Tom and Leah had been messaging back and forth for a while. The new message from him is short and polite, simply confirming the location and time of a dinner date on Saturday evening. He has not appended a picture of his penis and I am glad. The last two men Leah had received messages from on this site apparently had, the opening gambit of a man who has zero interest in dinner.

I should cancel. Send him an appropriately off-putting response. But there is something in his eyes. And I need to make sure things are as normal as possible. That no suspicions are raised.

Fuck you Chris, I think as I tap out a reply to Tom: Great, see you there.

He replies instantly: Can’t wait to finally meet you x

Shit. Did I really just agree to go on a date?

Chapter Five

What do you wear to meet a man who thinks you are your sister? In the end I chose a simple black dress—rather on the demure side for Leah, with a skirt that falls in gentle folds to mid-calf and not too much cleavage on show—teamed with a pair of high black heels with an incredible peacock lining. I’d looked at the same pair with envy during a recent lunchtime shopping trip, before reluctantly accepting that three hundred and fifty pounds was too much for shoes. I don’t think Leah has ever even worn them, nor half of the others in the huge walk-in closet adjoining the main bedroom.

I hesitate before I leave the sanctuary of Leah’s house, running through my list of meticulous checks to ensure the back door is locked, the windows closed, hairdryer unplugged. A few months ago, I had left a candle burning in the bedroom and nearly set our house on fire. Chris had been livid. With the memory of his admonishment—which had quickly turned to sympathy when he saw the horror on my face—burning in my mind, I walk through the house once more checking for candles that may have spontaneously lit themselves. I could have sworn I’d blown out that one before, but the flash of terror in Chris’s eyes had convinced me he wasn’t acting and that time the fault really had been mine. Unless he was better at playing a role than I thought.

Finally ready to go, I think that it’s not too late to back out, feign illness or something. But then the taxi driver beeps his horn twice in quick succession and I’m forced to run out before the neighbors start getting nosey.

All first dates are nerve-shredding, but tonight my fear is almost at fever point as a million “what-ifs” roil through my brain. What if he realizes I’m not Leah? What if someone else sees me? What if I say the wrong thing? What if, what if, what if! I realize I’m playing with my rings in the way my last boss used to reprimand me for, telling me it looked jittery—