My camera was set to take an automatic shot of her front porch every half hour. The camera coped well with the distance and the lens angle was set to capture the length of any visitors from the back. Occasionally the callers would turn round. The postman had been captured several times since I installed the equipment; both from behind and full frontal after he had delivered his letters. When I got back from work, having hopped off the bus a safe two stops from home, I crept upstairs, but not before I’d cased up and down the street for at least twenty minutes. I scanned right and left, high and low. I was a spy on a mission.

I poured myself a beer and settled down by the curtains for my nightly vigil. I’d treated myself to a few magazines on the way home: Cars and Bikes, The Alchemist, and Babe Magnets, the latter a rare purchase from the top shelf.

I jumped when the phone rang and toyed with not answering but with the long night ahead, I decided to pick it up.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi, Arthur. It’s Amber.’ I could see the light on in her sitting room from where I held the phone.

‘Hi, Amber. What a lovely surprise. How’s things?’ I was amazed at the sound of my own voice. It was the genuine affectionate voice of an imposter.

‘Fine. Everything’s good. I thought we ought to talk about Christmas Day. I haven’t told Dad yet that we’re not going out anymore.’

I stiffened at this point and gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white.

‘What’s the problem? I thought we could go anyway and make their day at least. Friends forever, remember?’ I held my breath.

‘Are you sure? You won’t feel awkward?’ Soft, sluttish and duplicitous was how she sounded. Strange how the adjectives had changed in the space of a few days.

‘No, of course not. It’ll be like last year but without the desserts,’ I joked.

She hadn’t quite pulled across her curtains and wandered, with the phone in her hand, towards the window. She stared across the road and for one awful moment I thought I’d been seen, that the game was up. She pulled the drapes shut, tight shut.

‘Great. I’ve been worried and didn’t know how to bring it up but if you’re sure, that sounds good. How’s your flat?’ Her voice was sing-song, at ease.

‘Great thanks. I’m home, cooking spaghetti bolognaise for myself. Our favourite, remember?’ I stressed the word our. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m fine. I’m on my own, about to watch telly with an M&S lasagne. Italian all the way.’

A shape had appeared out of nowhere at her front door.