He edged towards the door, but Melissa picked up the crumpled copy of the Chronicle and waved it in the air.

‘He’s in the paper,’ she said. ‘Your half-brother. Seems he got promoted.’

‘Oh?’ said Ray. ‘Let’s see. Ah yes, that’s him, the bastard.’ He gave the paper a cursory glance before picking it up and folding it again so that the picture wasn’t visible.

‘Looks a lot like you,’ slurred Melissa.

‘Well,’ replied Ray. ‘I suppose there’s a little bit of a resemblance, but we are brothers, you know. You’d expect us to look alike.’

‘You look very alike,’ spat Melissa. ‘Right down to the friendship bracelet. Did his little girl make one for him, too? Just like yours did?’

Silence rang out. Ray, usually so effervescent, opened his mouth to speak, but no words came and he closed it again. Melissa could almost see the cogs turning in his mind from the expressions that passed over his face. She suddenly understood these silences, the way he paused before answering when certain questions were asked. She had always assumed this was part of his personality, had found it endearing. Now it was obvious it was just a mechanism to buy time whilst he constructed yet another story.

‘Ah,’ said Ray now, all his lie-telling skills finally deserting him as he seemed to realise that he had got to the end of the tracks. His shoulders sagged and he took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for . . . It all just got out of hand. I mean, I love you, Melissa. I really do. Do you think I’d have gone through all these lies for so many years if I didn’t?’

‘But we’re married,’ Melissa said. ‘You married me. Remember? Or was that Charles? Who exactly is my husband, Ray? Does he even exist?’

‘Listen, Missy,’ Ray said, sitting down on the sofa and taking her hand. ‘It’s not as bad as you think. I can explain.’

Melissa snatched her hand back. ‘I don’t want a fucking explanation!’ she shouted. ‘I just want to know who I’ve been married to all these years. Are you married to her, too, to that Grace?’

Ray looked like a rabbit caught in headlights, panic crossing his face as he tried to decide what to say – how to answer this, the ultimate question.

‘Well, technically, yes, but . . .’