It was damn good wine.

I'd never been much of a wine connoisseur in the Old World, which was mad considering I worked in the arts, where simply every high-brow, high cheek-boned middle-class wannabe Cecily Brown or Takashi Murikami knew their Château Ausone from their bloody Chateauneuf De Pape.

But this? This was good wine.

I raised the bottle in the air and thanked the rich bastards of Lancaster House for having such good taste and for being wise enough to stockpile wine next to their jars of olives and tins of salmon.

'Cheers,' I said to the empty room, and took another sip.

Nothing but a tiny drop left. I sniffed, holding up the bottle and staring into the bottom. Huh. Empty. Thank God, I'd taken two. And thank Tom, because it was all down to him that I'd become such a good drinker after he'd died.

No. Not Tom. Thank the Grey.

The door opened, just a crack, and there he was, like he was a damn mind reader who popped up every time I thought about him.

God, that face. Would I ever get over the shock of seeing his face again?

I stared at him as he slipped inside. He closed the door behind him and just stood there, like he was guarding the bloody door or something. Pretending not to be bothered by his presence, I grabbed the second bottle and, flicking open my blade, I plunged it into the cork and twisted.

Another thing I had to thank him for. Learning to live without a corkscrew.

I raised the bottle to him this time. 'Cheers,' I said, taking a gulp. 'I'd offer you some, but I hate your guts. My dad always said, never drink with someone you hate. It turns the booze bitter and we can't have that now, can we?'

I took another gulp and swallowed. It really was amazing wine.

'Evie, what are you doing?'

His voice was so Tom. Everything about him was so Tom. I hated him. I hugged my knees into my chest and took another sip.

'If they find out you took the wine, you'll get into trouble.'

I laughed, leaning my head back against the wall as I looked at him. Fuck, I was tired. Or just drunk. Or both.

'Trouble? Darling, I'm already in trouble. But then again, you...' I jabbed a finger at him. 'You, Mr. Look-At-Me-Aren't-I So-Fucking-Perfect, well, you've made sure of that, haven't you? Well done, by the way. I'd raise a glass in your honour, but we have none, so I'll just raise the bottle instead. It's thanks to you that they all think I'm losing my bloody mind.' I took another swig and swallowed. 'Maybe I am. Maybe I am losing my mind. Definitely feels like it.' I sniffed.

Why was he just standing there looking so pathetic? Tom never looked pathetic. Maybe I should have told him he wasn't doing it right? That he needed to work on his method acting?

'Whatever you think, Evie, I'm not trying to turn them against you. I'm just...'

'What?' I said, pushing out my legs so I could lean forwards. 'What are you doing then, little Grey man? Trying to start that revolution?' I raised the bottle to him again. 'Well, vive la révolution! Was that a good French accent? I've never been very good at accents, but then again, would you even know? How does it work anyway? I mean, do you remember because he knew what a French accent was?'

A giggle burst free. I took another swig and went back to just staring at him. I think it rattled him. He certainly looked rattled. Good. Fucker.

'I know what a French accent is,' he said. 'And I know you're terrible at accents. You tried to do that Italian accent when we were in Sicily... sorry, when you and Tom... when you were in Sicily.'

I glared at him and raised the bottle again. 'Gold star for you. Well remembered.'

I took a longer drink this time. I put the bottle down by my side, still clutching the neck. My blade was still there, the tip embedded into the freed cork. That could have been his eyeball. Why did that make me feel nauseous? Tom had beautiful eyes. So clear and blue and bright. I decided then and there that when I did it, I wouldn't touch his eyes. That would be wrong somehow. I wasn't sure why, because he wasn't really Tom, but his eyes were beautiful, and I just couldn't. It would be like desecrating a work of art. Slashing a Vemeer and Schalcken portrait to ribbons just for the sheer hell of it. I remembered the day I'd found those paintings vandalised in the gallery. How I'd stopped and stared at them, suddenly feeling so desolate. Such despair. And guilt. How could a slashed painting stop me in my tracks more than all the other horrors I'd seen until that point? How was it that desecrated canvas could make want to cry, when I'd not shed a tear for anything else?

When I looked up again, Tom was still staring at me.

Why was he always bloody staring?

Slowly – and still keeping his eye on me – he lowered himself to the floor, and sat down in front of the door, resting his hands on his raised knees. He didn't look like Tom then. Tom would never have sat like that, all awkward and stiff. He would have sprawled out, the way he always did on the sofa. Or stretched out, like he sometimes did on the rug, his hand propping his head up. I never could understand how he found that comfortable. He never understood why I didn't find it comfortable.

My chest hurt. A tightening of muscle and bone.

I raised the bottle to my lips again, stopping when I saw the way his gaze didn't waver as I touched the bottle to my mouth.

'Sorry, did you want some?' I held it out to him, but he shook his head. 'Do you even drink wine?'

'I drink whatever he drinks.' He swallowed. 'I like whatever he likes.'

I hated his tone. All soft and gentle, when I knew he was anything but. I hated the way he was looking at me. Like Tom used to. I hated that he always spoke like Tom was still here.

'Stop with the present tense shit,' I snapped. 'Past tense, remember? You should remember. Grammar was kind of his thing. You drink whatever he drank. You like whatever he liked. There's a difference. If you want to be convincing, you need to get it right.'

'I know the difference,' he said. 'I know the difference because he knows...look I know it's not easy to understand, it's just...' He trailed off.

'It's just...what?'

'It's just hard to explain without...' He snagged his lower lip with his teeth, scraping at it. 'I'm afraid it would hurt you to hear it.'

My mouth dropped open. I broke into a smile, chuckling. 'Wait, you're afraid it might hurt me?' The smile died on my lips. Darkness surged. Or was that nausea? 'Everything you do hurts me. Your fucking existence hurts me. And you're worried a simple explanation will cause me pain?'

He sucked on his lip where he'd scraped his teeth over it. 'Okay, if you really want to hear it,' he said, shrugging. 'If I talk in present tense, it's because to me, he's not dead. He's here. He breathes. He thinks. He feels. It's like having two consciousnesses in one body. His. Mine. To you, he might be dead, but to me, he lives.'

He was right. It did hurt. It hurt so much that for a moment, I really thought I was going to be sick. My head went fuzzy, making the room ebb and flow side to side.

'He doesn't live,' I managed to croak out. 'He doesn't live because you killed him. I watched you do it. Whatever you think you can feel, you stole it. You stole all of it. None of it is real. None of it is him.'

'I'm sorry,' he said, feebly.

He was so weak. Pathetic. Sitting there pretending he gave a shit. Pretending that he didn't want to hurt me.

I took another swig. And another.

His brow crinkled as he watched me. 'You should go easy on that. You're not great with wine.'

'Ah,' I said, smiling thinly as I held onto the bottle. 'That's one thing you don't know. You see, after you died – and I'm saying you, seeing as you're insisting that you're one and the same as my husband – after you died, I cultivated a rather good drinking habit. What can I say? Turns out I'm a chip off the old block, after all?'

Tom blinked. 'You're talking about your dad. You're nothing like your dad. He was an alcoholic. He had... issues.'

'And you don't think I have issues?' I laughed. 'I watched my husband get killed by an alien and then watched that alien steal his identity. I was under suspicion for his disappearance. Everyone thought I murdered him. The police. Tania. Even Monica. Everyone thought I did it. Everyone thought I was insane. My life was Hell. Oh, I had issues alright. Drinking helped. It was the first time in my life I ever understood why my dad drank so much. So yeah, I think you'll find I'm a much better drinker now. Thanks to you.'

I grinned and raised the bottle again.

'I didn't know,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'

I rolled my eyes and exhaled. 'You say that a lot, you know. You're sorry, you're sorry. Change the bloody record.' 

Tom frowned, blinking again. I didn't like it when he did that. It was such a not-Tom thing to do. It pissed me off to see it.

'Why do you do that?' I said.

'Do what?'

'That blinking thing. It's irritating.'

'Oh,' he said. 'Sorry.' He shook his head. Even he looked irritated now. 'Sorry for saying sorry. If I say sorry, it's because I am. If I blink, it's because I don't always get everything straight away. I'm trying to make sense of it. It's getting easier, especially since...' He glanced at me and then quickly avoided my gaze, looking down at his hands.

I'd always loved his hands. Would it feel the same to brush my lips over his knuckles? Would it taste the same?

'Since what?' I said, before taking another sip. Drinking would help. Drinking always helped me forget.

'Since I found you again,' he said.

The room became hazy for a few seconds, softening around the edges. It was too hot in here. Too small. I put the bottle down and tugged my zip-up hoodie off my shoulders. Bunching it up, I threw it in the corner of the room. That was better. It really was too hot in here. Unbearably hot.

I looked back over at him. 'Why would finding me make any difference?' 

He hesitated, massaging his knuckles with his thumb. Now that was a Tom thing.

'After I...after I took him...' He cleared his throat. 'Look, we don't usually leave, okay? We have a target and once we have them, their life is our life. It helps with the transition. It means we... connect more deeply. It allows us to become. I couldn't do that with Tom because you were there. You saw it all.'

'Oh, well, pardon me for being such an inconvenience to you while you were killing my husband.'

He plunged his fingers into his hair, resting his elbows on his thighs. 'Shit, Eve... I didn't mean that. I just meant that usually you wouldn't have known. I would have become Tom and you would have been none the wiser.'

Would that have been better? I wasn't sure. I couldn't think straight. He'd called me Eve. The one thing I'd asked him not to say and now I wanted him to say it again. Just once. Just one more time.

I took another swig. It tasted funny on my tongue, but I swallowed it down anyway.

We sat in silence for a while, as I cradled the bottle between my thighs, picking at edge of the label with my fingernail. Every now and then, I felt his eyes on me, only for him to glance away every time I looked up, the eternal cat and mouse game, except right then, I didn't know which one of us was the cat and which the mouse.

'What do you remember?' I said, curiosity getting the better of me.

Tom rubbed a palm down the side of his face, scratching at his short beard. 'I-I don't know. In the beginning, it was chaotic. Confusing. I had nothing to anchor it to. I didn't understand much of what I saw up here.' He tapped against his forehead. 'Then I saw you that day and it came at me in such a rush. It was... overwhelming. Like something between the biggest high and the worst pain. I was... ecstatic to have some connection to what I was seeing and feeling, but it hurt so much. It was like grief... loss... knowing someone means everything and yet you can't quite reach them. Like, being invisible and watching someone go on with their life without you.'

He looked right at me then, his smile shaky and crooked. 'You are... were his whole world. It's not easy dealing with that depth of feeling. I'm not sure I ever have before. I'm not good with that side of the process. Never have been.'

I took another drink. And another. And breathed.

'Tell me something you remember. Anything.'

'Anything?' His expression wavered. He was wary of me. Of course, he was. The knife was still close by, but for now... now, I just wanted him to talk. Just talk. Tom had always been good at talking.

'Yeah,' I said, slouching against the wall. I was really tired now, exhausted down to my bones. 'Just say the first memory that comes into your head.'

'Okay, if you really want me to...' He trailed off, frowning slightly as he cocked his head to one side. 'You didn't want to hang the painting in the kitchen. The one that you did. You said...' He smiled. 'You said that it was amateur, and you were embarrassed to have it on the wall. But I loved it. It didn't matter what was going on outside, whether it was raining and miserable, pelting down with hailstones or raging thunderstorms, it always made me think of summer. And of you. It reminded me of that week in Cornwall. You sat on my jacket because we'd forgotten the picnic blanket and the ground was still a little damp from the morning dew. We were looking at the ocean, and you said you loved how the sky and the sea seemed like one. You were talking about colour and how Monet reflected the sunrise on the water, making it look like gold leaf on oil. You wanted our own Monet, so when we got home, you painted it. You... you made the frame yourself. You always made your own frames. You were a bit cross when I insisted on putting it up.'

His smile grew wider. 'You, uh... were very pouty. You get that cute wrinkle between your brows whenever you get cross. I put the painting up near the patio doors and I used to get up early every day, just so I could sit in the kitchen with my cup of coffee and look at that painting. It made me feel like I was there, looking out at the sea, with you by my side. It was a good holiday. One of the best.'

I closed my eyes, seeing it all. Hearing the sea lap at the shoreline. Smelling the bitter sting of salt and damp grass. Feeling the gentle grooves in the wood as I ran my fingertips along the edge of the frame.

I was burning up. It was so bloody hot in this stupid, tiny room. The wine. It was the wine. Maybe he'd been right. Maybe I still couldn't handle the wine.

'Evie?' Tom said. 'Eve?'

Say it again. One more time. Please.

'Eve? Did I say something wrong? Did I choose the wrong memory? It was the first one that came into my head.'

I opened my eyes and looked into his.

'You chose the right one,' I said. 'It was our first holiday together. We'd not been dating that long and you woke up one day and said...'

'Let's get in the car and drive to the coast...'

'And so, we went. We were mad. I mean, we hadn't even booked anywhere to stay, we just packed our bags and got in the car.'

He chuckled softly. 'Yeah, you were calling a few places on the way there. It was May half term at school. Most places were booked up. We were lucky to get anywhere, but you found that cottage...'

'It was a right shithole from the outside. Looked like something out of a horror film. You said, that if we were watching it as a movie, we'd be screaming at the characters not to go inside.'

'But we went inside. You made me go first.' Tom grinned.

'You always get that part wrong when telling this story. I went first. You squealed when you heard the bats in the loft.'

'I did not squeal. I was just taken by surprise, that's all,' he said, rolling his eyes. 'We had to pull all the blankets out for the bed. It got cold at night.'

'It wasn't so bad,' I said. 'We had each other. And the fish and chips were great.'

'The fish and chips were amazing,' he said. 'We sat in the garden, with the open bags on our laps, looking up at the stars.'

'You told me you were in love with me...'

'Yes. You said you'd been in love with me for weeks but had been too scared to say it. I told you that I'd been in love with you since we'd first met. We kissed and you said...'

'...That you tasted of salt and vinegar.'

I closed my eyes again. I could taste it. Could taste him.

My eyes snapped open. 'I can't do this.'

I had to get out. I couldn't stay in this tiny claustrophobic room as it just got hotter and hotter. The walls were closing in. The floor was shifting underneath me. I couldn't stay in this room where it smelt of sea and salt and him.

I stumbled to my feet and staggered towards him.

The door. I was heading for the door, not him. I needed out.

Tom rose to his feet quickly, his eyes wide, his hands held out in front of him. 'Evie, what's wrong? Where are you going?'

He blocked my way. I put my hands on his chest to push him, but the room juddered and swayed, rocking back and forth on an ocean. He held onto me, and I hated that it felt good. I hated him. I did.

'I have to get out. I have to tell them the truth.'

'What? Why? I thought...'

'They need to know. They need to know what I've done. They'll send me away, but that'll be fine.' A sobbed bubbled into my throat. 'I'll be okay. I will. I just need to do the right thing. I need to... keep them safe.'

He tightened his grip around me.

'Eve, they are safe. I'm not going to hurt them. I swear to you.' He took my face in his hands.

Oh god, his hands. His hands.

I moaned and pushed against his chest again. Why did I feel so weak? Why had I drunk so much? I really couldn't handle the booze. Maybe I wasn't like my dad so much after all.

'Look at me, Evie, please look at me. They are safe. I told you the truth. I'm not here to hurt them. I'm not here to hurt you. I wouldn't, I wouldn't. I could never hurt you. Please, don't do this.'

I couldn't push anymore. Had I still been pushing anyway? I wasn't sure of anything.

Collapsing against Tom's chest, I let him hold me there. I could hear his heart beating, hard and strong. I could feel his chest rising and falling as the room breathed in and out all around me.

Rising. Falling. Ebbing. Flowing.

He felt like Tom.

I inhaled.

Oh god, he even smelt like Tom.

I pushed my face into his neck and breathed in. I stayed like that for a moment, not wanting to let go. It was better with my eyes closed. I could just let him hold me and I could just breathe him in and when I opened my eyes again, we wouldn't be here. We'd be at home. In our house. Surrounded by all the things we chose together. His books. My paintings.

'You are so like him,' I murmured against his throat. 'You look like him. Smell like him. Sound like him. Everything is so... so...'

'Yes,' he said, almost as if to himself. 'Some days, I am more like him than I am myself. Some days, I don't know where I end, and he begins.'

His voice vibrated in his chest. His throat moved against my mouth. His heart beat stronger still. If he let me go, I was going to fall. I knew it. My head was spinning. Memories whirling faster and faster, like that fairground ride I always hated. The one that made me sick. What was that called again? The Hurricane or Cyclone or something? I couldn't remember.

I clutched a handful of his shirt and buried my face into his neck. 

'I miss you,' I whispered. 'I miss you all the time. Every day. Every second of every day.'

His hand slid up my back and I groaned, pushing myself against him. How many times had I dreamt of this? How many times I had hoped for one more chance to taste him again? He was real. Flesh-and-blood-real. Not a dream. Not a memory. Real. He felt real.

Pressing my lips against his throat, I kissed him. I wanted to taste him so fucking much. Just once and that would be it. Just once. Would that be so bad? I kissed him again, this time with an open mouth, letting the flavour of his skin linger on my tongue. Tom's grip tightened.

Just once more. It couldn't hurt, surely? Just one true, proper kiss. Like we used to. I reached up with my hand, curling my fingers into his hair and let my mouth find his. His lips felt smooth, soft. So good. So... so Tom. I parted his lips with my tongue and felt his own against mine.

God, I'd missed this. Him. Everything.

I kissed him harder, nipping at his lower lip with my teeth, loving the way he inhaled sharply when I did, loving how his body just seemed to mould together with mine. Just like it always had.

I hungered for him then, overwhelmed by this rapacious, insatiable longing that made my bones ache and my legs weaken. Had I ever wanted him more? My hands ran down his chest, to his stomach. I could feel the hard lines underneath his shirt and was suddenly consumed by wanting to touch his skin. To taste him there. I tugged clumsily at the bottom of it, feeling dizzy with desire and heat.

'Evie...' he gasped, breaking away from the kiss. He was breathing harder now.

I laughed, feeling half-mad as I grabbed his hand, stumbling backwards onto the blankets and old sofa cushions and pulling him down with me. I kissed him again, deeper, relishing the taste of him in my mouth and the way his body felt pressed against mine, his thigh nudging between my own. Instinctively, I squeezed my legs together, feeling the heat of him there, his hardness against my stomach. Yes, yes, this is what I had missed. I wanted to cry at how good it felt. How incredible it was to feel him pressed against me, his hips moving rhythmically with my own.

The room was still spinning, a synaesthesia of colour swirling over the walls, and I was lost to it all, lost in the feel and scent of Tom. I let my hands trail up under his shirt, marvelling how the muscles in his back felt thicker, broadening out his shoulders. Fuck, I needed him so much.

Struggling to sit up, I pushed him onto his back, giggling at the surprise on his face as I climbed onto him, straddling his thighs. I pulled at my vest top, peeling it off my damp body and throwing it aside. Tom's eyes widened. A dull, insistent throbbing radiated out from the base of my stomach and between my thighs as I watched his gaze travel down to my breasts. I suddenly wished I had better underwear than this, but it didn't seem to bother him. A flush warmed his cheeks, making him look shy and uncertain. His hands hovered on my thighs, feather-soft on my skin. Too soft. I needed him so fucking badly. I wanted to feel his fingers digging into my hips as he pulled me roughly against him. To have him grab handfuls of my hair. Frantically explore every inch of me with his mouth.

I bent down and kissed his face, his chin, loving the coarseness of his stubble against my skin.

'Eve...' he breathed. 'I'm not sure...'

I caught his words with my mouth, feeling almost feral with want.

I was falling, tumbling, drowning, every time he said my name. I never thought I'd hear him say my name again, and here he was, whispering it, over and over. I wouldn't deny him anything now. Had it ever felt this damn good?

Slipping my hand between our bodies, I slid it downwards, over his chest, his stomach, my desire increasing as I heard his soft groans. I nuzzled into his neck again, licking at his skin, sucking gently on his throat as my hand moved between his thighs. His thick hardness stirred under my touch and my mouth watered at the thought of him inside me.

I couldn't wait any longer. Fuck, it had been too long already. Or had it been just yesterday? I didn't know anymore. All I knew was how much I wanted him and I had to do this. I had to.

My hand fumbled at the button on his jeans.

'Evie... wait...'

My lips moved over his throat.

'Wait...'

I found his zipper and tugged it down, my fingers creeping under the waistband of his pants.

Click-click-click.

It was coming from him. From his throat.

I froze.

His whole body stiffened underneath mine.

Drawing back slowly, I raised my head to stare into his wide, panic-filled eyes. Tom's lips trembled.

No. Not Tom.

Not fucking Tom.

With a cry, I scrambled off of him, horrified to the core. Half-crawling, I threw myself into the corner of the room. I had to get away from him. He was already up, reaching for me and I whimpered, feeling the nausea hit me swift and hard. What the fuck had I almost done?

'Evie... I'm sorry... I couldn't stop it. God, I'm so sorry... please...'

He shuffled towards me on his knees, arms outstretched, pleading.

I watched him get closer and closer. He was going to touch me.

'Don't fucking touch me!' I hissed.

'Please,' the Grey said again. 'It's okay, I swear it is. I'm in control. Evie, I'm in control.'

'Get out.'

I did feel feral now. Feral and furious and sick to the pit of my stomach. The wine kicked back viciously, churning up a hurricane inside me. A cyclone of hate and fear and shame. How could I ever have thought to betray Tom like this? A voracious pounding in my head made the room shake around me. I backed into the corner, wishing I could push myself into the walls to get away from him.

'It won't happen again, I promise,' he said.

His skin was stricken pale now, but I knew the truth. I knew what his skin really was underneath the face he had stolen.

Grey. Grey. Grey. Like death. Like ash. Like bone-dust blown away on the evening breeze.

'Get away from me, get out!'

I grabbed at the knife that was close-by, brandishing at him with a shaking hand.

He looked floored by it. Devastated.

Lies. Nothing but lies.

It was an act, nothing more. It had all just been one big, cruel act.

And I had fallen for it. Allowed myself to be sucked into the lie. That's how desperate I was. That's how pathetic I had become. But, not now. Not anymore.

'Don't do this, please Evie.'

'Get out,' I said again, and when he didn't move, I repeated it louder. 'Get out, get out, GET OUT!'

'Okay, okay,' he said, scrambling to his feet. 'I'm going, stop shouting, I'm going, alright? But please, I'm begging you, don't do anything stupid. I meant every word of what I said. You have to believe me. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'

The knife clattered to the floor. I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle the sobs that came bursting to the surface, as he backed away, grabbing for the door handle and easing his body out through the gap. As soon as he'd gone, I dragged myself across the room and wedged my back up against the door.

I hated him.

I did. I did.

And I hated that the room felt empty without him. It seemed colder now. Larger. Devoid of colour, like he'd leeched it from the walls when he'd left. I wanted the colour. I wanted Monet and oil paint and the gilded brushstrokes of the sun reflected on the sea. I wanted the scent of the morning dew on the grass. I wanted the taste of salt on my lips and I wanted starlight.

But, more than anything – more than all of that - I wanted him. I could feel it still, under my skin. That desire. That need for him. For the way he talked. The way he smelt. The way he looked at me. The way he'd touched me.

Wrapping my arms around my knees, I tugged them into my chest, pressed my face into my lap and finally gave in to the sobs that wracked my whole body with guilt and disgust and shame.

I wanted the Grey to come back.

I wanted Tom to come back and I despised myself for it.