‘Hang on.’ She took another screenshot of a man feeding pigeons – again, I’d liked it, as had many other people – emailed it to herself, dragged it into Google Images. And …

One hit – Zac’s account. No – two hits. ‘What’s that?’ I said, taking the laptop from her, clicked. A webpage opened:

My name is Andy Tremblay, I’m a street photographer from Toronto, Canada, and this is my latest project, People and Place.

‘Fucking hell,’ I said.

Zac’s shot of the man feeding pigeons. Zac’s shot of the man chowing down in Chinatown. Zac’s shot of a woman walking her dog. His shot of the moon. His shot of …

‘They’re all from here,’ I said. ‘They’re not even Melbourne.’

We looked at each other, eyes wide, turned back to the screen.

By two in the morning we’d established that his tweets were all rip-offs. His bio for Twitter and Tinder – That song you can’t stop singing, in a language you don’t understand – was by a South African playwright called Eda Berridge.

The Facebook picture of his newly furnished office, for which he’d thanked Sarah, was from a website showing a pickle factory conversion in France. Another, supposedly his work kitchen, had been pilfered from an architecture website in the Netherlands. Another was from a Natural Opulence showroom in Cornwall, England.

* * *

I woke to my alarm, tried to sit up, fell back, constrained by Biddy’s arm.

‘Morning.’ I kissed her, untangled myself. ‘I need to go.’

‘Already?’

‘Yeah, already.’

I pulled my clothes on, went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, drank a glass of water, remembered the sex with Biddy, how completely we’d reconnected, how much I loved her – and then Zac.

I’d kill him, and not metaphorically, I’d fucking …

‘Love you,’ I said, wheeling my bike past Biddy’s bedroom door.

‘Love you too, beauty.’

I rode hard, passed Josh’s house – Zac would be in there, the bastard. Should I tell Josh? Could he cope?

I burst into our house, needed to pack my work bag. The kids were in the living room in their school uniforms, sleepy faces. Had they been … Had Zac …?

‘Hey, kids.’

‘Hi, Daddy,’ Oliver said, waving.

‘Hi,’ Sophie said.

Sarah was packing their lunches in the kitchen, the kettle boiling. I closed the door, felt my nostrils flaring.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m guessing you and Biddy are all good then?’

‘Zac’s not who he says he is.’

Her shoulders slumping, a playful frown. ‘What do you mean, Chrissy?’

‘Everything he posts online is ripped off from somewhere else. There’s no other trace of him. He’s not enrolled at uni. I don’t think he worked for Natural Opulence.’

She smiled. ‘Hun. Is this because of what Biddy and Winford have been saying?’

Fuck, I looked at my watch, was running late. ‘I was looking into it, too, last night.’