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catch a glimpse of a familiar profile and I realise it cannot be who it appears to be. As I get closer, I wonder whether this is a trick, maybe a cardboard cutout but he moved so it can’t be... And the snow has become a flurry and the wind has become its whip, as I push away the hair and the snow from my eyes and stride on, blinking away the flakes as they fall towards me.
     
    It is him. I stop, astonished.
     
    “Shhh,” I hear again. He is looking towards the horizon, that unmistakable jawline tenses. I take in that same furrowed brow and that trademark jacket. I don’t understand what I am seeing. I don’t understand because it’s Joel, the lead singer of ‘Town Full of Heroes’, standing there under the Sycamore tree. At my work.
     
    One blink later and he is nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    So, my secret twin is a rock star. Go ahead and laugh, say “Oh well it wouldn’t have been anything normal, would it?” I understand. I know it sounds implausible. Like when people claim to recall their past life. They’ll say they were a famous army general or a beautiful medieval princess. They never claim to be Jane Smith from Birmingham, do they?
     
    Joel is a rock star in a band called Town Full of Heroes and, as such, he leads a life far removed from mine and Richard’s. He occupies a place in the South Western United States, some 3,000 miles away from my life here in rainy, snowy England. Most of the time when he is awake I am asleep.
     
    This is frankly ridiculous. However, perhaps in part due to my boredom and loneliness, I decide to test out the theory. I leave work on the dot of three ‘o clock. I’m not the only one leaving early, it seems everyone is rushing home before the snow lays and darkness falls.
     
    I turn into my road just in time to see a blue car pulling away from outside my house. I nab the space. I step out of the car, or try to, as the strap of my handbag catches on my handbrake and pulls me back onto the seat. I tug it free. The cold air whisks around me, flinging snowflakes and hair into my eyes. Grateful to have a home to go to I dash towards the house, quickly shutting myself into the cramped porch and knocking over a bag full of empty jars and bottles that I have yet to take down to the recycling depot. I really must get a porch light sorted, I think, as I fumble to find the keyhole. Where is it?
     
    I sigh heavily as I finally enter. I step over the letters on the mat, thinking they can stay where they fell for a little while longer. My shoulders drop with relief. It’s been a long day and all I want to do is to sit down. The house is silent and shadowy. I turn on the hall light. It illuminates the kitchen ahead and I see a stack of dirty dishes that I didn’t have time to wash up earlier. I ‘tsk’ under my breath. If I had put the dishes in the dishwasher before I left they would be clean by now... A beep from my handbag tells me that I have a text message.
     
    Well, it will have to wait a minute.
     
    I take off my coat, hanging it on the aged old coat stand that was my grandmother’s. That coat stand has witnessed a few things in its time I think, as I take off my boots and wriggle into my new fluffy white slippers. It’s silly really, I always buy the same style... this pair is not yet a week old but I know how it will look in about two months’ time, all grey and falling apart after a dozen ill-conceived trips out to the bins and a few thousand spins round the washing machine. It’s a silly idea, white slippers. This pair still has a resistance to the shape of my feet, which makes them feel unfamiliar.
     
    I pad into the front room, heave the curtains closed (thinking I must replace that curtain track) and turn on the table lamp, dimming it to a comfortable glow. En route to the kitchen I retrieve my phone from my handbag and see that the text is Richard telling me he misses me. I am getting used to being alone but I miss him too. I busy myself about the kitchen