I See You(60)

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Bile rises in my throat. I take a swig of tepid coffee and swallow it down. Is that what I’m worth? Is that what Tania Beckett was worth? Laura Keen? Cathy Tanning? I stare at the screen. My credit card is maxed out and this close to the end of the month I can’t spare enough even for a bronze membership. A few days ago I might have asked Simon for help, but right now he’s the last person I want to put my trust in. How can I, when he’s been lying to me about where he works?

There’s only one person I can think of to turn to. I pick up the phone.

‘Can I borrow some money?’ I say, as soon as Matt answers.

‘City boy finally bled you dry, has he? Newspapers not paying much, nowadays?’

If only he knew. I close my eyes. ‘Matt, please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

‘How much?’

‘A grand.’

He gives a low whistle. ‘Zo, I haven’t got that sort of cash lying around. What do you need it for?’

‘Could I borrow your credit card? I’ll pay it off, Matt, every penny. The interest, too.’

‘Are you in some sort of trouble?’

‘Please, Matt.’

‘I’ll text you the details.’

‘Thank you.’ I’m so relieved it’s almost a sob.

‘No worries.’ He pauses. ‘You know I’d do anything for you, Zo.’ I’m about to thank him again, when I realise he’s hung up. His text comes through a minute later. I enter his credit card details against the fake membership profile I’ve created for Lenny Smith.

And it’s done. Matt’s credit card is a thousand pounds in the red, and I’m now a member of findtheone.com, the dating site with a difference.

Even though PC Swift has prepared me for it, it’s hard to take in what I’m looking at. Rows and rows of photographs; all women, and each with a word or two listed beneath.

Central line

Piccadilly

Jubilee / Bakerloo





I feel a chill creep across my neck.

I scan the photos, looking for my own. I tap on ‘more photos’ to load a second page, then a third. And there I am. The same photo from the Gazette; the photo from my Facebook page, from my cousin’s wedding.

Click to download.

I don’t hesitate.

Listed: Friday 13 November

White.

Late thirties.

Blonde hair, usually tied up.





I read it twice: the precise listing of each train I catch; the coat I’m wearing right now; the casual summary of my appearance. I register the absurdity of being annoyed that my dress size is listed as 12 to 14, when really, it’s only my jeans that are size 14.

Around me, Lenny is wiping tables, noisily stacking chairs to let me know I’ve overstayed my welcome. I try to stand up, but my legs won’t work. Bumping into Luke Friedland this morning was no accident, I realise, just like it was no accident that he was standing next to me when I fell towards the tracks.

Luke Friedland downloaded my commute in order to follow me.

Who else has done the same?

Simon comes home just as I’m getting in to bed. He’s so pleased to see me I feel a stab of confusion. How can a man who loves me this much have been lying to me?

‘How was Ange?’ It occurs to me suddenly that maybe he didn’t even go and see his sister. If he’s been lying to me about where he works, what else has he been lying about? Justin’s words ring in my ears, and I look at Simon with a new watchfulness.

‘Great. She sends her love.’

‘Good day at work?’ I say. He pulls off his trousers and leaves them in a puddle on the floor with his shirt, before sliding in to bed. Tell me, I think. Tell me now, and it’ll all be okay. Tell me you’ve never worked at the Telegraph; that you’re a junior reporter at some local rag, or that you’re not a journalist at all; that you made it up to impress me, and you actually work the deep-fat fryer at McDonald’s. Just tell me the truth.

But he doesn’t. He strokes my stomach; circles his thumbs against my hip bones. ‘Pretty good. That story about MP expenses broke first thing, so it was a busy one.’

I feel wrong-footed. I saw the story at lunchtime, when I nipped out to get Graham’s sandwich. My head starts to throb. I need to know the truth.

‘I called the Telegraph.’

The colour drains from Simon’s face.

‘You weren’t answering your mobile. Something happened on my way home from work; I was upset, I wanted to talk to you.’

‘What happened? Are you okay?’

I ignore his concern. ‘The switchboard operator had never heard of you.’ I push his hands off my waist. There’s a pause, and I can hear the click of the central heating switching off.

‘I was going to tell you.’

‘Tell me what? That you’d lied to me? Made up a job you thought would impress me?’

‘No! I didn’t make it up. God, Zoe, what do you think of me?’

‘Do you really want me to answer that?’ No wonder he was so negative when I suggested putting Katie forward for work experience, I think; why he snapped when I asked him to pitch a story about the adverts.