Page 152 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘Yes, thanks to you and Dad. Plus, I get my first paycheck at the end of the month.’

Looping her crossbody bag over her shoulder, she starts to make her way out of the office.

‘Well, if you need anything, you must let me know.’

‘I’m fine, stop worrying.’

‘I’m not worrying!’

Which of course is a total lie. Despite never particularly wanting to be a mother, Maggie was now in the strange position of finding herself frequently worrying about twenty-six-year-old Flick as if she was her adult child.

‘Hang on, I’m switching you to audio, two secs.’

Exiting the newsroom, Flick quickly walks down the stairs, through the foyer and out of the news building. The Shard rises in front of her, while London Bridge is behind her, and she glances up at the skyline like she still can’t quite believe it. A young twenty-something professional, just moved to London to start her career, her future stretching out ahead of her. There’s no feeling more exhilarating.

‘Are you heading home now?’

In her earbuds Maggie’s voice brings her back.

‘No, I’m meeting Flea.’

‘Ooh, tell me!’

‘There’s nothing to tell, we’re just friends, it’s cool.’

Flick shakes her head and smiles. What is it with the older generation, always wanting to pigeonhole? She starts walking towards the Underground.

‘Are you going for a drink?’

‘No, we’re off to see the new Expressionists exhibition at the Tate Modern. There’s a special late-night opening . . .’

Over fifteen hundred kilometres away in an apartment in Lisbon, Maggie gives the air a little punch of triumph.

‘Wow, I really did make an impression,’ she laughs.

‘You changed my life,’ quips Flick, but she really means it.

‘Mine too,’ smiles Maggie, stroking George, who’s purring loudly. ‘I’ll never be able to use disposable face wipes again.’

There’s sarcastic laughter on the end of the phone.

‘Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention – I did a deep dive into Birdy and I think I found something.’

‘You did?’

In recent weeks, Maggie had tried contacting Birdy to say a huge thank you for returning her dad’s watch. If it wasn’t for her, she might have never got it back, and who knows what would have happened to it. But despite googling, she can’t find any mention of her. Usually something will pop up – everyone has some kind of online footprint – but it’s almost like she doesn’t exist.

‘Yeah, but it’s really weird,’ continues Flick. ‘I couldn’t find any mention of Birdy Carmichael, but I did find a newspaper article about someone called Birdie Randolph, with the different spelling, from about ten years ago.’

‘How’s that weird?’

‘They had a photo of her from CCTV and she was her double.’

‘Maybe she’s a doppelganger – apparently we all have one, can you imagine? There are people walking around looking like me and you.’ Maggie pauses. ‘Why is there a picture of her on CCTV?’

‘She was a con woman who ran up a huge bill at a five-star hotel in Paris by pretending to be a rich American heiress to date men and then disappeared.’

They both fall silent on the phone, thoughts unravelling.