Kate sits in the back of the stationary car, staring ahead. She can’t bring herself to look at him. Or at the woman. Is it Rob? She needs to hear his voice before she sees him.

He steps forward and opens the rear door on her side. She closes her eyes.

‘How was your journey?’ he asks.

It sounds like Rob.

‘Shocking,’ she says and turns to look at him.

It’s not Rob. Rob was always awkward, restless, buzzing with a warm, infectious energy. This man is focused and withdrawn, dead-eyed.

She manages to step out of the air-conditioned car into the warmth of a French summer’s day, hoping her legs don’t buckle beneath her. Waves break somewhere below the house, seagulls cry above. For four months in Cornwall, this was the soundtrack to her happiness. Now these noises fill her with dread. Is the house the same inside too?

She forces herself to look at him. It’s easier than before. He’s no longer an unknown impostor, no more not-Rob. He’s Gil from Thailand – Gilmour Martin, Rob’s doppelgänger. She can’t believe she slept with this man. She wheels away in disgust at the thought. The tarnished memory. Rob was right to be worried. They both were. His past has finally caught up with him, just as he feared. She prays that Rob, her Rob, is still alive, wherever he is, whatever this man has done with him. If only she had pushed Rob harder when he first mentioned his fear of doppelgängers, persuaded him to tell her more. She might have been able to do something, help him, save them both.

And then she turns to the woman. It’s like standing in front of a mirror. Kate glances at the ground. It’s early afternoon, a high sun. No shadow. Her stomach lurches. And this must be her own doppelgänger. She thinks again of the Rossetti painting in Rob’s office in Cornwall, the couple confronting their doppelgängers. How They Met Themselves.

‘Meet Catrine,’ he says.

The woman seems subdued, broken, dark rings below her eyes. Kate hopes she doesn’t look that unwell. Catrine is wearing a summer dress from Ghost, identical to the one that Rob left for her in the wardrobe, and her hair is up, like Kate’s, exposing a similar neckband. It looks so innocent on someone else. Innocuous. Sporty. Kate shudders again at the pain it inflicted.

‘Catrine’s learnt that life here is more comfortable if you smile,’ he continues. His Irish accent is cold, indifferent. Fake. If it were Rob, he would already have kissed her by now, held her close, checked his phone.

Catrine forces a watery smile. The two women stare at each other, each still trying to take in the other’s appearance.

‘I found her in Finland,’ he says. ‘Amazing how easy it is to track down a double in the digital age.’