‘—it wasn’t your photo, sweetheart,’ Simon interrupts.
‘—because my photo was in exactly the same advert as hers. So I think I’ve got every right to get wound up, don’t you?’
‘Those sorts of ads don’t normally come with premium-rate numbers unless they’re dodgy,’ Simon says.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Was she an escort?’ Katie asks.
‘Occupational hazard,’ Justin says. He shrugs and assumes his previous position on the sofa, phone in hand.
‘They said on the news she was a teaching assistant, not an escort.’ I think of the photo they used in the paper, of Tania with her boyfriend. I imagine the headline above a report into my own murder, and wonder what photo they’d put alongside it; whether they’d ask Graham Hallow for a quote.
‘The advert didn’t say anything about escort services, did it, Mum?’ Katie says.
‘It had a web address.’ I press my palm against my forehead, trying to remember. ‘Find the one dot com.’
‘Sounds more like a dating site. Maybe she was killed by someone she met online.’
‘I don’t want you going out on your own any more,’ I tell Katie. She stares at me, aghast.
‘Because of one murder on the other side of London? Mum, don’t be ridiculous. People are murdered all the time.’
‘Men, yes. Boys in gangs. Druggies and stupid risk-takers. But not young women on their way home from work. You go out with a group of friends, or you don’t go out at all.’
Katie looks at Simon, but for once he backs me up.
‘We want you to be safe, that’s all.’
‘It’s not practical. What about work? I don’t finish at the restaurant on a Saturday night till ten thirty p.m. and now I’m in Twelfth Night I’ll be rehearsing most evenings. There’s no alternative but to come home on my own.’ I go to speak but Katie interrupts me, gently but insistently. ‘I’m a big girl, Mum. I’m careful. You don’t need to worry about me.’
But I am worried. I’m worried for Katie, as she travels blindly home from work each night, her head in the clouds thinking about red carpet stardom. I’m worried for all the Cathy Tannings and Tania Becketts, who had no idea what life had in store for them. And I’m worried for me. I don’t know what those adverts mean, or why my photograph appears in one, but the danger is very real. I can’t see it, but I can feel it. And it’s getting closer.
You never know where you might meet The One. Perhaps they always have the window seat on the train on your way in. It’s possible you see them in front of you in the queue to buy coffee. Maybe you simply cross the road behind them every day. If you’re sure of yourself, you might strike up a conversation. The weather, to begin with, and the state of the trains; but then, as time goes by, you’ll exchange more personal snippets. Your hellish weekend; their slave driver boss; the boyfriend who doesn’t understand them. You’ll get to know each other, and then one of you will take it to the next level. Coffee? Dinner? The deal is done.
But what if The One sits in the next carriage to you? What if they bring their coffee in from home; if they cycle to work; if they take the stairs instead of the escalator? Imagine what you’re missing, by not bumping into them.
A first date; a second date; more.
Maybe it’s not about The One; maybe you want something shorter. Sweeter. Something that’ll get your blood pumping and your pulse racing.
A fling.
A one-night stand.
A pursuit.
That’s where it started. findtheone.com. A way of making introductions between London’s commuters. A helping hand to bring people together. You could call me a broker; a go-between; a match-maker.
And the beautiful thing is that none of you even know you’re on my books.
10
I stay in bed for twenty-four hours, sleeping more often than I’m awake. On Wednesday afternoon I struggle to the doctor, only to be told what I already know: I have the flu and there’s nothing to do but drink water and take over-the-counter meds and wait for it to pass. Simon is amazing. He cooks for the children and brings me food I don’t eat, going out for ice cream when I decide it’s the only thing I could possibly swallow. He would have been a good expectant father, I think, remembering my pregnancy with Justin, when I sent a grumbling Matthew out in the snow to find nachos and wine gums.
I manage to call work and tell Graham I’m ill. He’s surprisingly sympathetic, until I tell him I’ll be off for the rest of the week.
‘Can’t you at least come in tomorrow? Jo’s off and there’ll be no one to man the phone.’