It’s a while before he speaks. ‘That’s all in the past,’ he says. ‘And you’re right, I don’t want to talk about it.’

She should leave it at that, but she can’t help herself.

‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Are you worried that he’ll come back?’

Silence. And then he speaks again, his voice so quiet that she can hardly make out what he’s saying.

‘Every day I wake up scared, wondering if he has found me.’

She lies there, frozen. Can he hear her heart? She’s suddenly conscious of how loud it’s beating.

‘Then we should talk about it,’ she manages to say, opening her eyes, relieved that he’s finally opening up. ‘Share these things.’

But her relief doesn’t last long.

‘And do you know what frightens me the most?’ he continues. ‘The thought that he might do a better job at being me.’

‘How do you mean?’ she whispers, her mouth drying. ‘You’re doing so well. Look at everything you’ve achieved. No one could beat that.’

More silence, broken only by the sound of his slow breathing.

She stays awake for a long time, replaying his words. How could someone else do a better job of being him? She thinks of the Rossetti painting in Cornwall, the books on his shelf, including the du Maurier, the unnerving sight of him talking in fluent French on the TV.

Just as she’s drifting off, the power comes back on, flooding the room with light.

She blinks in the brightness. Rob is sound asleep beside her, his body turned away. She rolls off the bed, removing the scarf completely, and walks over to the light switch. The main bedroom light must have been on when the power went, but she hesitates as she reaches to turn it off. Trying to ignore a rising nausea, she creeps back over to Rob’s side of the bed and closes her eyes, standing to his right. One. Two. Three. And then she looks down at his him and gasps, this time in pure fear.