Relief floods through me. I deflate and the tears start pouring as I pull back the bolt and release the Chubb to find the guy from the top floor flat standing there in his leather gear with his motorbike helmet under one arm, a bag of shopping in his hand. I can’t stop shaking.

‘Oh god, are you alright?’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been away for a couple of days, and came back and my key wouldn’t work… I didn’t mean to get you out of the bath. I definitely didn’t mean to scare you. It’s Joanne, isn’t it?’

NO, I’m NOT Joanne, I want to say. I have an alarming urge to tell him my real name. I want him to help me. Tell me he’ll fight the Pigs away with his strong arms. Not very Frida the Feminist Icon, but then I’m not Frida – I’m me. And not a very convincing me either. I sit on the stair, dropping the knife and spray gun to the carpet.

The front door closes. He puts the bike helmet on the shelf and there’s a creak of leather as he kneels down. ‘Hey. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.’

And I pull him into me and he wraps his arms around my back and we’re hugging like two lovers. Lovers who’ve only previously shared Hellos and door openings for the past two weeks since he moved in. I blush every time. Because in one of my newest lies he is of course My Husband. The Father of My Five Children. The screensaver on my phone, from when I followed him to the gym at the other end of the seafront where he works, and took a photo of the picture of him behind reception – Kaden Cotterill, Certified Personal Trainer. How sad is that? Now that he’s here, holding me, I can see how sad it is. Here he is real and perfect and my tears chase down his leather jacket. The back of his neck is sweaty and he smells of the sea breeze.

‘I’m sorry, I really am,’ he says. We pull apart, his face packed full of concern. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I shake my head. ‘Did you think it was someone else?’ I nod. ‘Do you wanna talk about it?’ I shake. ‘Do you wanna be on your own?’ I shake again. ‘Okay, well I need to go and shove some of this in the fridge,’ he says, indicating the carrier bag. ‘Why don’t you go and put some clothes on and when I come back down we’ll go for a coffee and unwind a bit, yeah? There’s a nice café I’ve found on the seafront. They do my favourite roast.’

I sniff. ‘I don’t like coffee.’

‘What do you like?’

‘Strawberry milkshakes.’

He touches my head and his hand comes away with a chunk of white foam from the bath. He smiles and it lights up the dark, damp hallway. It’s a glowing lamp in the fog. A flame in a cave. A lifeline. All I can do is smile back.