The door opened, and Nick came in, ostentatiously holding food on a plate, sliced and boiled carrots and a hunk of what looked like beef. I fought the urge to minimise the screen. ‘I thought you might be hungry now. What are you doing?’

‘Just a little research.’ I moved the plate he’d brought – congealing meat, anaemic vegetables – to the edge of the desk. ‘Close the door again, would you? I’m busy.’

Nick stood for a moment, radiating helpless resentment, then went, closing the door behind him. For the first time in weeks, I almost smiled.

I clicked and clicked long into the night. I read so many articles about Elena Vetriano, the young virtuoso pianist, that I felt I knew everything about her. I’d seen countless images of her pouting, haunted face, the grey eyes the same as those behind my neighbour’s thick glasses. I learned that she had won awards, been the youngest British pianist to play Brahms’ concerto No. 2 at the Proms, and then disappeared suddenly from the scene on her marriage. Music’s loss is love’s gain, gushed one piece, accompanied by a posed wedding shot of ‘Elena’ in a white lace dress. The same picture from Nora’s bedroom. You stood with her, stony-faced in a tailored suit. I wondered if the magazine had paid for the wedding in exchange for these pictures. Stunning concert pianist leaves music to wed doctor.

But you weren’t a doctor. I wondered how you had managed to fool everyone for so long. How often people actually checked something you told them as fact. What I still didn’t know was Elena Vetriano’s real name, her birth name. Around eleven, I heard Nick go up to bed, clomping passive-aggressively on the stairs. I didn’t care. I googled pianist and Sussex, as one article had referred to her being from there. I googled Nora pianist Sussex. Eleanor pianist Sussex. Eventually, after going back years, I found what I was looking for. Young West Sussex pianist of the year. A picture of a pale, dark-haired girl in a plain grey dress, holding up a certificate by a grand piano that was taller than her. She looked so unhappy, her eyes wracked with some unknown pain. It was definitely Nora. And her surname back then? Treadway. Eleanor Treadway, from Steepletops, Frimlington. A house with a name not a number. Nora’s family must have been rich. There was nothing else online about her or her family.

The day had slipped away from me like something half-formed, like Christmas Day or one after a long flight. When we’d known each other, when you’d been part of my life, the days had seemed endless, golden light falling through the trees until after ten. I felt I had time, and love to spare. If I’d known how low both were running, I would have held on to you with everything I had.