But what caught my eye more than anything was the line of toys arranged along the windowsill. Dumping the parcels on the bed, I went over and picked them up one by one. A Cabbage Patch doll with chubby cheeks. A grubby lavender-and-white spotted dog with long, floppy ears and a missing eye. The blonde doll from the box in the attic, a squishy-bodied baby doll with a thumb that fit in its mouth, an open Jack-in-the-Box that gave me the creeps, and a couple of Barbies. Thirteen eyes regarded the room as if they knew it better than I did; as if they belonged there and I did not. I wasn’t sure I’d like them watching me while I slept, especially the Jack-in-the-Box. Still, it was Grace’s space now, not mine.

I turned to leave, but then hesitated. What if she wanted to wear her new clothes tomorrow? She wouldn’t mind if I opened them, would she? She might appreciate that I’d hung them. Turning back, I carefully slit open the packaging and held up her purchases one-by-one: she’d ordered a suit, three blouses and a pair of work shoes. A new work wardrobe. Nice.

I opened the wardrobe to hang them and gasped.

The cupboard was full, packed with clothes that gave off a damp, musty smell. I flicked through them: little toddler dresses, dresses for an older girl. Trousers, jeans, blouses, cardigans – even a little blazer for an eight-year-old. They must be from the boxes in the attic. What was Grace playing at? I shuddered and laid her new clothes out on the bed, then left the room with those thirteen eyes boring into the back of my head.

Twenty-Nine

It was inevitable, I suppose, that Grace would meet Tom.

Perhaps she felt protective given it was she who’d advised me on how to approach him in the first place, but she wanted to know everything about my relationship with him: where we went, what we did, what we talked about, what he drank, what he smoked, what we watched on TV, what he was like in bed. Whenever I got home from spending time with him, she’d be there on the sofa, eyes shining, waiting for the latest instalment. It was almost as if she were living the relationship vicariously through me – but something – instinct maybe? Or selfishness? – pushed me to keep them apart for as long as I naturally could, despite her curiosity.

But once we’d been ‘hooking up’ for some time, she started asking when she was going to meet him. She pushed and pushed until, one day, against my better judgement, I invited him to meet me at ours before we went out for a bite to eat. Grace buzzed around like a mosquito before he got there, primping, straightening and tidying the living room.

‘Stop it,’ I told her. ‘It’s only Tom.’