Cyber Cinderella

by Christina Hopkinson

  “And Becksy and Alice, they came too,” I said.

  “Yes, Camilla’s gang. Of course, I’m pleased that she has so many friends, but they seem to multiply like fruit flies. Becksy, Megsy…”

  “Mopsy, Topsy and Turvy.”

  Frank laughed, but these days it was as if he was practicing the function and tape-recording it to play back to examine its effect. “Are you going to get them and their venture into the Observer this Sunday, then?”

  I tried a tinkly laugh of my own to deflect him. “It’s interesting, this Internet stuff,” I said. “Do you use the Internet much? For research and things?”

  “Too unreliable most of the time. I’ve got subscriptions to periodicals that I can get online. That’s quite useful.” He ricocheted back to Camilla’s godawful venture once again. “Tell me what you’ve got planned for my baby’s baby? I’m rather hoping she’ll make millions and I can retire to a book-lined study on the proceeds.”

  “I haven’t got a concrete plan, yet,” I said with an effort at sagacity. “With PR we like to start at first principles and really analyze the proposition.”

  He laughed once more. Ha, ha, I thought, Mr. Clever Clogs Academic, have a good old guffaw at my fluffy little profession. “No, really,” I continued. “We need to think about how people use the Internet and how best to get them to think about dating online. To do this I’m going to do some informal focus-grouping on how people view the Internet. A bit of brainstorming on the emotional resonance of computers. For instance, the television is seen as the friend in the corner of the living room, but what about the connected PC? Is it malevolent, a place of kiddie porn? Or is it something associated with work and so unfriendly? What do you think, Frank?”

  “It’s just a tool. It’s not the medium that counts but the information it conveys. That’s true throughout history. Is the radio responsible for Lord Haw-Haw’s addresses? Can we blame Gutenberg for Mein Kampf ?”

  “No, you’re right, yes absolutely, interesting point.” Lord, but he was pompous these days. “But you’re referring to a passive user experience, what you find on the Internet. How would you use it to create something? You know, to engage with it more actively. Because, when you think about it, that’s what Camilla’s lonely hearts will have to do. They’re not just looking at a Web site, they’ll also be creating their profiles, doing quizzes and getting in touch with other, what do you call them?”

  “OnLovers. That’s what the site’s users will be called. Clever, isn’t it?”

  “Very. So these OnLovers will have to be willing to use the Web both passively and actively. Have you ever created a site or contributed to a message board, Frank? Would you, for example, ever create a tribute site to a writer or person you found particularly inspiring?”

  “Theoretically yes. But, practically? That would be a no.” He paused and whistled. “Izobel, I can tell when you’re bullshitting. You must be a crap PR person.”

  “Thanks Frank, you’re really making me feel good about my career.”

  “What. Do. You. Want. To. Know. And. Why. Are. You. Asking?”

  I opted for partial revelation. In the striptease of honesty, I was going down to my bra and pants. “I’ve found a Web site, it’s nothing important, but it just says some things about, well, about me and I’m trying to find out who could possibly be behind them.”

  I might as well have accused him of online bestiality. “What, and you think it could be me?”

  “No, of course not. I’m just eliminating you from my inquiries.”

  “I am eliminated. I should never have been a part of them,” he harrumphed. “What on earth are you suggesting, Izobel, that I’m libeling you online?”

  “No, of course not. I know it’s silly, it’s just that Maggie has drawn up a list of suspects and it has to include all boyfriends and exes. She’s daft, must be preg-head or something, but I said I’d talk to everyone on it, just to make sure.”

  “Funnily enough, Izobel, it’s not the first way I define myself. As one of your exes. I think of myself as many things, but not as that.” His voice was flat but aggressive, the voice I use only with strangers at call centers when I’m trying to get a refund on a train ticket. “I find it somewhat disconcerting that you should do. I’m sorry, Izobel”—stop using my name, I thought—“but it was a long time ago for a very short while. Let it go, Izobel.”

  “Piss off, Frank. I don’t think of myself as one of your exes either.”

  “Doesn’t seem so. Izobel, I’ve got a girlfriend now, I love Camilla very much. I’m sorry that you don’t seem to feel the same way about George.”

  “Yes, I do, I love him very much. We’re terribly in love. Totally in love. We have an amazing sex life actually. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Better than anyone I’ve ever been out with.”

  “Stop accusing me of obsessing over you then.”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t say you were my stalker or anything.”

  “Writing things about you on Web sites? It appears that you do. If anyone’s doing any stalking around here, it would be you, Izobel. I could accuse you of stalking me.”

  “All right, you’re right, absolutely, yes, totally, sorry. By the way,” I gabbled, sensing that he was on the verge of de-mobbing the mobile. I looked around for inspiration and found it in the restaurant across the street. “I’m learning Chinese. Yes, I’m learning Chinese. Did I tell you? I’m really good at it, actually. My teacher says I’m up to intermediate standard already.”

  “What are you on?”

  “Book three of the course already.”

  “No, not that. Why are you telling me?”

  “Just thought you’d want to know.”

  “I’m very pleased for you, Izobel.”

  With that, my phone fell into silence. It was then it struck me as strange that he never asked me what things about me were said on the Web or which site I was talking about.

  I made use of the fact that I was outside to phone Maggie. Really, it’s a wonder I manage to get any work done.

  “I can’t go on,” I wailed.

  “Neither can I. Blooming my arse, blooming horrible pregnancy. Although actually my arse is blooming, expanding at the rate of a bun in the oven, all yeasty and doughy and mottled. Looks like a cauliflower. Why don’t I have one of those neat forward bumps like a model with a football up her sweater? That’s what I’m used to whenever a pregnancy storyline is called for.”

  Of course, this was all rubbish. Maggie looked like a snake that had swallowed a small rodent, all skinny with a slight tummy protrusion. I could swear her stomach was still flatter than mine. Some reassurance later and I got back onto the topic of me, me and my site.

  “It’s hopeless, this isn’t working. If I ask men straight out whether they’re behind it they accuse me of stalking them. The guilty one is just going to deny it, assuming that it is one of my exes at all, which I doubt, given that none of them seemed to give a monkey’s about me even then and certainly not now.”

  “How many have you investigated?” she asked, putting on TV tec voice once again.

  “Two, George and Frank.”

  “Well?”

  “We can categorically rule George out. I hacked into his computer.” The use of the verb “to hack” was clearly erroneous but I liked the sound of it. Made me sound like Matthew Broderick in War Games. “And the site’s not even in his favorites. There’s nothing about it in his e-mails and he hasn’t even viewed it for ten days.”

  “Hmm, that would be a good decoy though, wouldn’t it?” said Maggie.

  “I can’t win. If there’s absolutely no evidence, you say it’s a good decoy. Can’t we take people at face value? Does there always have to be a plot twist? By your reckoning, the only way we can eliminate is by actually finding proof positive. It’s like when I suspect George is sleeping around. His denials are meaningless. I almost think to find out that he’s definitely unfaithful would be a relief as then at least I’d k
now for sure. And you only feel you know for sure if it’s bad news.”

  “Has George been unfaithful to you, Iz?”

  Shit, I’d forgotten that was another of the secrets of my relationship I kept from my friends. “The point is, the only answer to my interrogations that is going to mean anything as far as your plot goes is for them to crumble and say, ‘Yes, yes, it was me.’”

  “No,” she interjected. “Because that person would probably turn out to be covering for the real culprit.”

  “Either way, I’m stuck because the person responsible is the very last person who’d just come out and admit to it. We know that the whole MO of the person behind the site is one of subterfuge, isn’t it?”

  “True,” she replied. “I am only trying to help you.”

  “I know. Thank you.” At that moment I saw Dan the IT man emerge from the front door of the office. “Maggie, we’ve got to try a different tack.” I said to her. “A simultaneous tack. I’m getting a technical detective to work on this too.”

  “Good thinking,” she said with an aggrieved tone.

  I cut through the swaths of huddled smokers crouched around the entrance of our office building, like the supplicant poor man at the biblical gate, to get to my man.

  “Dan, Dan,” I shouted. He was ignoring me. Arse. I caught up with him and tapped his shoulder.

  “Hello, Dan, I’m sorry to bother you, but may I have a minute of your time?”

  “Of course you may, but my name’s not Dan. Does that make a difference to your request, Izobel?”

  “Oh gosh I’m so sorry, how very silly of me.” I slapped my head and then segued the gesture into the twiddling of a lock of hair. From what I’d seen of the office manager’s dealings with the IT support staff, technical people required some outrageously mechanical flirtation. “Gosh, what an airhead I am. One day I’ll forget to get dressed in the morning and come into work completely naked.”

  He looked skeptical. “My name is Ivan.”

  Ivan, of course, IT Ivan or Ivan the IT man. That was his name, though one of the assistants called him it-boy on account of him being passably attractive. For a techie.

  “Ivan, yes, of course. Ivan, can I buy you a coffee?”

  He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got fifteen minutes between appointments. I need to get over to one of my other clients.”

  “I thought you just worked at our office.”

  He looked like it was his turn to hit my forehead in a “duh” move. “PR O’Create wouldn’t keep me in chewing gum; my business services about forty companies that size.”

  “Oh, I see.” I feigned interest as we walked to the incongruously greasy spoon that nestled amid the chains of latte purveyors lately embedded in the West End. “What does your business do exactly, Ivan?”

  “Systems administration.”

  Two such dull words, like “mechanical engineering” or “natural sciences.” “Really, how interesting. What does that mean?”

  “My company makes sure computer systems run efficiently— we install hardware and software, solve problems, make sure there’s appropriate server capacity. That sort of thing.” He raised an eyebrow. “You probably think that sounds terminally dull...”

  “Terminal dull,” I attempted to quip.

  “But without me, well, me and my team, you wouldn’t be able to e-mail or look at the Internet and you’d all be up in arms.”

  “You’re absolutely vital, I can see that.” We ordered our teas, both black with sugar. “What do you know about the Internet?”

  “What do you know about public relations?”

  “Not a lot actually. I see what you mean, that is a bit of a big question, isn’t it?”

  He grinned. “Well, it’s not exactly ‘is there a God?’ and ‘what are we here for?’ but yes, it’s a difficult one to answer. Can you be more specific?”

  “Say there’s a Web site on the Net. What would you be able to tell about its creator from its address?”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Could you find out a name of the person who owned the Web site or where they lived or anything?”

  “I could find the DNS servers in Whois and from that the ISP and then maybe a registered name. Or another route would be via the IP address I suppose. Yes, either, although there are no guarantees that it wouldn’t be registered under a false name or business name once you’d got there.”

  “Stop, stop, too many TLAs,” I said. “Three-letter acronyms. I have no idea what you mean by IBS unless you’re referring to Irritable Bowel Syndrome.”

  “ISP,” he corrected.

  “Isn’t that when you’re psychic?”

  “Internet Service Provider. The people who provide access to the Web for users, but also host the sites themselves.”

  “If the Internet is a town, these are the landlords,” I posited.

  “Exactly. And IP stands for Internet Protocol and an IP address is a thirty-two-bit numeric address.”

  I looked blank again. He looked pained.

  “That means it’s a binary number of thirty-two digits. But that would be difficult for humans to process, although machines would have no problem with them, so it’s expressed in a decimal form with dots separating each bit of what would have been the eight-figure binary number. So you’re left with something like two-one-seven dot one-seven-three dot two-six et cetera to identify a particular host on that network. It’s called dotted quad notation.”

  I nodded in a way that I hoped communicated understanding. I was trapped in a BBC Schools Science program and I understood it no better than the ones I saw in fifth year.

  “So if you get the IP address of a site,” he continued, “you can find out who’s hosting the site and that might bring you closer to identifying its owner.”

  “And the D one, DNA or something?”

  “DNS, Domain Name System. You’ve got your IP addresses, but they’re totally unmemorable as they’re made up of a series of numbers.”

  “Like phone numbers?” I asked in an attempt to involve myself in this conversation.

  “But with periods in. Domain names are made up of words, lastminute.com or whatever, so they’re easier to use. So again, if we find the DNS entry we can get the IP address and then the ISP. Then we might find out who’s registered the URL.” Ivan looked at his watch. It probably had lots of computer data stored in it or something, or a 3D game that he could play across wristwatch networks. “Look, I’m sorry, Izobel, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Right, fine, of course.” I must have looked disappointed.

  “I’m coming into your offices next week—why don’t you show me the site you’re interested in and I’ll see how I can help?”

  I thought for a second. Was IT Ivan really the person I wanted to entrust with the quest for the site perp? “That would be great, thanks so much, Ivan.” I gave him one of those flirty smiles again and contrived to move from hair twiddling to a coy wave bye-bye. “I’ll show you all then.”

  What a busy day and none of it work-related. The best sort of day, the one that would go quickest. Now it was the weekend. And next week, my new friend IT Ivan would sort it all out for me. I felt optimistic for the first time in months.

  George and I never went out on Friday nights; we were too out of drink-sync by then after his mammoth lunchtime session. I was counting on that to delete any memories of Hettie having told him about my forage through his in-box.

  I smiled to myself. I’d done that well. I had eliminated him from our inquiries, whatever Maggie said, and I’d done it with almost professional levels of subterfuge. Now I’d recruited a technical consultant for the investigation. I was good, I was damned good. I swung my handbag in the manner of a sixties starlet trotting down the King’s Road and being whistled at by men in MGs. I was hot. If site stalkie person were looking at me now, which wasn’t improbable, he’d see that he’d failed to crush me. I was strong.

  Chapter Six

  The phone by my bed wok
e George and me the following morning. Through the hiss of a bad connection I could make out a familiar voice.

  “It’s me, Jonny.”

  “Jesus, Jonny, where are you calling from? It sounds like you’re in Beirut.” The line had the romantic snap and crackle of an old telegraph wire. I could imagine the Foreign Correspondent wearing khaki shorts and a linen shirt holding one of those phones that come in two pieces, in a dusty bar with an overhead fan. Conchita the local whore would walk past and offer her services.

  “Coming into Paddington…” He disappeared again. “We keep going through tunnels.”

  The romance was quashed. He was annoying. Why did he always do this? Ring when actually in London rather than giving a couple of days’ notice? And then expect us all to drop what we were doing and rush to him. He seemed to think that we were those dancing plastic flowers, standing still until he animated us into undulating to his tune.

  “You’re in London. For how long?”

  “I’m only in the UK for a couple of days—what are you doing tonight?”

  I knew the score. I’d reorder my life to meet up with him only to find that he’d also arranged to meet seven other people and I’d spend the evening talking to a poor sap who’d been at school with Foreign Correspondent about how exciting Foreign Correspondent’s life was and how much we all admired him. Meanwhile Foreign Correspondent would only talk to other foreign correspondents and they’d say things like “Eddie! But I haven’t seen him since Tora Bora. Didn’t he look fabulous in a burka?” and they’d look disparagingly at us civvies, while we tried to pity them their inability to maintain long-term relationships.

  Could Foreign Correspondent be cyber-stalker? This could be my only opportunity to find out.

  “I can’t see you tonight,” I said, perhaps for the first time. “But, look, I can be in Paddington in half an hour. Let’s have a coffee somewhere near there.” I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I was a sight. “Make that three-quarters of an hour. See you.”

  “Are you going out?” asked George from beneath the duvet.

  “Yes, that was—”

  “You couldn’t be a darling and nip back with a couple of cans of Coke. No make that a bottle.”