Chloe puts her foot on the top step and takes a deep breath. She walks slowly down the stairs, clutching the newel post as she turns into the hallway, and the minute she does, she hears Maureen gasp from the kitchen.

‘Patrick, will you look at that.’

Patrick spins around in his chair to face her, and there is a split second where he takes her in. But then all the colour drains from his face. In an instant, he is ashen white.

Maureen gets up from her seat, and leads Chloe into the kitchen. She stands beside her, encouraging her to twirl, while Patrick sits on the chair. Chloe spins slowly on the spot, her eyes never leaving Patrick’s blank face.

‘It’s exactly the same, Pat. Can you believe I still kept the pattern and the material.’

‘Maureen . . . I . . .’ he says.

‘And I told you she had just the right colouring for it, didn’t I?’ She stands behind Chloe, pulling her dark hair back from her face so it hangs down her back, limp. Chloe stands silent, still, like a doll Maureen has dressed up. Patrick’s face is expressionless. Maureen chatters away, seemingly oblivious to anyone else’s discomfort.

‘Of course I didn’t have the same buttons – you can’t get the same now – so I borrowed some from the original—’

‘Maureen, what?’ Patrick says, looking up quickly. ‘What did you say?’

Chloe’s dinner turns over inside her stomach. Her skin under Maureen’s touch is suddenly covered with goosebumps. She looks down at the buttons.

‘The buttons . . . oh Pat, you don’t think you can still get the same ones, do you? I just borrowed them, that’s all.’

‘Maureen, this is too—’

‘Oh Patrick, don’t be so silly, it’s just a few butt—’

‘No it’s not,’ he shouts, his voice reverberating around the kitchen. In the silence that follows the glass lampshades on the ceiling lights ring faintly with the echo of his rage.

Patrick looks up at Chloe and then away again. ‘Take it off,’ he says, quietly at first. Then again, louder, pointing at the stairs: ‘Take it off!’

‘Patrick, I—’

‘Maureen, this is too much. You’ve gone too far this time.’

Chloe rushes back upstairs. Behind her she hears the back door slam, and then a moment later, Maureen rushing into the garden after Patrick. In her room she closes the door, then behind the curtains searches for them out of the window that overlooks the back garden. She can’t see anything, the blackness of the night swallowing them up, but she hears voices, a snatched conversation.

‘. . . got to stop . . .’

‘. . . the likeness . . . please.’

‘coincidence, Maureen . . .’

‘more than that . . . can’t deny . . .’