Tash stays the night and only makes approximately three hundred jokes about sharing a bed with me when I’m invisible. I’m so happy she’s here, though. If it’s possible, this whole thing would be even weirder and harder to deal with without her.

When I wake up, I have a few moments of normal stretching and wondering about the day before I remember – invisibility. And Max. But mostly invisibility.

I stick my arm out above the duvet, squinting into the bright light, but it’s not there. At least, I don’t think it’s there. I get out of bed and cross the room to stand in front of the mirror. Nope. Nothing. Still invisible. Shit.

I make a tea for Tash and put it on Max’s – no longer Max’s – bedside table. She’s got the duvet pulled almost entirely over her head; just a few hanks of her black hair are visible. I pull the duvet back a bit and whisper ‘Tea’ before heading back to the kitchen and my own tea.

Yesterday, when I was tidying, I made a pile of post on the kitchen countertop, but couldn’t be bothered to look at it. Now I sift through it, throwing out an advert for double-glazing, a note from the council about the recycling dates changing and a pizza menu. There’s only one actual letter and it’s to me, from my bank. Not my main bank, but one that I have an ISA with. My parents set it up for me ages ago when my gran died and I have a standing order paying a little money in each month. You can name the account yourself and I called mine ‘Adventure fund’, telling myself that once I hit, say, £10,000 I would take some out and go and have an amazing holiday, although Max never fancied any of the places I suggested. If it had been up to him, we’d have gone to Vegas. Luckily, it wasn’t up to him.

I slide the statement out of the envelope, unfold it and stare at the balance: £233. They’ve sent me the wrong statement. Except I already noticed that it said ‘Adventure fund’. Maybe they sent me the statement of a stranger who also happens to have an adventure fund? But at the top of the page is my name. My address. And an account number. I have no idea if it’s my account number, I don’t know it by heart. But this must be a mistake. Of course it is.

I turn the statement over to see the income and expenditure. And there I see my monthly payments going in. Every pay day. Automatically. And the £7500 I expected to see in there going out by bank transfer. I don’t recognise any of the details, but clearly I’ve been scammed. They have insurance for cases like this, though, don’t they? You don’t just have to suck it up, I know you don’t.

My heart is vibrating in my chest and I wonder whether I actually took £7500 out of my own account and then forgot, but I know I need to phone up and ask the question. But it’s Sunday. They’re probably not even open on Sunday. I turn the letter over. They are. I think about waking Tash up to come and hold my hand, but I am a grown adult woman with a job and a flat. I shouldn’t need my hand held to make a fucking phone call.

I dial, my hands shaking. Once I’m through the security questions, I tell the woman on the other end – Scottish accent, very calming – that someone’s taken £7500 out of my account.

‘Oh dear,’ she says sweetly. ‘Let me look into that for you.’

I can hear her keyboard clicking and every now and then the phone goes oddly silent and then I can hear the hubbub of the call centre again.

‘So,’ she says, eventually. ‘You authorised a transfer on the 14th February.’

‘I didn’t,’ I say, my cheeks heating.

She makes a humming noise. ‘What I can see on the system is that the transfer was authorised with your security details.’

‘But it wasn’t me.’ My chest feels like it’s being squeezed. Like I’m being sat on.

‘Does anyone else have access to your security information?’ she asks.

‘No,’ I say straight away, but I know that’s not true. The letter they sent me with the password and pin number is in my finances file, in the top of my wardrobe. Maybe it’s been stolen. I should’ve checked before I phoned.

‘Hmmm,’ the woman hums again.

‘Can you tell me who the transfer was made to?’ I ask her.

‘Yes, just a second.’

The line goes quiet again and then there’s a click and she says, ‘It was to the Halifax bank; the account is in the name M. Coleman.’

I feel like the table is tipping away from me. Or that I’m tipping towards it. I grab the edge of my chair and press my phone harder against my ear.

‘M. Coleman?’ I repeat. My voice sounds far away.

‘Do you have a pen? I can give you the account number.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No. I don’t have a pen.’

I can hear the woman talking as I place my phone down on the table and then put my head down onto my folded arms.

M. Coleman is Max.

Max took all my money.