the ghostliness of a New Yorker story

Here's a strange one.  This week's New Yorker has a story by Tessa Hadley, a British novelist and short story writer.  It's set in Bristol in the very early 1970s.  It's about a 16 year old girl who becomes involved/infatuated/twin-like friend with a guy a couple of years older than herself, who's rebellious, who smokes a lot of dope, who's an intellectual in the making, who is also faintly mysterious, arrogant, and noxious.  This could have been me in 1970 getting entangled with - well, with anyone who'd come across my path.  The details are all there - I read it very slowly indeed - right down to the blue Formica kitchen counters.  Sure, I lived in London, not Bristol, but my first job was in Bristol, in 1980, and the topography of this story is my topography; these are my streets.

It's a good story - the ending, or endings, is/are predictable, but then the endings of all such stories would be, in life as much as in fiction.  So - why haven't I read more of Tessa Hadley, I thought?  She's a name faintly out there somewhere on my radar, but I felt that I wanted to read more (when, of course, is a good question, but google/amazon procrastination is always fun).  And what do I find, among other volumes by her?  A novel called The Master Bedroom, with a (just-resigned) academic protagonist called Kate Flynn.  What to make of this?  Could she have borrowed my name?  She read English at Cambridge: it's not completely improbable that she knows, somehow, of my existence.  Or is it completely arrogant to think so?  I feel as though this near-appropriation of my name is some kind of mild identity theft, and I'm decidedly confused (and, of course, will now have to read the book ...).