‘A medium?’ I look her up and down. Slim, but quite tall. She probably has problems getting things to fit, particularly coats, sweaters and shirts. It’s those long arms. ‘A twelve?’

‘Twelve what?’ She looked confused.

‘Size twelve. In clothes.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Yes. More or less.’

‘Long arms? That can be problematic. Most clothes are made for standard measurements – if you differ it can be a problem.’ I give her a wide reassuring smile. Her reply – I am starting to lose my patience now – is a grimace. ‘That’s why I get my clothes bespoke. You will be too, soon enough.’

‘We’re going to a tailor?’ she says. She sounds impressed.

‘Of course. Life is going to get much better, for both of us.’

‘Guy,’ she says. ‘What are you planning to do? You can’t keep me here forever.’

I laugh. ‘I know! I mean, we both want the same thing, right? To be together?’

She looks at me and there’s fear in there – I’m not surprised, this is a brave new future for us – but also something else. Intrigue maybe.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘We both want the same thing. But this is no way to live.’

‘I agree.’ This is great. Fantastic. She’s coming round sooner than I hoped. More proof – if more was needed – that I was right.

‘So what are you planning?’

I smile again. I’ve been waiting for this moment. For the moment when it is no longer just me, but us, working out our future together.

And I’ve been looking forward to telling her the plan, because it is a fucking genius plan, and she will love me for it.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘We want to live a normal life – as normal as two people like us can live, two extraordinary people—’

She interrupts me. Another opportunity for improvement. Interrupting is rude. ‘I’m not extraordinary, Guy. You might be, but not me. I’m just a normal person.’

‘Hardly!’ I laugh, and this time I mean it. ‘You are far from normal! Far above, that is. Anyway, we want to be able to go out and eat and have friends and go on holiday. Right?’

She nods again, still intrigued.

‘And the problem is that people will see you and recognize you. Even if we avoid old friends, who knows what will pop up on Facebook or Instagram?’ I raise a finger. ‘But I have a solution.’

‘Which is?’ she says.

‘It’s obvious when you think about it,’ I say, and I take an envelope from my jacket pocket. I hand it to her. ‘Take it out. Have a look.’

She reads it, and I see she is confused.

‘I don’t get it,’ she says.

Annabelle

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