It brought it all back. The last time, before her diagnosis. The frequency with which his wife had cried that she’d been followed again. His frustration the police wouldn’t, couldn’t do anything. His fear that something awful was going to happen to Leah. His anger at his inability to protect her. He felt he was failing as a husband. As a man. The utter helplessness as he got the call advising him that Leah was being detained under the Mental Health Act. George was incredulous as he was told Leah had accused their postman of being her tormentor when in fact the man she feared was already in custody – and then to mistake a detective inspector for him. Was she deliberately lying? The terror radiating from her trembling body as he held her close against him felt genuine.

George had driven straight to Francesca’s. Although she was with a patient, she came as soon as George told her Leah was being held. On the way she’d filled him in on what she now believed. That Leah had Fregoli Syndrome. He’d tried his best to empathize. His wife had a mental illness, but it was a lot, on top of the constant cleaning, the constant rituals, the constant worry. It was wearing. Unfairly, he’d felt cross with her as though it was all her fault, but of course he knew it wasn’t. It wasn’t his either but he was also affected. Leah didn’t seem to realize this. Her world seemed to then centre around herself, Marie and Carly, and then later Archie. George felt he was always on the periphery looking in. Part of her life, but not.

George finishes his phone call and then wipes his call history before he heads inside.

Archie is perched at the breakfast bar with Carly when George gets home, crafting unidentifiable animals from plasticine – a pink giraffe with a neck so long its head trails dolefully by its feet, an orange elephant with flapping ears, larger than its body. The kitchen is warm and cosy. Smelling of coffee and toast. George kisses Archie hello, and then wipes the remnants of strawberry jam from his son’s mouth with his thumb.

‘Do you want another cup?’ George asks Carly as he pours himself a mug of the syrupy coffee.

‘No, thanks. Another mug and I’ll be climbing the ceiling.’

‘Like Spider-Man!’ Archie shoots invisible webs from his wrists. ‘Uh oh – it’s the Green Goblin.’ Archie leaps from his stool and races around the kitchen, fighting something only he can see.

We’re all battling something hidden, thinks George.

Carly, always the practical one, whips a large tablecloth from the drawer.

‘Quick.’ She scrapes the chairs across the floor and drapes the cloth between them, a makeshift tent. ‘The Green Goblin won’t find you in there, Spider-Man.’

Archie clambers inside and Carly follows him on her hands and knees. Not a second’s hesitation while she deliberated when the floor was last cleaned. No noticeable flinch as she places her palms on the tiles.