She called me darling. Maybe she’s a bisexual bissextile. She’s prettier than Noon, though they’re identical. I try to imagine Kwesi selling Chronophones in Paris, 1924. I don’t know what he looks like, but I imagine he looks a bit like Ama but with a shorter afro and much longer legs so he can jump 5 metres 90. He must be brilliant at selling if he’s nonverbal.

‘Did he talk in paint?’

‘Paint? Is that some kind of slang? No, my dear, he talked with his hands.’

‘Ama said he was nonverbal.’ ‘Yes. His Chronophone helped things to flow but Noon understood him. She texts him ten times a day. Never stops talking about him. Kwesi this, Kwesi that. Noon’s quiet unless she’s around Kwesi. She’s dying for a rendezvous.’

That’s a French word for a secret date. I like the sound of it on her lips and the way she pouts when she says it. She doesn’t say it the English way. She says it like she’s French.

‘All very innocent. Noon’s never had a beau before. Chaperone day and night meant we couldn’t meet boys. But the Chronophone helped us keep in touch. She only used it for texting.’ She sits down at the mirror. ‘Texted me last night to say she’d been offered a job. Wanted my opinion.’

‘What job?’

‘Eco-something. Noon loves Nature.’

I frown. There’s only one person who would offer such a job. Le Temps. Maybe Noon accepted the job and leapt to work in another year. If she did, why didn’t she text her sister?

Eve smooths down her short, blonde bob and turns her head from side to side.

‘D’you think I’ll pass? For Noon?’

‘You’re too short. Why are you shorter?’

‘I was ill as a child so we ate different food. Noon’s the strong one. No one will notice if I wear these.’ She produces some cream, brown and orange striped platforms.

‘You can’t wear them, they’re GMT’s,’ I say.

‘Darling, she only wears ’68. Noon’s texted me on all of you. These are ’70s fancy dress for Greenwich Mean Time. Anyway, she doesn’t believe in possessions.’

I don’t think GMT would like Eve saying her full name or wearing her shoes. I’m scared about Eve pretending to be Noon because putting on a disguise is a form of lying. But she’s already put the shoes on. They’re a good fit.

‘Now, I must stop talking,’ she says.

‘Why?’ I want her to keep talking forever. I love the way she talks.

‘I have to make people believe I’m Noon. For the afternoon.’ She smiles at the rhyme. ‘All for a good cause. Will you keep my secret?’