“Call again soon, Marijke.”

“Yes.” She wanted to. She knew she wouldn’t. “Groetjes, my love.”

“Doeg! Ik hou van je…” They both paused. She hung up first.

Martin stood in his office, holding his mobile. A crowd of emotions filled him. She called. She said “my love.” I should have asked her more questions, I talked too much about my work. She said she would call soon. How soon? But she didn’t say she would call until I asked her to call. But she called today, so she will call again. When will she call? I should write downquestions to ask her. She gave up smoking, that’s amazing. Maybe I should too. We could do it together, next time she calls I could tell her. But when will she call? Martin shook another cigarette from the pack and lit it. She called me. A minute ago, we were talking. He pressed the mobile to his cheek. It was warm. He felt affection for the little phone, it had brought Marijke’s voice to him. Carrying the phone in one hand and the cigarette in the other, Martin walked to the kitchen. When he got there he walked back to his office again. She called me. She promised to call again. She called. When will she call again? Maybe I should give up smoking…

Marijke flipped her phone shut and put it in her pocket. She finished the piece for Bernard, emailed it to him. She heard the ping from his computer that said the piece had crossed the twelve feet between their desks. Someone said, “You’re on air in fifteen minutes.” She nodded and made her way towards the studio, but detoured into the loo, where she leaned against the wall and cried. He doesn’t change. She wished she hadn’t called. On the phone it was too easy to remember Martin as he had once been. Marijke washed her face and ran to the studio, where her engineer gave her an annoyed look. Months would go by before she called Martin again.

Stalking

ROBERT HAD been imagining the arrival of the twins for a year. He had whole conversations with them in his mind: he told them about London, the cemetery, Elspeth; he chatted to them about restaurants, his thesis, all sorts of things. As he went about his days in the long year of their imminent arrival, Robert noted points of interest-There’s Dick Whittington’s cat. They’ll want to know about that…I’ll take them to Postman’s Park, to the Hunterian Museum, to the John Soane. We’ll ride the London Eye at sunset. He and Elspeth had done all these things together. We’ll go round Dennis Severs’ house at Christmas. And the Foundling Museum. Robert became, in his imagination, the tour guide of the twins’ London lives, their indispensable sherpa, their native speaker. They would naturally come to him with their little dilemmas and queries; avuncular, he would advise them and aid them in their London initiation. Robert had looked forward to the twins. He had enveloped them with so many witticisms, expectations and hopes that now, when Julia and Valentina had finally actually arrived, Robert was quite frightened of them.

He had thought that he would simply walk upstairs, knock on their door and introduce himself. But the sound of their footsteps and laughter paralysed him. He watched them come and go, traipsing through the front garden in matching frocks, carrying bags of groceries, flowers, an ugly lamp. Why do they need a lamp? Elspeth has plenty of lamps.

They knocked on his door once or twice a day. Each time, Robert stood motionless, interrupted at his desk, or during his dinner; he could hear them speaking softly to each other in the hall. Just open the door, he told himself. Don’t be such a wanker.

He hesitated before their twinness; they seemed sublime and inviolable together. Each morning he watched them navigating the slippery path to the gate. They appeared so self-sufficient, and conversely so reliant on each other, that he felt rejected without having ever exchanged a word with either of them.

One bright chilly morning Robert stood at his front window, coffee in hand, wearing his coat and hat, waiting. Eventually he heard the twins galumphing down the stairs. He watched them cross the yard and let themselves out of the gate.

Then he followed them.

They led him across Pond Square, through Highgate Village and along Jackson’s Lane to the Highgate tube station. He hung back, let them disappear, then panicked that a train might come and whisk them off. He ran down the escalator. The station was nearly deserted, it was half eleven. He found them again on the southbound platform, positioned himself just close enough to get into the same carriage. They sat near the middle doors. He sat across from them, fifteen feet away. One twin studied a pocket tube map. The other leaned back in her seat and studied the adverts. “Look,” she said to her sister, “we could fly to Transylvania for a pound each.” Robert was startled to hear her soft American accent, so different from Elspeth’s confident Oxbridge voice.

He avoided looking at them. He thought of a cat his mum had, Squeak; every time they took it to the vet’s surgery, the cat tucked its head under Robert’s arm and hid. She seemed to think that if she couldn’t see the vet, the vet couldn’t see her. Robert did not look at the twins, so they would not see him.

They got off at Embankment and changed for the District line. Eventually they emerged from Sloane Square station and wandered haltingly into Belgravia, stopping often to consult their A-Z. Robert never came to this part of London, so he, too, became quickly lost. He hung back, keeping his eye on them and feeling pervy and gormless, not to mention highly noticeable. Smart young Sloanes of both sexes marched past him, toting inscrutable shopping bags, mobiles clamped to their ears. Little fogs of breath emanated from their mouths as they rushed by, chatting to themselves like actors rehearsing. The twins seemed tentative and childish by comparison.

They wandered into a side street and became suddenly excited, skipping along and craning their necks at the shop numbers. “Here!” said one. They went into a tiny hat shop, Philip Treacy, and spent an hour trying on hats. Robert watched them from across the street. The twins took turns with the hats, turning in front of what must have been a mirror. The shopgirl smiled at them and offered an enormous lime-green spiral. A twin put it on her head and all three of them looked quite pleased.

Robert wished that he smoked, as it would have provided an excuse to stand about in the street looking pointless. Maybe I should go and have a pint. They look as though they’ll be at this all afternoon. The twins were exclaiming over a plastic orange disc that reminded Robert of the dinner-plate-like halos in medieval paintings. I need a disguise. Maybe a beard. Or a hazmat suit. The twins came out of the shop without any bags.

Robert trailed them all over Knightsbridge, watching them window-shop, eat crepes, gawk at other shoppers. Midafternoon they vanished into the underground. Robert let them go and took himself to the British Library.

He put his things in a locker and went upstairs to the Humanities 1 reading room. The room was crowded and he found a seat between a beaky woman surrounded by books about Christopher Wren and a hirsute young man who seemed to be researching Jacobite housekeeping practices. Robert did not order any books; he didn’t even check on the books he had previously ordered. He put both palms flat on the desk top and closed his eyes. I feel odd. He wondered if he was coming down with the flu. Robert was aware of a split within himself-he was filled with contradictory emotions, some of which included shame, exhilaration, accomplishment, confusion, disgust with himself and a strong desire to follow the twins again tomorrow. He opened his eyes and tried to pull himself together. You can’t spy on them like this. They’ll notice sooner or later. Robert imagined Elspeth chiding him: “Don’t be gutless, sweet. Just open the door the next time they knock.” Then he thought she would have laughed at him. Elspeth never understood shyness. Don’t laugh at me, Elspeth, Robert said to her in his mind. Don’t.