It’s almost 3 p.m. before Graham comes back to the office.

‘Working lunch,’ he offers in explanation, and I deduce from his relaxed demeanour that lunch was accompanied by at least a couple of pints.

‘Is it okay if I nip out to the post office, now you’re here?’

‘Be quick about it – I’ve got a viewing in an hour.’

Everything has already been franked and is neatly stacked in rubber-banded bundles on my desk. I tip them into a tote bag and put on my coat, while Graham disappears into his office.

It’s so cold outside I can see my breath, and I screw up my hands inside my pockets, rubbing my fingers against my palms. A dull vibration tells me I’ve got a text message, but my phone is in an inside pocket. It can wait.

In the queue at the post office I unzip my coat and find my phone. The text is from PC Kelly Swift.

Does that mean she’s spoken to Cathy Tanning? Does it mean she believes me? No sooner have I read the text than another appears on my screen.

There are six people ahead of me in the queue, and as many again behind. As soon as possible, PC Swift said. I take off my glasses and find the camera on my phone. It takes me a moment to remember how to turn it round to face me, then I stretch my arm as far out as I dare without making it obvious that I’m taking a selfie. The upward-facing angle gives me three chins and bags under my eyes but I take the photo anyway, mortified when the camera gives me away with a loud click. How embarrassing. Who takes a selfie in a post office? I send it to PC Swift and immediately see the notification that says she’s seen it. I imagine her marrying my photo up against the London Gazette advert, and wait for her to text to tell me I’m imagining the likeness, but my phone stays silent.

I message Katie, instead, to see how her audition went. She will have been finished hours ago, and I know that she hasn’t been in touch because of the way I spoke to her this morning. I push my phone into my pocket.

When I get to the office I find Graham leaning over my desk, rifling through the top drawer. He stands up sharply as I open the door, the ugly red flush on his neck prompted not by embarrassment, but by annoyance at being caught out.

‘Are you looking for something?’ There’s nothing but an assortment of envelopes, pens and rubber bands in the top drawer, and I wonder if he’s been through the others. The middle one houses old memo pads, neatly filed in date order in case I need to look up something. The bottom drawer is a dumping ground; a pair of trainers from when I thought I might try walking to the river before getting the train; tights; make-up; Tampax. I’d like to tell him to get his hands off my personal belongings, but I know what he’ll say: it’s his business, his desk, his drawers. If Graham Hallow were a landlord he’d be the type to walk in on inspection day without knocking.

‘The keys to Tenement House. They’re not in the cupboard.’

I go across to the key cupboard, a metal box mounted on the wall in the corridor next to the filing cabinet. Tenement House is an office block within a larger complex called City Exchange; I check the ‘C’ hook and find the keys instantly.

‘I thought Ronan was handling the Exchange?’ Ronan is the latest in a long line of junior negotiators. They’re always male – Graham doesn’t believe women can negotiate – and all so similar it’s as though they simply slip in and out of the same suit, one appearing days after the last has left. They never stay long; the good ones move on as quickly as the bad ones.

Either Graham doesn’t hear my question, or he chooses to ignore it, taking the keys from me and reminding me the new tenants for Churchill Place are coming in to sign the lease later. The bell on the door jangles as he leaves. He doesn’t trust Ronan, that’s the problem. He doesn’t trust any of us, which means instead of being in the office, where he should be, he’s out on the streets, checking up on everyone and getting in the way.

Cannon Street Tube station is full of suits. I weave through the crowded platform until I’m nearly at the tunnel; the first carriage always has fewer people than any other, and when we reach Whitechapel the doors will open directly in front of the exit.

On the train I pick up today’s Gazette, abandoned on the grimy ledge behind my seat. I flick straight to the back pages, where the classifieds are, and find the advert with its invalid phone number: 0809 4 733 968. Today’s woman is dark-haired, the hint of a full bust visible at the bottom of the picture, and a broad smile showing even white teeth. Around her neck is a delicate chain with a small silver cross.

Does she know her photograph is in the classifieds?

I haven’t heard from PC Swift, and I tell myself her silence is reassuring, rather than unnerving. She would have called straight away if there was something to worry about. Like a doctor, ringing with worrying test results. No news is good news, isn’t that what they say? Simon was right; it wasn’t my photo in the newspaper.

I change at Whitechapel, to take the Overground to Crystal Palace. As I walk I hear footsteps behind me. Nothing unusual in that; there are footsteps everywhere on the Tube, the sound bouncing off the walls, amplifying and stretching until it sounds as though dozens of people are walking, running, stamping their feet.

But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something different about these footsteps.

That they’re coming after me.

When I was eighteen I was followed on my way home from the shops, not long after I fell pregnant with Justin. Impending motherhood had made me hyper-aware, and I saw danger at every corner. The cracked pavement that could trip me up; the cyclist that would surely knock me over. I felt so responsible for the life inside me that it seemed impossible I could even cross the road without putting him in danger.

I had gone out for milk, insisting to Matt’s mum that I needed the exercise; wanting to do my small bit to thank her for taking me in. It was dark, and as I walked home again I became aware I was being followed. There was no sound, no sensation; just a certainty that someone was behind me, and worse, that they were trying not to be heard.

I feel the same certainty now.

Back then I wasn’t sure what to do for the best. I crossed the road: the person following crossed too. I could hear their footsteps, then; gaining on me, no longer caring about being heard. I turned and saw a man – a boy – not much older than Matt. A hooded top; hands thrust deep into the front pocket. A scarf covering the bottom half of his face.

There was a shortcut to Matt’s house; a narrow street that ran behind a row of houses. Little more than an alleyway. It’ll be quicker, I decided, not thinking clearly; just wanting to be safely home.

As I turned the corner I broke into a run, and the boy behind me ran too. I dropped my shopping bag, the plastic top bursting off the milk container, sending a giant white spray across the cobbles. Seconds later, I fell too, stumbling to my knees and immediately putting a protective arm across my stomach.

It was over in a moment. He leaned over me, only his eyes exposed, and reached a hand out, searching roughly through my pockets. He pulled out my purse and ran off, leaving me sitting on the floor.

The footsteps grow closer.

I pick up my pace. Stop myself from running, but walk as fast as I can manage, the unnatural gait throwing me off balance and making my bag swing from side to side.

There’s a group of girls some distance in front of me and I try to catch up with them. Safety in numbers, I think. They’re messing around; running, jumping, laughing, but they’re not threatening. Not like the footsteps behind me, which are loud and heavy and coming closer.

‘Hey!’ I hear.

A male voice. Rough and harsh. I pull my bag in front of me, keep my arm over it so it can’t be opened, then panic that if someone snatches it they’ll drag me with it. I think of the advice I always give the kids; that it’s better to be mugged than injured. Give it up without a fight, I always tell them. Nothing’s worth getting hurt over.

The footsteps come faster. He’s running.

I run too, but panic makes me clumsy and I twist an ankle, almost falling. I hear the same voice, shouting again, and now the blood is pumping so loudly in my ears that I can’t hear what he’s saying. I can only hear the noise of him running, and of the breath I’m forcing out in loud, painful bursts.

My ankle hurts. I can’t run, so I stop trying.

I give up. Turn around.

He’s young; nineteen or twenty. White, with baggy jeans and trainers that pound on the concrete floor.

I’ll give him my phone – that’s what he’ll be after. And cash. Do I have any cash?

I start to pull the strap of my handbag over my head but it catches on my hood. He’s almost on me, now, grinning as though he enjoys my fear, enjoys the fact that I’m shaking so much I can’t untangle myself from the leather strap of my bag. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. Just do it. Whatever you’re planning, just do it.

His trainers slam against the floor. Faster, louder, closer.

Past me.

I open my eyes.

‘Hey!’ he calls again, as he runs. ‘Bitches!’ The tunnel curves to the left, and he disappears, the echo of his trainers making it sound as though he is still running towards me. I’m still shaking, my body unable to process the fact that what I thought was a certainty didn’t happen at all.

I hear shouting. I start walking, my ankle throbbing. Round the corner I see him again. He is with the group of girls; he has his arm round one and the others are grinning. They’re all talking at once; excitable chatter that builds to a crescendo of hyena-like laughter.

I walk slowly. Because of my ankle, and because – even though I can see now that there’s no threat – I don’t want to pass this gang of kids, who have made me feel so foolish.

Not every footstep is following you, I tell myself. Not everyone who runs is chasing you.

When I get off the train at Crystal Palace Megan speaks to me, but I’m slow to respond. I’m relieved to be out in the open air; cross with myself for getting in a state over nothing. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘what was that?’

‘I just said I hoped you’d had a good day.’ There are still fewer than a dozen coins in her open guitar case; she told me once how she scoops the pound coins and fifty pence pieces out throughout the day.

‘People stop giving if they think you’re doing too well,’ she’d explained.

‘It was okay, thank you,’ I tell her now. ‘See you in the morning.’

‘I’ll be here!’ she says, and I find her predictability comforting.

At the end of Anerley Road I walk past our open gate and through Melissa’s painted railings. The door swings open, a response to the text I sent as I walked from the Tube station.

Time for a cuppa?

‘Kettle’s on,’ she says, as soon as she sees me.

At first glance Melissa’s and Neil’s house is the same as mine; the small hall with the lounge door to one side, and the bottom of the stairs facing the door. But the resemblance stops there. At the back of Melissa’s house, where next door you’d find my poky kitchen, is a vast space extending into the side return and out into the garden. Two huge skylights allow the light to flood in, and bi-fold doors run the whole width of the house.

I follow her into the kitchen, where Neil is sitting at the breakfast bar, a laptop in front of him. Melissa’s desk is by the window, and even though Neil has an office upstairs, if he isn’t working away he’s often in here with her.

‘Hi, Neil.’

‘Hey, Zoe. How are things?’

‘Not bad.’ I hesitate, not sure whether to share what’s going on with the photos in the Gazette; not sure I can even define it. Perhaps talking about it might help. ‘Funny thing, though – I saw a photograph in the London Gazette that looked just like me.’ I give a little laugh, but Melissa stops making the tea and looks at me sharply. We spend too much time together for me to hide anything.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. It was just a photo, that’s all. An advert for a dating site, or something. But it had my picture in it. At least, I thought it did.’ Now it’s Neil who looks confused, and I don’t blame him; I’m not making any sense. I think of the kid on the Tube, running to catch up with his friends, and I’m glad no one I knew was there to see how I overreacted. I wonder if I’m having some kind of midlife crisis; having panic attacks over invisible danger.

‘When was this?’ Neil says.

‘Friday evening.’ I glance around the kitchen, but of course there isn’t a Gazette lying about. In my house the recycling box is permanently crammed with newspapers and cardboard packaging, but Melissa’s bin is neatly tucked away, and emptied regularly. ‘It was in the classifieds. Just a phone number, a website address, and the photograph.’

‘A photograph of you,’ Melissa says.

I hesitate. ‘Well, someone who looked like me. Simon said I must have a doppelgänger.’

Neil laughs. ‘You’d recognise yourself though, surely?’

I go to sit at the breakfast bar, next to him, and he closes the laptop, moving it so it isn’t in the way. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? When I saw it on the Tube I was convinced it was me. But then by the time I got home, and I showed it to the others, I wasn’t so sure. I mean, why would it be there?’

‘Did you call the number?’ Melissa says. She leans on the island opposite us, the coffee forgotten.

‘It doesn’t work. Nor does the website; the address is something like find the one dot com, but it just takes you to a blank screen with a white box in the middle.’

‘Want me to take a look at it?’

Neil does something in IT. I’ve never been sure exactly what, but he explained it once in such detail, I feel bad for not remembering.

‘It’s fine, honestly. You’ve got proper work to do.’

‘And lots of it,’ Melissa says ruefully. ‘He’s in Cardiff tomorrow, then at the Houses of Parliament for the rest of the week. I’m lucky if I see him once a week at the moment.’

‘Parliament? Wow. What’s it like?’

‘Boring.’ Neil grins. ‘The bit I’ll be in, anyway. I’m installing a new firewall, so I’m unlikely to be rubbing shoulders with the PM.’

‘Is your October paperwork ready?’ I ask Melissa, suddenly remembering why I needed to pop in and see her. She nods.

‘On the desk, just on top of that orange ring binder.’

Melissa’s desk is white and glossy, like everything else in the kitchen. A huge iMac dominates the surface, and a floating shelf above holds all the files for the cafés. On the desk is a penholder that Katie made in woodwork at school.

‘I can’t believe you still have this.’

‘Of course I do! It was so sweet of her to make it.’

‘She got a B for it,’ I remember. When we first moved in next door to Melissa and Neil, money was horribly, frighteningly, tight. There were more shifts on offer at Tesco, but with a school run at 3 p.m. it just wasn’t possible. Until Melissa stepped in. At the time she only had the one café, and she closed after the lunchtime trade. She’d pick up the kids for me and bring them home with her, and they’d watch TV while she did the food order for the next day. Melissa would bake with Katie, and Neil showed Justin how to add RAM to a motherboard, and I was able to pay my mortgage.

I find the bundle of receipts on top of the orange file, beneath a folded Tube map and a notepad filled with bits of paper, Post-it notes, and Melissa’s neat handwriting.

‘More world-domination plans?’ I joke, gesturing to the notepad. I catch a look passing between Neil and Melissa. ‘Oh. Sorry. Not funny?’

‘It’s the new café. Neil’s not quite as keen on the idea as I am.’

‘I’m fine about the café,’ Neil says. ‘It’s bankruptcy I’m less enthusiastic about.’

Melissa rolls her eyes. ‘You’re so risk averse.’

‘Listen, I might skip that tea, actually,’ I say, picking up Melissa’s paperwork.

‘Oh, stay!’ Melissa says. ‘We’re not going to have a domestic, I promise.’

I laugh. ‘It’s not that,’ although it is a bit. ‘Simon’s taking me out tonight.’

‘On a school night? What’s the occasion?’

‘No reason,’ I grin. ‘Just a spot of Monday-night romance.’

‘You two are like a couple of teenagers.’

‘They’re still in the first flush of love,’ Neil says. ‘We were like that, once.’ He winks at Melissa.

‘Were we?’

‘Wait till the seven-year itch hits them, Mel, then they’ll be watching TV in bed and bickering about who left the top off the toothpaste.’

‘We do lots of that too,’ I laugh. ‘See you soon.’

The front door’s unlocked when I get home, and Simon’s jacket is thrown over the end of the banister. I climb the stairs to the loft conversion and knock on the door. ‘What are you doing home so early?’

‘Hey, beautiful, I didn’t hear you come in. Good day? I couldn’t concentrate in the office, so I brought some work home.’ He stands up to kiss me, careful not to knock his head on the low beam. The conversion was carried out on the cheap by the previous owners. They worked around the original rafters, so even though it’s a big room you can only stand up in the middle.

I look at the pile of papers nearest to me and see a typed list of names, each with what looks like a brief bio below it.

‘Interviews for a feature I’ve got to do,’ he explains, seeing me looking. He picks up the papers and dumps them on the other side so I can perch on the edge of his desk. ‘It’s a nightmare trying to get hold of them.’

‘I don’t know how you find anything.’ My drawers at work might be a mess, but the top of my desk is almost empty. A photo of the kids and a plant sit next to my in-tray, and I make sure everything is tidied away before I go home. At the end of each day I write a list of everything I have to do the next day, even when some of them are the things I do on autopilot, as soon as I get into work. Open the post, listen to the answer-phone messages, make the tea.

‘Organised chaos.’ He sits down on the swivel chair in front of his desk and pats his knee for me to sit on his lap. I laugh and sit down, one arm around his neck to keep my balance. I kiss him, letting my body relax into his before I reluctantly pull away.

‘I’ve booked a table at Bella Donna.’

‘Perfect.’

I’m not a high-maintenance woman. I don’t waste money on clothes and beauty products, and if the kids so much as remember my birthday, that’s good enough for me. Matt wasn’t one for hearts and flowers, even when we were young, and nor was I. Simon laughs at my cynical nature; says he’s slowly bringing out my softer side. He spoils me, and I love it. After years of struggling to put food on the table, a meal out is still a luxury, but the real treat is time together. Just the two of us.

I have a shower and wash my hair, spraying perfume on my wrists and rubbing them together, letting the scent fill the air around me. I put on a dress I haven’t worn for a while, and am relieved to see it still fits, and pull out a pair of black patent heels from the tangle of shoes at the bottom of my wardrobe. When Simon moved in I squashed up my clothes to make room for his, but even so he has to keep some of his belongings in the loft conversion. The house has three bedrooms, but they’re all tiny: Justin’s is a single, and Katie barely has room to move around her double bed.

Simon’s waiting for me in the lounge. He’s put on a jacket and tie, and he looks the way he did when I first saw him come into Hallow & Reed. I remember him meeting my polite smile with something far warmer.

‘I’m from the Telegraph,’ he told me. ‘We’re running a piece about the rise in commercial rental prices: independents being priced off the High Street, that sort of thing. It would be great if you could talk me through what’s on your books at the moment.’

He met my eyes, and I hid the ensuing blush in the filing cabinet, taking longer than I needed to find a dozen or so particulars.

‘This one might be interesting for you.’ I sat down at my desk, a piece of paper between us. ‘There used to be a gift shop there, but the rent went up and it’s been empty for six months. The British Heart Foundation will be in there from next month.’

‘Could I speak to the landlord?’

‘I can’t give you his details, but if you give me your number I’ll pass it on.’ I blushed again, even though the suggestion was perfectly legitimate. There was a crackle in the air between us I was sure I wasn’t imagining.

Simon wrote down his number, his eyes creasing into a frown. I remember wondering if he normally wore glasses, and if he had left them off through vanity, or forgetfulness; not knowing then the frown was simply a side effect of concentration. His hair was grey, although not as thin as it is now, four years on. He was tall, with a lean frame that fitted easily in the narrow chair by my desk, legs crossed casually at the ankle. Silver cufflinks just showing below the sleeves of his navy suit.

‘Thank you for your help.’

He seemed in no hurry to leave, and already I didn’t want him to.

‘Not at all. It was a pleasure to meet you.’

‘So,’ he said, watching me intently. ‘You’ve got my number … may I have yours?’

We hail a taxi on Anerley Road, even though we’re not going far, and I catch the fleeting look of relief in Simon’s face as the cab pulls over and he sees the driver’s face. Once, when Simon and I were first dating, we jumped in a black cab, our coats pulled above our heads against the rain. It was only when we looked up that we saw Matt’s face in the rear-view mirror. For a second I thought Simon was going to insist we got out, but he stared out of the window instead. We sat in silence. Even Matt, who could talk the legs off the proverbial donkey, didn’t try to make conversation.

The restaurant is one we’ve been to a few times, and the owner greets us by name when we arrive. He shows us to a booth by the window and hands us menus we both know off by heart. Fat strands of tinsel have been draped over the picture frames and across the light fittings.

We order what we always have – pizza for Simon, seafood pasta for me – and it arrives too quickly for it to have been cooked from scratch.

‘I looked at the adverts in the Gazette this morning. Graham had a pile in his office.’

‘They haven’t promoted you to page three, have they?’ He cuts into his pizza, and a thin trickle of oil oozes from the topping on to his plate.

I laugh. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got the necessary attributes for that. The thing is, I recognised the woman in the advert.’

‘You recognised her? You mean it’s someone you know?’

I shake my head. ‘I saw her photo in another newspaper – she was in an article about crime on the Underground. I told the police about it.’ I’m trying to keep it light, but my voice breaks. ‘I’m scared, Simon. What if that photo in Friday’s paper really was me?’

‘It wasn’t, Zoe.’ There’s concern in Simon’s face; not because someone put a photo of me in the paper, but because I think they did.

‘I’m not imagining it.’

‘Are you stressed about work? Is it Graham?’

He thinks I’m going mad. I’m starting to think he’s right.

‘It really did look like me,’ I say quietly.

‘I know.’

He puts down his knife and fork. ‘Tell you what, let’s say the photo was of you.’

This is how Simon addresses problems, boiling them down to their very essence. A couple of years ago there was a burglary in our street. Katie became convinced they were going to break into our house next, and the thought stopped her sleeping. When she eventually dropped off she had nightmares, waking up screaming that there was someone in her room. I was at my wit’s end. I’d tried everything; even sat with her till she fell asleep, like she was a baby again. Simon took a more practical approach. He took Katie to B&Q, where they bought window locks, a burglar alarm, and an extra bolt for the garden gate. Together they fitted security measures to the entire house, even coating the drainpipes with anti-climb paint. The nightmares stopped instantly.

‘Okay,’ I say, finding the game oddly cheering. ‘Let’s say the photograph really was of me.’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself the same question.’

‘You’d notice someone random taking a photo of you, surely?’

‘Maybe someone took it with a long lens,’ I say, realising as I do how ridiculous it sounds. What next? Paparazzi outside the house? Mopeds zooming past me; a photographer leaning to one side, in an effort to get the perfect shot for a tabloid splash? Simon doesn’t laugh, but when I acknowledge the absurdity of the suggestion with an embarrassed grin, he cracks a smile.

‘Someone could have stolen it,’ he says, more seriously.

‘Yes!’ That seems more likely.

‘Okay, so let’s imagine someone’s used your photo to advertise their company.’ Discussing the advert like this, in such a rational, dispassionate way, is gradually calming me down, which I know was Simon’s intention all along. ‘That would be identity theft, right?’

I nod. Giving it a name – and one so familiar – instantly makes it feel less personal. There are hundreds – probably thousands – of identity fraud cases every day. At Hallow & Reed we have to be so careful, double-checking ID documents and only ever accepting originals or certified copies. It’s frighteningly easy to take someone’s photo and pass it off as your own.

Simon is still rationalising what’s happened.

‘What you have to consider is this: would it really hurt you? More than – say – if someone used your name to open a bank account, or if they cloned your card?’

‘It’s creepier.’

Simon reaches across the table and puts both his hands over mine. ‘Remember when Katie had that problem at school, with that gang of girls?’ I nod, the mere mention of it filling me with fresh rage. When she was fifteen, Katie was bullied by three girls in her year. They set up an Instagram account in her name; posted photos of Katie’s head, Photoshopped on to various images. Naked women, naked men, cartoon characters. Infantile, puerile stuff, that blew over before the end of the term, but Katie was devastated.

‘What did you tell her?’

Sticks and stones, I said to Katie. Ignore them. They’re not touching you.

‘The way I see it,’ Simon says, ‘is that there are two possibilities. Either the photo was simply of someone who looks like you – although not nearly as beautiful’ – I grin, despite the cheesiness of the compliment – ‘or it’s ID theft, which – although irritating – isn’t doing you any harm.’

I can’t argue with his logic. Then I remember Cathy Tanning. I produce her as though I’m playing a joker. ‘The woman I saw in the newspaper article; she had her keys stolen on the Tube.’ Simon waits for an explanation, his face registering confusion.

‘It happened after her photo appeared in the advert. Like the photo of me.’ I correct myself. ‘The photo that looked like me.’

‘Coincidence! How many people do we know who have had their pockets picked on the Tube? It’s happened to me. It happens every day, Zoe.’

‘I suppose so.’ I know what Simon’s thinking. He wants evidence. He’s a journalist, he deals in facts, not supposition and paranoia.

‘Do you think the paper would investigate it?’

‘Which paper?’ He sees my face. ‘My paper? The Telegraph? Oh, Zoe, I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not really a story, Zoe. I mean, I know you’re worried by it, and it’s a curious thing to happen, but it’s not newsworthy, if you know what I mean. ID theft’s a bit old hat, to be honest.’

‘You could pitch it, though, couldn’t you? Find out who’s behind it?’

‘No.’ His abruptness marks an end to the conversation, and I wish I’d never brought it up. I’ve blown this whole thing up to be more than it is, and driven myself insane in the process. I eat a piece of garlic bread and pour more wine to replace the glass I hadn’t noticed myself finishing. I wonder if I should do something about my anxiety levels. Mindfulness. Yoga. I’m becoming neurotic, and the last thing I want is for it to affect things between Simon and me.

‘Did Katie tell you about her audition?’ Simon says, and I’m grateful both for the change in subject, and for the softness in his voice that tells me he doesn’t hold my paranoia against me.

‘She’s been ignoring my texts. I said something stupid this morning.’

Simon raises an eyebrow but I don’t elaborate.

‘When did you speak to her?’ I ask, trying not to sound bitter. I’ve only got myself to blame for Katie’s silence.

‘She texted me.’ I’ve made him feel awkward, now, and I rush to reassure him.

‘It’s great that she wanted to tell you. Honestly, I think it’s lovely.’ I mean it. Before Simon moved in, when things were already serious between us, I used to try and engineer occasions when he and the children would be together. I’d remember something I’d left upstairs, or go to the loo when I didn’t need to, in the hope I’d come back and find them chatting happily together. It hurts me that Katie didn’t text me, but I’m glad that she wanted to tell Simon.

‘What’s the job?’

‘I don’t know much. The agency haven’t offered her representation, but she made a useful contact and it sounds like there’s a part in the offing.’

‘That’s great!’ I want to get out my phone and text Katie, to tell her how proud I am, but I make myself wait. I’d rather congratulate her in person. Instead I tell Simon about Melissa’s new café, and Neil’s contract at the Houses of Parliament. By the time pudding comes we’ve ordered another bottle of wine, and I’ve got the giggles over Simon’s stories of his time as a junior reporter.

Simon pays the bill, leaving a generous tip. He goes to hail a cab, but I stop him.

‘Let’s walk.’

‘It’ll be less than a tenner.’

‘I’d like to.’

We start walking, my arm tucked into Simon’s. I don’t care about the cost of a taxi ride home; I just want the evening to go on for a little longer. At the crossing he kisses me, and it turns into a kiss that makes us ignore the beep of the green man and have to press the button all over again.

My hangover wakes me at six. I go downstairs in search of water and an aspirin, and switch on Sky News, filling a glass from the tap and drinking greedily from it. When I’ve drained the glass I fill it and drink again, holding the side of the sink because I feel as though I’m swaying. I rarely drink in the week, and I’m reminded this is the reason why.

Katie’s handbag is on the table. She was already in bed when Simon and I got home last night, both of us giggling at the irony of trying not to wake the kids as we crept upstairs. There’s a piece of paper next to the kettle, folded in two and with ‘Mum’ written on the front. I open it, my headache making me squint.

I smile, despite my hangover. She’s forgiven me, and I resolve to be extra enthusiastic when she tells me about the job. No mention of secretarial college, or training to fall back on. I wonder what the gig is; whether it’s extra work, or a real part. Theatre, I suppose, although I allow myself a fantasy in which Katie has landed a job in TV; a part in some long-running soap that will make her a household name.

The Sky News reporter, Rachel Lovelock, is reporting a murder: a female victim from Muswell Hill. Perhaps Katie could be a presenter, I think. She’s certainly got the looks. She wouldn’t want to read the news, but a music channel, perhaps, or one of those magazine-style programmes, like Loose Women or The One Show. I pour another glass of water and lean against the worktop as I watch the telly.

The image changes to an outside broadcast; Rachel Lovelock is replaced by a woman in a thick coat, talking earnestly into a microphone. As she carries on talking, a picture of the murder victim appears on the screen. Her name was Tania Beckett, and she doesn’t look much older than Katie, although according to the report she was twenty-five. Her boyfriend raised the alarm when she didn’t come home after work, and she was found in the park late last night, a hundred yards from where they lived.

Perhaps it’s my hangover, or the fact I’m still half-asleep, but I look at the photo on screen for a full minute before recognition kicks in. I take in the dark hair, the smiling face, the full figure. I see the necklace, with its gleaming silver crucifix.

And then I realise.

It’s the woman from yesterday’s advert.