Through the gap between the fabric and the door frame she could see the living room in a narrow vertical strip: the end of the sofa, part of the table, the doorway to the hall.

Mark came into the strip with his arm around a woman’s waist.

He kissed her hair.

“Almost there, little Maya,” he said.

“A few more days and every bit of it’s yours, legally, on paper, with a stamp on it.”

Maya heard her own name and did not understand it.

It arrived in her ears as a sound with no meaning attached, and then the meaning caught up, and then the woman turned around.

She was wearing Maya’s dress.