I’m still standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding my phone, long after she’s ended the call. Katie wanders into the kitchen, opens the fridge and shuts it again, all the while looking at her own phone, her right thumb scrolling continuously. She’s always been addicted to her mobile, but since meeting Isaac she’s hardly put it down; her eyes lighting up when a text comes through.
I hear the creak of the stairs as Justin heads downstairs, and I make up my mind. This is something I need to see for myself, without my family peering over my shoulder. Without Katie panicking, and Justin threatening to punch whoever’s responsible.
‘We’re out of milk,’ I say suddenly, grabbing my bag and shrugging on my coat. ‘I’ll go and get some.’
‘There’s some in the fridge,’ Katie calls, but I’m already slamming the front door behind me.
I walk fast, hugging my coat across my chest. There’s a café down here; not Melissa’s, a small, slightly grubby place I’ve never felt compelled to visit. But I know it’s open late and I need to be somewhere no one knows me; somewhere anonymous.
I order a coffee. It’s bitter and I add a lump of sugar, letting it dissolve on the spoon until it disappears. I put my iPad on the table in front of me and take a deep breath, steeling myself for … for what?
The password – I SEE YOU – makes me shiver. Hidden in plain sight just like the adverts themselves; boldly displayed amongst the job ads and the items for sale. The page seems to take forever to load, and when it does little changes. The background is still black, but the white box asking for the access code has been replaced.
Log in or create an account.
‘Don’t set up an account,’ PC Swift said, after she’d told me what they’d uncovered. ‘I’m only telling you because I think you have a right to know.’ She paused. ‘Because if this was happening to me, or to someone in my family, I’d want to know. Please: trust us.’
I tap on ‘create an account’ and type in my own name before coming to my senses and pressing backspace until it disappears. I glance up and catch sight of the café owner, fat belly straining under a dirty white apron with the word Lenny embroidered on the left breast.
Lenny Smith, I type. I create a password.
Select a membership package.
Bronze membership, ￡250: Viewing access. Profile downloads from ￡100.
Silver membership, ￡500: Viewing access. One free download per month.
Gold membership, ￡1,000: Viewing access. Unlimited free downloads.
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.