There is something distasteful about Dorothy and the pink lipstick that bleeds into the crevices around her mouth. After an initial nod of greeting, Marina steps into her flat, closes the door with relief and breathes deeply.

That night she wakes, disturbed by a sound. She lies for a moment, listening. It’s freezing in the room, worse than usual. The curtains flare and she realises she’s left the window open.

Getting up, she stares into the darkness, searching the garden for a clue, but there are the same shrouded shapes as always. Nothing has changed. She closes the window and moves into the living room. Here she finds the source of the noise that must have woken her. Another sizeable chunk of plaster has fallen, clattering onto the table below. Marina glances anxiously at the ceiling for signs of more damage.

For once, the house is silent. Marina pictures Eva, gazing from her window. She thinks of the strange Mrs Hyde, and Selena and her family, and the Italian musician, Giovanni, who she still hasn’t seen or heard. He must have gone away. No one can stay hidden for so long.

Thoughts like these skate through her mind and knowing that she won’t sleep now, Marina heats milk, takes it to bed and settles beneath the covers. Her mind is aflame with the story of a young woman who ran away to be with her boyfriend, leaving one man heartbroken, and maybe a second too, if her intuition about Victor is correct. She was loved by so many and yet she stayed away even when her father died.

Connie Littleton. Marina says the name out loud and it has a rhythm to it, a sound of the past. She is building a picture. Connie Littleton who once upon a time lived in this house, in the flat above her now. A young girl whose mother died from cancer, whose mother’s name was Sarah, whose father sold books. She wanted to write and to travel. She loved poetry.

Poetry. Her mind turns to the volume that Selena gave her. She would like to fetch it, but she is too cold and soon she is drifting into a glassy, shivering kind of sleep.

In the morning, she meets Giovanni Gaetti at last, the mysterious occupant of Flat 1.

She has run out of milk and is on her way to the shop. He is coming into the house as she is going out. Late-thirties, dishevelled, in a rumpled black suit and white shirt and an empty space where his concert bow tie should be. He has black hair and dark eyes and deep lines on his forehead.

Their eyes meet as they pass on the steps. She wears her old coat and fingerless gloves. She has messy hair and smells of sleep. They murmur a greeting and she thinks he exists, which for some reason gives her a huge sense of relief.