of course! Absolutely you’re not ill!’ I’m nowhere near well enough versed in psychology to know whether someone who thinks they’re Audrey Hepburn could become dangerous if confronted with the fact that they’re not. ‘But it’s getting late, and I’ve got quite a lot of unpacking to do. So if you’d rather I just called you a taxi …’
‘I can help you with the unpacking!’
‘God, no, that’s not what I meant!’
But she’s not listening. She’s tripping daintily over to my boxes, kneeling down beside them and starting to pull off the masking tape.
‘I adore unpacking,’ she says. ‘Making a house a home! Well, in your case, a flat. And this one is simply delightful!’
Now I know she’s suffering from delusions.
‘Though I must say, darling, you’ve not done yourself any favours by putting this huge sofa in here. You’d be far better off with some sort of lovely leather armchair … Goodness! What on earth is this?’
She’s pulled the Nespresso machine out of the top of the box she’s kneeling beside, and is gazing at it, from behind her sunglasses, in awe and wonderment.
‘Is it a camera? A microwave oven?’
‘It’s a Nespresso machine,’ I say, rather irritably, because whether it’s an act or whether it’s a delusion, this whole thing is starting to get a bit much. I’m even starting to wonder if putting in a quick call to Bogdan might be just the thing. After all, if your dodgy landlord can’t get rid of Audrey Hepburn lookalikes who won’t leave your flat, what is he good for? ‘You must have seen the adverts, with George Clooney.’
‘Is he any relation to Rosemary?’ she asks, brightly.
‘Rosemary Clooney? I don’t know, might be a nephew or something. Now, I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to—’
‘Oh, no, darling, he can’t be a nephew! Rosemary would have told me if she had a nephew!’ She turns back to look at the Nespresso machine, taking her sunglasses off so that she can gaze at it more closely. She puts the sunglasses down on the melamine. ‘Nespresso, you say? It sounds as though it’s the sort of thing that might make you a cup of coffee?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what it does, but you already …’
I stop.
She’s looking right at me, without the sunglasses.
And I feel a bit funny, all of a sudden.
Because – and this is going to sound certifiably insane, I have to warn you – now that I can see her eyes, I’m not so sure that she’s an escaped lunatic after all. Or a professional lookalike, for that matter.
I think that, maybe … well, that maybe she is Audrey Hepburn.
I warned you I’d sound crazy.
I mean, what am I actually saying here? That Audrey Hepburn is miraculously, Lazarus-like, back from the dead? And that instead of coming back from the dead to visit her beloved family, or continue her charity work for UNICEF, she’s dropped by my titchy little flat in Colliers Wood instead?
No: of course I’m not saying that. Nobody comes back from the dead, to Colliers Wood or anywhere else, for that matter.
But the way those eyes are looking at me … and you can’t fake eyes. Yes, you can buy coloured contact lenses to make them the right shade of chocolate brown; yes, you can bung on a shedload of false eyelashes; yes, you can master the art of the perfectly feline kohl flick.
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