‘He knows where you live?’

I shake my head. The other day I made a mistake and mentioned the tube. I’d had to confess that I was in London, not Paris, but he knows no more than that.

‘No, of course not.’

There’s a long pause. ‘So, what do you talk about?’

I don’t reply, which is an answer in itself.

‘You are very vulnerable right now, Julia. You’re sure you know what you’re doing?’

I nod. ‘Of course.’ But she doesn’t look convinced.

‘You like him.’

I shake my head again. ‘No. It’s not like that. It’s just … there seems to be a connection there. And I wonder whether that connection has anything to do with Kate.’

‘In what way?’

‘You know how close we used to be. It felt almost psychic. And, well—’

‘You think if you feel a connection with this man then it must be relevant?’

I don’t answer. It’s exactly what I think. She has no idea what a difference it makes, this feeling that I’m at least doing something useful, something that might lead Connor and me to resolution and a place of safety.

‘Julia.’ She looks stern. ‘You look like a teenager who’s got a massive crush on a boy in the next year up.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ I mean it, but I don’t sound convincing, even to myself. Is it really how I feel? I can’t deny I’ve looked forward to Lukas’s messages.

Maybe it’s not about the investigation at all. Maybe it’s because now I know how Kate must have felt, chatting to those men; I can feel closer to her. I know her world.

‘You know,’ I say, ‘even if it is futile, a waste of time, so what? I’m just trying to do something to get over the death of my sister.’

‘So you told this guy about her?’

I say no, but I’m lying. The other day I’d had a bad morning after a sleepless night and I couldn’t stop thinking about Kate. He could tell something was wrong. He kept asking me if everything was all right, whether there was anything he could do. I couldn’t help myself. I told him.

He said he was so sorry to hear my sister had died, and asked me how. I was about to tell him the truth when I realized it would be a mistake. I told him it was suicide. There was a long moment when I wondered what he was going to say, and then he said again how sorry he was, and that he wished he could put his arms around me, be there for me.

He said he understood, and it’d felt good. For a moment I almost felt bad for wondering whether he might be somehow involved in my sister’s death. Almost.

‘Well, that’s something, at least. Are you having sex?’

‘Of course not!’ I say, but I’m thinking about how it makes me feel when he turns his camera on, when I can see him respond to my messages, smile at me, wave at me when he says goodbye. Do I want him?

I think about the other night, in bed. Hugh and I had made love, for the first time in months, but it’d been Lukas I was thinking about.

Yet at the same time it wasn’t him. The man I was imagining, dreaming about, was a fantasy. My own construction, almost completely divorced from the Lukas I chat to, the one I see on camera.

‘He knows about Hugh?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want him to think I’m available. Otherwise, how will I find out whether he is who he says he is?’

‘Right.’ She looks at me, dead in the eye. ‘And what do you think Hugh would say? If he found out?’

It’s not the first time I’ve considered it, of course. ‘But I’m just trying to find out what happened. If nothing else, to help Connor.’

She looks properly exasperated, now. It’s as if she thinks I’m stupid. Possibly she does. Possibly I am.

Our food arrives. I’m grateful. There a diffusion of tension as we arrange our napkins and begin to eat. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘It’s not like there’re any feelings attached to any of this. It’s just words on a screen …’

She forks her salad. ‘I think you’re being naive. You’re getting sucked in.’

‘Can we change the subject?’

She puts her fork down. ‘You know I love you, and support you. But—’

Here we go, I think. ‘What?’

‘It’s just … it’s surprising what people give away online, without knowing it. How easily it can feel real.’

‘Adrienne. I’m not an idiot, you know.’

‘I just hope you know what you’re doing.’

We finish our meal and have coffee before we leave. It’s another warm night; couples meander through the city, arm in arm. The air is full of laughter, of possibility. I feel unsteady, almost as if I’ve had a drink. I decide to take the tube home.

‘It’s been great to see you.’

‘You, too.’ We kiss, but I’m disappointed. I thought she’d see my chats with Lukas for what they are, even give me support. But she hadn’t. She doesn’t. ‘You be careful,’ she says, and I tell her I will.

I reach the platform just as a train pulls in. It’s pretty full, but I sit down on one of the few remaining seats and, a moment too late, realize it’s sticky with spilled beer. I take my book out of my bag, but it’s a defence. I don’t open it.

At Holborn there’s a commotion. A group of lads get on, teenagers, or early twenties; they’re wearing shorts, T-shirts, carrying beers. One of them says something – I don’t hear what – and the others laugh. ‘Fuck!’ says one; another says, ‘What a cunt!’ It’s loud, they’re making no effort to tone it down; there are children around, despite the time. I catch the eye of the man sitting opposite me and he smiles and raises his eyebrows. For a moment we’re united in our disapproval. He has a long face, cropped hair, glasses. He holds a briefcase on his lap, in soft leather, but is wearing jeans and a shirt. The train pulls away. He smiles, then goes back to his paper and I open my book.

I can’t concentrate. I read the same paragraph, over and over. I can’t pretend I’m not hoping I’ll have a message from Lukas when I get home. I keep thinking about the man sitting opposite me.

I sigh, look up. He’s looking at me again, and now he smiles and holds my gaze for a long moment. This time it’s me who looks away first, to the advert above his head. I pretend to find it fascinating; it’s a poster for one of the universities. BE WHO YOU WANT TO BE, it says. A woman wears a mortar board, clutches a scroll, her grin wide. Next to it is a poster for a dating agency. WHAT IF YOU KNEW THAT EVERYONE IN THIS CARRIAGE YOU FANCY IS SINGLE? What if I did? I think. What would I do? Nothing, I don’t suppose. I’m married, I have a child. I glance down, just briefly, away from the poster; he’s reading his paper again. I find myself looking at his body, at his chest, which is broader than his narrow face would suggest, at his legs, his thighs. Although he looks nothing like him, I start to see him as Lukas. I picture him, looking up at me, smiling the way I’ve seen Lukas smile on Skype so many times over the last few days. I imagine kissing him, letting him kiss me. I imagine dragging him into one of the stairwells at the next station, unzipping his jeans, feeling him grow erect in my hand.

Suddenly I see myself as others see me. I’m shocked at what I’m thinking. It isn’t right. It isn’t me. I look down at my book and pretend to read.

Chapter Twelve

I think he’s there again. Standing not quite under the light. Watching my window.

There, yet not there. When I look directly into the shadows I can convince myself it’s nothing, a trick of the light, an optical illusion. Just my brain, seeking order in chaos, trying to make sense of the random. Yet, as I look away, the figure seems about to come into focus. To declare itself as real.

This time, I don’t turn away. This time, I tell myself he’s real. I’m not imagining it. I stay where I am, watching him. Last time I’d told Hugh and he said it was nothing, a trick of the light, and so tonight I want to burn his image on to my retina, take it again to my husband, show him. Look, I want to say. This time, I’m not being absurd, I’m not imagining it. He was there.