I See You(45)

‘Oh God! I had no idea.’ I vaguely remember filling out these details: the jobs I’ve had, the films I like and the books I’ve read, but I’d thought it was just for me; a sort of online diary.

‘The point I’m trying to make,’ Isaac says, clicking once more, on a tab marked ‘photos of Zoe’, ‘is if someone wanted to use a picture of you, there are plenty to choose from.’ He scrolls through dozens of images, most of which I’ve never seen before.

‘But I haven’t uploaded these!’ I say. I see a photo of me from behind, taken at a barbecue at Melissa’s and Neil’s last summer, and consider whether my bum is really that big, or if it’s simply an unflattering angle.

‘Your friends have. All these photos’ – there must be dozens of them – ‘are ones other people have uploaded and tagged you in. You can untag yourself if you want, but what you really need to do is sort out your privacy settings. I can help you, if you want?’

‘It’s fine. I’ll sort it out.’ Embarrassment is making me abrupt, and I make myself say thank you. ‘Has everyone finished? Katie, love, will you give me a hand clearing the table?’ Everyone starts stacking plates and carrying dishes out to the kitchen, and Simon squeezes my hand before very obviously changing the subject.

When everyone has gone I sit in the kitchen with a cup of tea. Simon and Katie are watching some black-and-white movie, and Justin has gone out to see a mate. The house is quiet and I bring up Facebook on my phone, feeling as though I’m doing something wrong. I look at the photos, recognising the album Isaac showed me on his own phone. I scroll through them slowly. Some of the photos aren’t even of me, and eventually I understand I’ve been tagged in pictures of Katie, or old school photos from back in the day. Melissa’s tagged me and a bunch of other people in a photo of her own legs, taken by the pool on a holiday last year.

Jealous, girls???!! reads the caption.

It takes me a while, but finally I find it. The photo from the advert. I let out a breath. I knew I wasn’t going mad – I knew it was me. Facebook tells me the photo was posted by Matt, and when I check the date I see it was three years ago. I follow the link and find twenty or thirty photos, uploaded en masse after my cousin’s wedding. That’s why I wasn’t wearing my glasses.

This photo is really of Katie. She’s sitting next to me at the table, smiling at the camera with her head tilted to one side. I’m watching her, rather than the camera. The picture in the advert has been carefully cropped, taking out most of the dress I’d have instantly recognised as one of my few party outfits.

I imagine someone – a stranger – scrolling through my photos, looking at me in my posh frock, at my daughter, my family. I shiver. The privacy settings Isaac mentioned aren’t easy to locate, but eventually I find them. I systematically lock down every area of my account; photos, posts, tags. Just as I finish, a red notification blinks at the top of my screen. I tap on it.

Isaac Gunn would like to be friends. You have one mutual friend.





I stare at it for a second, then press delete.





I know what you’re thinking.

You’re wondering how I can live with myself. How I can look myself in the mirror, knowing what’s happening to these women.

But do you blame Tinder when a date goes sour? Do you go to the wine bar where you picked up a guy, and have a go at the owner because things didn’t go to plan? Do you shout at your best friend because the man she introduced you to turned out to like it rough?

Of course you don’t.

Then how can you blame me? I’m just the match-maker.

My job is to give coincidence a head start.

You think you met by accident. You think he held that door open for you by chance; that he picked up your scarf in error; that he had no idea you were walking that way …

Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.

Now that you know people like me exist, you’ll never know for sure.





13


The adverts are consuming me; filling my head and making me paranoid. Last night I dreamed it was Katie’s face in the classifieds. Katie’s face in The Times a few days later; assaulted, raped, left for dead. I woke up drenched in sweat, unable to bear even Simon’s arms around me until I’d crossed the landing and seen her with my own eyes, sleeping soundly.

I throw my usual ten-pence coin into Megan’s guitar case.

‘Have a great Monday!’ she calls. I make myself smile back. The wind whips round the corner, and I’m amazed she’s able to play with fingers that are blue with cold. I wonder what Simon would say if I brought her home for tea one day; whether Melissa might put aside a portion of soup for her from time to time. I hold a conversation in my head as I go through the ticket barriers, practising the offer of a hot meal without making it sound like charity, worrying I might offend Megan.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts I don’t instantly notice the man in the overcoat: I can’t even be sure he was watching me before I saw him. But he’s watching me now. I walk down the platform as the train arrives, but when I step on to the train and sit down I see him again. He’s tall and broad, with thick grey hair and a beard to match. It’s neatly trimmed, but there’s a speckle of blood on his neck where he’s cut himself shaving.