‘For a family meal?’ Katie snorted. ‘No thanks, Mum.’
‘It won’t be like that. Not with Melissa and Neil here. It’ll be nice.’ She didn’t look convinced. ‘I won’t interrogate him, I promise.’
‘Fine,’ she said, picking up her mobile. ‘Although he won’t want to come.’
‘Delicious beef, Mrs Walker.’
‘Call me Zoe, please,’ I say, for the third time. You’re closer to my age than my daughter’s, I want to point out. Isaac is sitting between Katie and Melissa.
‘A thorn between two roses,’ he said, when they sat down, and I wanted to stick two fingers in my throat and make gagging noises, like a fourteen-year-old. Surely Katie isn’t taken in by this smarm? But she’s gazing at him like he’s just stepped off a catwalk.
‘How are rehearsals going?’ Melissa asks. I shoot her a grateful look. The presence of someone new has made the atmosphere stilted and artificial, and there are only so many times I can ask if everyone likes the gravy.
‘Really well. I’m amazed at how well Katie’s fitted in, and how quickly she’s got up to speed, given how late she joined us. We’ve got a dress rehearsal next Saturday, you should all come.’ He waves a fork around the table. ‘It’s really useful to have a real audience.’
‘We’d love that,’ Simon says.
‘Dad, too?’ Katie asks Isaac. I sense, rather than see, Simon stiffen beside me.
‘The more the merrier. Although you have to all promise not to heckle.’ He grins and everyone laughs politely. I’m dying for the meal to be over, and for Katie and Isaac to leave, so I can ask Melissa what she thinks of him. She’s looking at him with a glint of amusement in her eyes, but I can’t read her expression.
‘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.’