I’m still on my way back from the station when Simon phones from his sister’s. He must have been on the Tube when I called his mobile, he tells me. He’s just picked up my voicemail.

‘I won’t be late back. Ange has got an early start in the morning, so I’ll head off after supper.’

‘Did you have a good day at work?’ The words are the same ones I use every evening, but there’s an edge to my voice that makes him pause, and I wonder if it’s enough to prompt whatever truths he’s been hiding from me.

It isn’t.

‘Not bad.’

I listen to Simon lie to me; to the detail he gives me about the guy at the next desk to him, who eats with his mouth open and spends half the day on the phone to his girlfriend. I want to confront him but I can’t find the words; and more than that, I still can’t believe it’s true.

Of course Simon works at the Telegraph. I’ve seen his desk. At least, I’ve seen pictures of it. Soon after we started dating he texted me.

I’m in Sainsbury’s, I replied. I sent him a photo of the frozen food aisle, laughing out loud in the supermarket.

It became a game, abbreviated to WAYDN? and responded to with a photo of whatever was in front of us at that precise moment. A packed Tube train, a sandwich at lunch, the underside of my brolly as I walked to work in the rain. It was a window into our lives; into the days and nights between our evenings together.

I’ve seen his desk, I repeat to myself. I’ve seen the vast open-plan space with its computer screens and ever present Sky News feed. I’ve seen the piles of newspapers.

You’ve seen a desk, a voice says in my head, it could have been anyone’s.

I shake it off. What am I suggesting; that Simon sent me photos of somewhere he didn’t even work? That he took pictures of a newsroom from the Internet? It’s ridiculous. There’ll be an innocent explanation. A missed entry in the switchboard directory; an incompetent receptionist; a practical joke. Simon wouldn’t lie to me.

Would he?

I cross the road so I can stop by Melissa’s café. I know that Justin’s shift finishes shortly, and I see them sitting at a table poring over paperwork, Melissa leaning forward until her head is almost touching Justin’s. They move apart as I come through the door, Melissa jumping up to give me a kiss.

‘Just the person! We were just arguing about the Christmas menu. Turkey baguettes with cranberry, or with sage and onion? Stick those menus away, Justin, we’ll finish off tomorrow.’

‘Cranberry and sage and onion. Hi, love.’

Justin picks up the papers and shuffles them into a pile. ‘I said both, too.’

‘That’s because it’s not your profits you’re giving away,’ Melissa says. ‘Sage and onion or cranberry sauce. Not both.’

‘I thought we could walk home together,’ I say to Justin, ‘but you’re busy.’

‘You go on,’ Melissa says. ‘I’ll lock up.’ I watch my son take off his apron and hang it behind the counter, ready for tomorrow.

I loop my hand through Justin’s arm as we walk home. My stomach feels hollow as I remember the certainty with which the Telegraph’s switchboard operator had delivered her news.

There’s no Simon Thornton working here.

‘Has Simon ever talked to you about his job?’ I try to speak casually, but Justin looks at me as if I’ve suggested he might have chatted with Biscuit. The antagonism between Simon and Justin is the elephant in the room; ignored in the hope it will one day leave of its own accord.

‘Only to make the point that I’d never get a job like his without qualifications. Which was nice.’

‘I’m sure he was just trying to motivate you.’

‘Well, he can stick his motivation up his—’

‘Justin!’

‘He’s got no right to lecture me. He’s not my dad.’

‘He’s not trying to be.’ I put the key in the lock. ‘Can’t you just try and get on? For my sake?’

He stares at me, his expression registering a flicker of remorse beneath the bitterness. ‘No. You think you know him, Mum, but you don’t. You really don’t.’

I’m peeling potatoes when my mobile rings. I’m about to leave it, when I catch sight of the name on the screen. PC Kelly Swift. I wipe my hands on a tea towel and snatch up the phone before it can go to voicemail. ‘Hello?’

‘Have you got a minute?’ PC Swift sounds hesitant. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. Off the record.’

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.

‘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.

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.

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.

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.

Around me, Lenny is wiping tables, noisily stacking chairs to let me know I’ve overstayed my welcome. I try to stand up, but my legs won’t work. Bumping into Luke Friedland this morning was no accident, I realise, just like it was no accident that he was standing next to me when I fell towards the tracks.

Luke Friedland downloaded my commute in order to follow me.

Who else has done the same?

Simon comes home just as I’m getting in to bed. He’s so pleased to see me I feel a stab of confusion. How can a man who loves me this much have been lying to me?

‘How was Ange?’ It occurs to me suddenly that maybe he didn’t even go and see his sister. If he’s been lying to me about where he works, what else has he been lying about? Justin’s words ring in my ears, and I look at Simon with a new watchfulness.

‘Great. She sends her love.’

‘Good day at work?’ I say. He pulls off his trousers and leaves them in a puddle on the floor with his shirt, before sliding in to bed. Tell me, I think. Tell me now, and it’ll all be okay. Tell me you’ve never worked at the Telegraph; that you’re a junior reporter at some local rag, or that you’re not a journalist at all; that you made it up to impress me, and you actually work the deep-fat fryer at McDonald’s. Just tell me the truth.

But he doesn’t. He strokes my stomach; circles his thumbs against my hip bones. ‘Pretty good. That story about MP expenses broke first thing, so it was a busy one.’

I feel wrong-footed. I saw the story at lunchtime, when I nipped out to get Graham’s sandwich. My head starts to throb. I need to know the truth.

‘I called the Telegraph.’

The colour drains from Simon’s face.

‘You weren’t answering your mobile. Something happened on my way home from work; I was upset, I wanted to talk to you.’

‘What happened? Are you okay?’

I ignore his concern. ‘The switchboard operator had never heard of you.’ I push his hands off my waist. There’s a pause, and I can hear the click of the central heating switching off.

‘I was going to tell you.’

‘Tell me what? That you’d lied to me? Made up a job you thought would impress me?’

‘No! I didn’t make it up. God, Zoe, what do you think of me?’

‘Do you really want me to answer that?’ No wonder he was so negative when I suggested putting Katie forward for work experience, I think; why he snapped when I asked him to pitch a story about the adverts.

‘I did work at the Telegraph. Then they …’ he breaks off, rolling away from me and staring up at the ceiling. ‘They let me go.’ I can’t decide if the shame I can hear in his voice is because he lost his job or because he’s been lying to us.

‘Why? You’ve been there for – what? – more than twenty years.’

Simon gives a hollow laugh. ‘Exactly. Out with the old and in with the new. A younger workforce. Cheaper. Kids who don’t know what the subjunctive is, but who can blog and tweet and upload content to the website in the blink of an eye.’ His voice is bitter, but there’s no real fight in his words, as though the battle is long since lost.

‘When did this happen?’

‘At the start of August.’

For a second I’m struggling for words. ‘You were made redundant four months ago, and you said nothing? What the hell have you been doing all this time?’ I get out of bed and walk towards the door, then stop and turn around, not wanting to stay, but needing to hear more.

‘Walking around, sitting in cafés, writing, reading.’ The bitterness creeps into his voice again. ‘Looking for jobs; having interviews; being told I’m too old; worrying about how to tell you.’ He won’t look at me; his eyes trained resolutely on the ceiling. Deep grooves form across his forehead. He is broken.

I stand watching him, and gradually my anger begins to disappear.

‘What about money?’

‘They gave me a redundancy package. I hoped I’d find something fairly quickly; I thought I’d tell you when I’d sorted it all out. But it went on and on, and when the money ran out I had to use credit cards.’ When he finally looks at me I’m shocked to see his eyes are bright with the beginnings of tears. ‘I’m so sorry, Zoe, I never meant to lie to you. I hoped I’d have it sorted in no time, and I’d be able to surprise you with a new job; carry on looking after you the way you deserve to be looked after.’

I move to sit next to him. ‘Shhh, it’s okay,’ I say, like he’s one of my children. ‘It’ll all be okay.’

Simon makes me promise not to tell the kids.

‘Justin already thinks I don’t pay my way. He doesn’t need any more reason to hate me.’

‘We’ve been through this,’ I say. ‘It’s me he’s angry with, not you. He blames me for the divorce; having to move from Peckham, leave his friends.’

‘So tell him the truth. Why should you take the blame for something that wasn’t your fault? It’s been ten years, Zoe, why are you still protecting Matt?’

‘I’m not protecting Matt, I’m protecting the kids. They love their father; they don’t need to know Matt cheated on me.’

‘It isn’t fair on you.’

‘It’s what we agreed.’ It was a deal that made us both liars. I agreed never to tell the kids Matt had cheated, and he agreed to pretend he didn’t love me any more; that the decision to separate was mutual. I sometimes wonder which of us found the bargain harder to keep.

Simon leaves it. It’s a battle he knows he won’t win. ‘I want to get back on my feet before we tell them. Please.’

We agree to tell Justin and Katie that Simon has arranged to work from home full-time, so he doesn’t have to leave the house each day; staying out till after five, drinking cups of coffee he doesn’t want, in cafés he can no longer afford. When he tells me he’s been living off credit cards I feel sick.

‘Why did you keep buying me presents? Taking me out to dinner? I’d never have let you do that if I’d known you couldn’t afford it.’

‘If I’d stopped you’d have wondered what had happened; you’d have guessed. Thought less of me.’

‘I could have paid my way, if we’d have gone out at all.’

‘How do you think that would have made me feel? What kind of man lets a woman pay for dinner?’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous! It’s not the fifties.’ I laugh, then realise how serious he is. ‘It’ll be okay, I promise.’

I just hope I’m right.