … AGAIN. Thank heavens for wifi!

6??! Come on Len that was worth at least an 8!!





‘Strictly,’ I explain, embarrassed to see my life reduced to one-liners about TV shows and hellish commutes. I’m alarmed by the ease with which he appears to have accessed my account. ‘How have you been able to log on as me?’

Isaac laughs. ‘I haven’t. This is what anyone can see if they click on your profile.’ He catches sight of my horrified face. ‘Your privacy settings are wide open.’ To prove it, he clicks on the ‘about me’ tab, where my email address is there for anyone to see. Studied at Peckham Comprehensive, it says, as though that were something to be proud of. Worked at Tesco. I half expect it to say ‘knocked up at seventeen’.