Simone moves to the foot of the stairs, squarely facing me, presenting herself to me, the pupils in her vivid irises blinking and shuttering. Simon, Simone. My brother, not my brother. Not a costume, not a game, not a figure from mythology in her robe and vine leaves and ribbons, watching, waiting. Gripping Faye’s hand. Breath rasping through the mask, through the aperture in that fixed beginning smile.

‘Okay,’ I tell him. ‘Okay,’ I tell Simon’s voice. Simone. ‘Well, this is a thing all right.’ I let myself breathe. ‘And there I was thinking you meant being an old bastard whose coronary arteries were shot. That’s what you were facing up to.’

A laugh wheezes from the mouth of the mask. ‘That too.’

‘But, you know, kudos for the unexpected twist.’

He laughs again. He’s in there, somewhere. Or maybe he isn’t, and Simone is laughing. Laughing with me.

‘It’s cool,’ Lacy says. ‘We’re cool, right?’ She nudges me. ‘You’re cool?’

‘Yeah. Yeah. Why would I . . .’ I clear my throat, look past Simone for a moment. At the wall, at our distant past, at the missing years, at unexplained things I incorporated, received from adults without question. ‘You need to be who you are. Simple as that.’ It needs to be said. It needs to be said by me. ‘And no-one has the right to think otherwise. Okay? Is it okay to put it that way?’

I’m saying it to Simon, saying it to Simone, saying it to this silicone person, this sheath around my brother, that pair of blank irises and old pupils, human eyes deep inside doll eyes, watching me, watching me, hoping, needing. My heart’s jumping along. I am not there yet, not all the way yet. But that’s just the facts of it catching up.

‘Yes,’ Simone says. ‘Put it any way you need to. And it’s okay not to understand it right away. Ask me anything you want.’

‘Okay.’ My mind is blank and crammed with thoughts, both at the same time, processing, shuffling the cards, shuffling the whole deck.

‘Anything,’ Simone says.

‘Okay. When did you know?’

‘Long ago,’ she says. She twists to look at Faye, who nods. ‘Years ago. The doll movement kicked off in Europe in the eighties. I met a guy in Amsterdam in 1989 or ’90 and that’s when I found out about it. I just knew it was me. You just know, maybe. There’s been part of you that you’ve kept in a box . . .’ She shrugs. The robe shifts across her cleavage. ‘And now it’s my costumes that I keep in boxes. This one is based on a painting. A painting our neighbour George had in London. I have others, too. As Simone, I can think different thoughts. As Simone, I never had to keep a plane in the air. I’m free from all that. I would have costumes made in Europe. This was in the nineties. I’d take them back there in my luggage when I was flying, and my skin too, and wear them on layovers. Amsterdam, Berlin, Vienna – those places all got to know me as Simone. They welcomed me. People there, they stare at you, but they stare as though they know you’ve won your freedom. It’s . . . exhilarating. The crew thought I was holed up in my room the whole time, hoarding my per diem. Hong Kong, I don’t think, is ready for Simone. Other than here, other than in this house, with Faye. I’m okay being Simon in Hong Kong. Simon is real too.’