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.
He’s still looking at me, and I pretend to study the Tube map above his head, feeling his eyes travel down my body. It makes me uncomfortable, and I look down at my lap, feeling self-conscious and not knowing what to do with my hands. I guess him to be in his fifties; in a well-cut suit and an overcoat to beat the weather, which is threatening the first flurry of snow. His smile is too familiar – proprietary.
The schools must be out today: the trains are far less crowded than usual. At Canada Water enough people get off to leave three seats free opposite me. The man in the suit takes one of them. People do look at you on the Tube – I do it myself – but when you catch their eye, they look away, embarrassed. This man isn’t looking away. When I look at his face – and I won’t do so again – he holds my gaze challengingly, as though I should be flattered by the attention. I wonder, fleetingly, if I am, but the fluttering sensation in my stomach is anxiety, not excitement.
Transport for London have been running a video campaign. It’s called ‘report it to stop it’ and it’s about sexual harassment on the Underground. You can report anything that makes you uncomfortable, it says. I imagine calling a police officer, right now. What would I say? He keeps looking at me …