Identity Theft

Do you promise to believe what you read here?

I need to know that someone knows my story. After…well, after whatever’s happening to me.

------

From: Paypal <[email protected]>

Subject: Account Access - Action Required

Date: February 13, 2022 14.45 PM

To: Joseph Haynes, Prof.

Dear Customer,

We regret to inform you access to your account has been restricted following suspicious activity.

To unlock your account click here and follow the instructions to update your login.

Sincerely,

Ella

Ella Dakers

Account Services Officer

------

He clicked. I’m in.

A university professor. Fellow and Tutor in philosophy at St Peter’s college, Oxford. 46 years old. Unmarried. No children. One diabetic cat; £100 a month for feline insulin. £40 per box of 100 syringes. And a sister, living in Wales; twice-yearly £82.60 return ticket - Oxford to Pen Y Bont, two changes. Stays for a week.

I wonder if he takes the cat with him.

He lives in a one-bed subsidised flat near the college. Gets a plain black coffee from Costa every morning. Adds a Sicilian lemon muffin on Saturdays.

------

From: Apple Inc. <[email protected]>

Subject: Your Apple ID

Date: February 13, 2022 15.51 PM

To: Daisy Goodson

Dear Customer,

We regret to inform you, your Apple ID has been blocked after multiple unsuccessful login attempts. Follow the link here to update your Apple ID. Sorry for any inconvenience,

Sophie Lawrence

Account Security Officer

------

Daisy goes to WellFit twice a week. Spin class, and something called Combat Thin. “Tone up, square up.” She’s training to be a nurse.

It’s her birthday next week - spa day at Aqua Sana, and £450 at LuluLemon for new athleisure wear. Brunch at Lantana last Sunday - £36 for the halloumi smashed avocado with bottomless mimosas. Bonnie texts after, to let her know it was just the loveliest to see her again. Daisy texts topless mirror selfies to a man saved in her phone as Dylan-the-one.

She’s behind on the payments to her father’s care home.

------

From: Joseph Haynes, Prof. <[email protected]>

Subject: How did the solipsist break up with his girlfriend? (Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone)

Date: February 14, 2022. 09.17 AM

To: Mailing list: Students, Aesthetics of the Philosophy of Criticism.

Dear All,

A reminder that tomorrow’s lecture has been moved to the earlier time of 11.00 AM. For those in my Monday tutorial group: since the change bumps you out of our usual slot, I say we take the tutorial to lunch at The Three Goats Heads.

Thanks for your attention, and for those of you who succeeded in both opening and reading this email; the conclusion of the joke… By saying it wasn’t her, it was only him.

For the rest of you; good luck in your Prelims. You’re going to need it.

Best,

Joseph.

------

I don’t know why I’m still watching. I like him; he cares about his students. But I’ve passed his data to Ivan, so I’m done. Finished. Moved on.

That’s not true, I know why I’m watching. This morning, over my usual instant ramen breakfast, I caught myself reflecting on the relative benefits of co-operative argumentative dialogue. The Socratic method. The balancing act of “productive discomfort.” I chuckled at the improbability of success in early-hours classes. Not unless the students have sourced a morning coffee.

These thoughts taste of dust and sun-warmed ancient wood. They smell of old paper and sound like scratching pens. And they do not belong in my world of blackout curtains and blue light glow.

------

From: London Bank <[email protected]>

Subject: Payment Pending

Date: February 14, 2022. 1.35 PM

To: Eloise Tibbits

Dear Customer,

A payment is pending into your London Bank account.

If you do not accept the payment it may not be credited to your account.

Please visit the London Bank website and follow the instructions to approve payment.

We are sorry for the inconvenience.

Regards,

Madeline Baston

Payments Co-Ordinator, London Bank.

------

Eloise is a middle aged mother of two. She collects cookbooks and sends beautifully passive aggressive emails to her ex-husband.

I find that I know how to bake bread, and that a touch of espresso brings out the chocolate for brownies. That’s why mine are the favourite at bake sales.

No, not mine. Hers. The brownies are hers.

I pace my living room. Seven paces across. Take a shower, then realise I’ve re-dressed in a floral blouse I didn’t know I owned. I reach for the nearest t-shirt; reassuringly black, with a picture of an octopus working eight laptops at once. A present from Ivan.

Air. I need air. I go round the corner for coffee and my favourite muffin. Peel away the paper case and bite down, expecting a burst of blueberries. Come away with the sweet tartness of lemon.

------

From: Netflix <[email protected]>

Subject: Update payment subscription

Date: February 14, 2022. 3.19PM

To: Ross Whatley

Dear Customer,

Unfortunately, we cannot authorise payment for the next billing cycle of your subscription because your bank rejected the monthly charge.

Click here to update your payment method and enjoy all the best movies and TV shows without interruption.

Netflix team

------

Ross spends his money on his motorbike. And on maintaining two girlfriends. Who don’t know about each other. I consider tipping them off—it takes seconds to find them on Facebook—but settle for scraping their photos for personal information. Birthdays. Addresses. Credit cards visible on coffee tables or kitchen counters. Mothers’ maiden names. Names of first pets.

Ivan texts me an emoji with stars in its eyes when I pass on the data. I make myself a cup of tea, but realise it’s black with a slice of lemon. I dump it out and make a new one, which comes up milky and sweetened with honey.

I take my tea almost black, with four teaspoons of sugar.

A thump at the door and Ivan’s fish-eyed head through the peephole. He hears me, holds up two wads of frayed and greasy £20 notes.

“It’s payday, you crazy bitch.” When did I lose track of the days? I open the door, and Ivan sweeps 6ft 3 of shiny midnight suit and suede driving shoes into my flat, brings a cloud of Sobranies and Hugo Boss with him.

“Jesus, get some light in here. What are you, a bat?” He chuckles at his own wit. I hold out my hands for the money. He lowers mirrored aviators to point a look at me.

“Hello? You in there, kid?”

Good question.

------

From: GMail <[email protected]>

Subject: New Sign-in

Date: February 14, 2022. 9.29 PM

To: Antoinette Matyear

New Sign-in to your linked account:

We noticed a new sign-in to your Google Account on an Apple iPhone device.

If this was you, you don’t need to do anything. If not, we’ll help you secure your account.

Click here to check activity.

Regards,

Poppy

Google Account Security Officer

------

Antoinette Matyear keeps bees on the roof of her London flat, and is in constant dispute with her landlord over them. She calls him a rapist of the environment. He raises her rent.

I make keto chicken salad and a green smoothie for dinner. I read a book on my kindle about the life of Jean-Paul Sartre. “Do you think that I count the days? There is only one day left, always…” I know the word for what he is, though no one ever taught me. Existentialist.

I brush my teeth and think about giving myself a pep talk in the mirror like they do in the movies. You know who you are. You know who you are. You know who you are. But I covered the mirrors days ago, when my face stopped being a face and became a disguise.

I try to say my name. I know it starts with an S. Did I tell you what it was? No? How stupid of me.

------

From: Amazon <[email protected]>

Subject: Refund

Date: February 14, 2022 00.10 AM

To: Martin Pitmann

Dear Customer,

Due to a system error, you were double charged for your latest order.

A refund is in process. Please verify your billing address by clicking here to receive your refund.

Sorry for the inconvenience.

Sincerely,

The Amazon Team

------

Martin works as a site manager at a construction company owned by his older brother. He gambles compulsively at online poker. When I sleep, I dream about just-finished buildings crumbling into dust.

For breakfast, I make french toast from scratch. Wash it down with black tea and lemon. I shower, and dress in pale lavender yoga pants. I hum a song I’ve never liked. I think about bees, and visiting my sick father, and remember the Ducati’s overdue a new set of tyres. I promise myself I’m quitting the poker. For good this time.

I sit at my computer, fingers poised on the keyboard.

I don’t know what to do.