She tried to think of a topic of conversation that would interest Colleen. “I hear that you sewed your own wedding dress,” she said. “You must be so talented!”

“You’re being condescending,” said Julia. She was sunbaking on her stomach and lifted her head from her towel to speak.

“She should never have got pregnant,” said Colleen to Julia. “That was unethical of her.”

“Probably,” yawned Julia. “But she means well.”

“It was unethical because he’s still in love with me,” said Colleen complacently.

“But you’re dead!” cried Ellen, suddenly remembering and filled with the injustice of her accusation.

“You’re a very pretty girl,” said Ellen’s father to Colleen.

Colleen tilted her head. “Thank you, David.”

“Well, I’m so sorry for getting pregnant,” said Ellen. She knew she was acting petulantly because she was jealous of her father complimenting Colleen, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She began to fling handfuls of sand at her own face. “How can I redeem myself? What can I do to make it up to you?”

“Ellen. Stop it. You are making an absolute fool of yourself,” said Madeline, who was sitting on the old couch they had when they shared a flat.

“Did you hear something?” said Patrick. Ellen woke to see Patrick sitting up next to her in bed, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s just the wind, I think,” said Ellen.

Outside, the wind was howling, making the windows rattle. She sat up and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table.

“Sorry,” said Patrick. He lay back down.

Ellen tipped back her water glass. It was empty. She didn’t remember drinking it. She looked at the clock: only four a.m. This night would never end.

“I’m having all these peculiar dreams,” said Ellen.

There was a bang as a branch or something landed on the roof.

“Me too,” said Patrick. “It’s the wind.”

“You said something when I was doing your relaxation,” said Ellen.

“Mmmm?” said Patrick.

“About Colleen.”

She waited. Patrick snored.

Ellen lay back down and instantly dreamed again.

This time she was walking down the aisle on her wedding day, wearing her grandmother’s dress. She was carrying the baby in the palm of her outstretched hand. The baby was the size of a bead and it was rolling back and forth across her palm.

“Keep your hand flat! You’ll drop it!” said one of the wedding guests. Ellen turned her head to see that it was her client Luisa, wearing a big hat. “You don’t even know how to look after a baby! I should be the pregnant one! Give it to me!”

“I gave you your money back,” said Ellen briskly. “There is nothing more I can do. I am a good person.”

She kept walking. She could see Patrick at the end of the aisle, facing away from her. He turned around to look at her, and Ellen smiled at him, but his face changed.

“Stop following me!” he yelled. His voice echoed throughout the whole church. “It’s over! Can’t you understand? I never loved you!”

Ellen was mortified. “Patrick, it’s not Saskia, it’s me!” she called out. She tried to keep her voice light and cheery, because it was a wedding after all, but loud enough for Patrick to hear right down the other end of the aisle, which had become as long as an airport runway.

“Leave me alone!” shouted Patrick.

“Darling, I don’t think he loves you anymore,” said her mother. She and the godmothers were dressed up like bridesmaids from the eighties, in pink taffeta dresses with giant puffed sleeves.

“Men!” said Pip. “Who needs them? Let’s get drunk.”

“You’ll meet someone else,” said Mel.

“I never really liked him much anyway,” sniffed Ellen’s mother.

“He thinks I’m Saskia,” said Ellen. “I’m sure it’s just a mix-up.”

But actually, she wasn’t sure. Had she been the one stalking Patrick all along?

“You hypnotized me into moving those boxes!” shouted Patrick. “You manipulated me!”

“I’m sorry!” cried Ellen. He was breaking up with her. This relationship was going to end just like all her other relationships. She was going to have to bring up this baby on her own and it was so teeny-tiny! She closed her hand carefully around the baby-bead and began to run, but as soon as she did her legs lurched sickeningly, as if she’d run off a cliff.

She opened her eyes.

She couldn’t tell if it was morning or night; the bedroom seemed to be filled with a strange, eerie orange-yellow light.

It was like there’d been a fire, except there was no smell of smoke. She could hear Patrick’s rattley breathing that was not quite snoring, and the hollow, rhythmic sound of waves crashing on the beach.

And she could hear or sense something else. Something not right.

There was a long, dark shape at the end of the bed. Ellen stared, her heart hammering, waiting for her eyes to adjust and for the shape to become a familiar object, like a chair or a dressing gown hanging on a door.

It moved.

Ellen’s lungs filled with air.

A woman was standing in their bedroom, at the foot of their bed, watching them sleep. Ellen scrabbled back so fast that her head banged painfully against the headboard.

Colleen. Colleen back from the dead to claim her husband.