‘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.
‘What’s the job?’
‘I don’t know much. The agency haven’t offered her representation, but she made a useful contact and it sounds like there’s a part in the offing.’
‘That’s great!’ I want to get out my phone and text Katie, to tell her how proud I am, but I make myself wait. I’d rather congratulate her in person. Instead I tell Simon about Melissa’s new café, and Neil’s contract at the Houses of Parliament. By the time pudding comes we’ve ordered another bottle of wine, and I’ve got the giggles over Simon’s stories of his time as a junior reporter.
Simon pays the bill, leaving a generous tip. He goes to hail a cab, but I stop him.
‘Let’s walk.’
‘It’ll be less than a tenner.’
‘I’d like to.’
We start walking, my arm tucked into Simon’s. I don’t care about the cost of a taxi ride home; I just want the evening to go on for a little longer. At the crossing he kisses me, and it turns into a kiss that makes us ignore the beep of the green man and have to press the button all over again.
My hangover wakes me at six. I go downstairs in search of water and an aspirin, and switch on Sky News, filling a glass from the tap and drinking greedily from it. When I’ve drained the glass I fill it and drink again, holding the side of the sink because I feel as though I’m swaying. I rarely drink in the week, and I’m reminded this is the reason why.
Katie’s handbag is on the table. She was already in bed when Simon and I got home last night, both of us giggling at the irony of trying not to wake the kids as we crept upstairs. There’s a piece of paper next to the kettle, folded in two and with ‘Mum’ written on the front. I open it, my headache making me squint.
My first acting job! Can’t wait to tell you all about it. Love you xxx
I smile, despite my hangover. She’s forgiven me, and I resolve to be extra enthusiastic when she tells me about the job. No mention of secretarial college, or training to fall back on. I wonder what the gig is; whether it’s extra work, or a real part. Theatre, I suppose, although I allow myself a fantasy in which Katie has landed a job in TV; a part in some long-running soap that will make her a household name.