I am leaning closer towards him, so my chest is against his. ‘What solutions do you offer? Do your employers consult you on the mysteries of the nineteenth-century novel, knowing that your ability to speak multiple languages and penetrate the Deep Web will give you an edge on those pesky Victorians?’

His answer is a kiss. ‘Is that okay?’

‘Very okay. Which of those job titles is the true one?’

‘All of them. Are you a trained interrogator?’

‘How many languages do you speak, George? I found books in six so far, but I haven’t examined them all.’

This elicits a modest mumble of syllables with no meaning, followed by an it’s-nothing, best-not-to-mention-it shrug.

‘Is it six?’

He gives me another modest shrug.

‘Ah. More than six.’ Lightly, I try that experiment I’d fantasised earlier, or at least part of it. I slip a hand beneath the T-shirt he put on before emerging from the bedroom and run my index finger from the centre of his chest and down, stopping above his belly button.

He inhales. ‘Maybe a few more than six.’

His persona of self-effacing guilelessness and charm is one of the best I’ve seen, but if I had a shred of doubt that he has been targeting me, it is now gone. ‘Are you a spy, George?’

He turns red.

‘Are you spying on me?’ I withdraw my hand from the inside of his T-shirt. ‘I think you may need a refresher course on controlling your physical stress responses.’

‘Only around you.’ He circles my wrist, wanting to keep my hand near.

I break his grip, and it is like resisting a magnet. ‘Is that an admission?’

‘Helen . . .’

‘Tell me the truth. If any of this is real – if you actually do like me – you need to tell me the truth.’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘You might also consider reviewing your evasion techniques.’ I stand and grab my bag. My heart is pounding – there is no denying my attraction to him, but also my fear, and anger, too.

‘Don’t go.’

‘Your death isn’t imminent and I need to leave.’ I move towards the door.

He shuffles back and forth on his heels. ‘I want to keep seeing you.’

‘Only because of the role.’

He looks down, so his hair flops over his brow. ‘That’s not the reason,’ he says to the floor.

‘So you admit what you are?’

‘Helen . . .’

‘Admit it.’

‘I can’t . . .’

‘Admit it now. Last chance.’

‘Please . . .’

‘None of this is real, and you know it.’ I blink away tears. ‘Not even my name.’