I slide in and out of consciousness as we drive. The traffic noise changes constantly and I’m pulled awake, only to drift off again moments later. I hear the start of a new song on the radio; shut my eyes for what seems like a split second, then wake to the closing refrain of a different track entirely.
My subconscious confuses the sounds that push their way into my sleep; the buses, the music, the radio adverts. The car’s engine becomes the dull rumble of an Underground train; the presenter’s voice an announcer telling me to mind the gap. I’m standing on the Tube, commuters packed in beside me; the smell of aftershave and sweat in the air. The aftershave is familiar and I try to place it, but it eludes me.
Listed: Friday 13 November
White.
Late thirties.
Eyes, everywhere. Watching me. Following me. Knowing every step of my journey. The train stops and I try to get off, but someone’s pushing against me, forcing me against the wall of the carriage.
Difficulty level: moderate.
It’s Luke Friedland. He’s pressing hard against my chest. I rescued you, he’s saying, and I try to shake my head; try to move. The smell of aftershave is overpowering; it fills my nostrils and chokes me.
My eyes are closed.
Why are my eyes closed?
I open them, but the man pressed against me isn’t Luke Friedland.
I’m not on a train; not surrounded by commuters.
I’m in Graham Hallow’s car.
It’s Graham with his face next to mine, his arm across me, pressing me into my seat. It’s Graham I can smell; that woody, cinnamon fragrance mixed with body odour and the musty scent of his tweed jacket.
‘Where are we? Get off me!’
The pressure on my chest disappears but I’m still fighting for breath; panic filling my throat as surely as though there were two hands around it. Darkness surrounds the car and seeps in through the windows, and I fumble for the door handle.
The light makes me blink.
‘I was undoing your seat belt,’ Graham says. He sounds angry; defensive.
Because I accused him?
Or because I stopped him?
‘You fell asleep.’
I look down and see my seat belt has been unclipped, the strap hanging over my left arm. I realise we are parked in my street: I can see the front door of our house.
Colour floods my face. ‘I – I’m sorry.’ Sleep has left me confused. ‘I thought …’ I try and form the words, ‘I thought you were …’ I can’t say it, but I don’t need to. Graham turns the ignition key, the roar of the engine putting a full stop to our conversation. I get out of the car and shiver; the temperature fifteen degrees lower than inside. ‘Thank you for the lift. And I’m sorry I thought—’
He drives off, leaving me standing on the pavement.
With findtheone.com there are no blind-date nerves, there’s no stilted conversation over dinner. I’d argue it’s more honest than most online dating sites, with their air-brushed photos and their profiles full of lies. Salary range, hobbies, favourite foods … all irrelevant. Who builds a relationship on a mutual love of tapas? A match might be perfect on paper, yet lack the spark needed to set it alight.
findtheone.com cuts through all that rubbish; the pretence that anyone cares if you like opera or walks in the park. It means men can take their time. They can follow you for a while, engage you in conversation; see if you’re interesting enough to take for dinner, instead of wasting their time on a garrulous air-head. It means men can get up close and personal. Smell your perfume; your breath; your skin. Feel a spark. Act on it.
Are you wondering who my clients are? Who would use a website like this? Are you thinking the market can’t possibly be big enough?
I can assure you it is.
My customers come from all walks of life. They’re men with no time to form relationships. Men with enough money not to care. Men who haven’t found that ‘special someone’; men who get their kicks from being in control. Everyone has their own reason for joining findtheone.com; it isn’t my job to care what it is.
So who are these men?
They’re your friends. They’re your father, your brother, your best friend, your neighbour, your boss. They’re the people you see every day; the people you travel to and from work with.
You’re shocked. You think you know them better than that.
You’re wrong.
23
‘Is this your vehicle?’ Kelly pushed a photograph of a black Lexus across the table. Gordon Tillman nodded. ‘For the benefit of the tape, the suspect is nodding his head.’ Kelly looked at Tillman, less confident now his flashy suit had been exchanged for a grey custody-issue tracksuit, but still arrogant enough to try and out-stare his interviewers. His date of birth put him at forty-seven, but he looked ten years older; his skin mottled by years of excess. Drugs? Or drink? Drink and women. Late nights spent flashing the cash to attract girls who wouldn’t otherwise give him a second glance. Kelly tried to keep the look of disgust off her face.