So she’s got a few hours to herself in town. There’s a Tate Late at Tate Modern tonight. She will head over there for a bit and then be back in time for Rob’s return. She’s told herself to stop worrying so much about Rob and his past, the photo by the bed. What does it matter which wrist he wore his watch on when he was younger? His taste in coffee? What side of the bloody bed he sleeps on? She’s also come up with a plan for when he arrives, based on Ajay’s advice. Something to stop Capgras in its tracks.

She checks herself in Rob’s bedroom mirror, applying some carmine lipstick. There’s a lot of male grooming stuff here and in the bathroom. She likes a man who takes care of himself – it’s still quite a novelty for her. It’s all in the hands, the cuticles. Rob’s are manicured, as unlike Jake’s oil-stained, nail-bitten fingers as you could get.

She glances around the bedroom, checking that everything is ready for later. This is where she’s going to be with him tonight. And she feels good about it, confident. She deserves all this, a clean start, her new man. A lucky break. Go for the money, girl, as Bex said. And why not? Her ridiculously comfortable new life is just a happy consequence of their relationship, not the reason for it.

She skips and twirls across the vast living area in one of the Ghost dresses Rob bought her. It’s a while since she’s dressed up to go out for the evening. Scooping up her shoulder bag, she reaches for the front door handle and pulls.

It doesn’t open.

She’s always had a thing about these sorts of doors, the ones that require you to press a release button before you can open it. She sees a button on the wall to her right, shakes her head at Rob’s obsession with security, and presses it. There’s a satisfying click and she pulls on the door handle again. It still doesn’t open.

She presses the release and tries the handle several more times before admitting defeat. God, she hates technology sometimes. There must be something obvious she’s missing. She closes her eyes, opens them again, imagines that she’s an intelligent person walking up to the door for the first time. Look around, press release, pull on door handle. Nothing doing.

Two minutes later, she’s back in the bedroom, talking on the landline to a receptionist who is trying to connect her to Rob.

‘It’s me, sorry to disturb,’ she says.

‘You OK?’ Rob asks. It sounds like him. ‘Thought you were going out.’

‘That’s the problem. I can’t open the door.’