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went back to bed, and had a little think. I didn’t want to go back to sleep, didn’t want to reenter the nightmares that waited for me. And that’s when it hit me—the nightmare wasn’t in my head; it was here, in the real world, and of my own making. Four million pounds was more than I’d ever dreamed of having. It was incredible, tantalizing. But I couldn’t claim it. Whatever I did would be wrong.
    I mean, I wanted to come clean. That was the right thing to do—to admit my mistake, to tell Mr. Taylor that I wasn’t who Grace thought I was. But what if it meant I couldn’t claim the money? Grace’s beautiful house would go to the government, or developers, or something, and I’d probably get arrested for impersonation.
    But the alternative was…well, there wasn’t an alternative. Not unless I could come up with a certificate proving that I was married to Anthony Milton. If only I hadn’t told Grace I’d married Anthony. If only…Then I frowned. If I hadn’t told her I was married, perhaps she wouldn’t even have left the house to me. Didn’t she want a family in her house, not Helen and me rattling around and watching DVDs?
    My mind raced until early the next morning, which was why, as dawn broke over London that Monday, I got out of bed tentatively, heavy bags under my eyes, a despondent stoop to my shoulders; why I barely managed a good-bye to Helen as I slowly left our flat to go to work and mooched my way to the tube station; why I flinched every few seconds as thoughts and memories flooded my brain, of opportunities I’d had to correct my mistake, to tell Grace the truth, to avoid this living nightmare. Opportunities that I’d failed to take. Perhaps work would provide some solace, I found myself hoping as I approached the office. And then I rolled my eyes at my stupidity. Work meant Anthony Milton, a constant reminder of my stupid, stupid little fairy tale. Solace wasn’t going to be an option.
    Milton Advertising was situated in Clerkenwell, a part of London that had somehow morphed from a fairly dull area that was close to, but cheaper than, the city’s financial district into a not-so-dull area that was close to, but cheaper than, Hoxton, the center of New Cool in London. Under both guises the area was filled largely with city types and media people (pronounced meedja by those who worked in the field), but whereas before they walked around in pseudo Savile Row suits, they now walked around in pseudo punky-art-student garb, sporting hairstyles that were, in my humble opinion, best left to the twenty-something artist, and really rather ill advised for slightly overweight men in their thirties and forties.
    The company itself was situated in a squat two-story building nestled between two higher-rise blocks, making it look both defenseless and defiant at once. Inside, both floors were open-plan with a large sweeping staircase in the middle leading from the first floor to the second. On the ground floor were the private offices (Anthony Milton’s large one and Max’s smaller one), along with the “account” people (that was the account directors, who were responsible for managing and “nurturing” accounts—otherwise known as “persuading clients to give the firm more business”) and the account executives, of which I was one, who were responsible for doing all the work, meeting all the deadlines, running up and down the stairs to talk to the “creatives,” and getting blamed whenever anything went wrong. It wasn’t the best job in the world, but it had prospects—I could, Max told me at my interview, make account director within three years, if I worked hard enough, if I made an impression. I had no idea if I was making an impression or not—no one really seemed to have time to notice whether I was making one or not—but I certainly worked hard. Evenings, weekends, you name it. Account directors made serious money and had an expense account. The hard work was really a