He hasn’t followed me.

So I’m taking the stairs up to my flat as quickly as I can, because now that I’m home, I desperately want to know if Marilyn is back for another visit. From the pervading smell of Chanel No. 5, I’m thinking she has to be …

… but as I open my front door, I can see, straight away, that Marilyn isn’t here.

Nor, I’m alarmed to notice, are my TV, my coffee table or my Chesterfield sofa.

It would have to be an extremely strong and equally determined burglar – or, more to the point, two or three of them – to have got the Chesterfield out of my flat in the first place.

Or …

… is that the sound of my TV that I can hear coming through the partition door?

I should explain: this minuscule flat started out life as a slightly larger flat, until my landlord Bogdan (Senior) decided, a couple of days before I moved in, to put up a plasterboard wall and turn the slightly larger flat into two minuscule ones instead, to double his opportunities for rent. But the flat is so very small, and the amount he insists on asking for the rental of it so very large, that nobody has yet expressed the slightest interest in coming to live there. These days, hoping against hope that Bogdan Senior never bothers to drop round to check the place out, I quite often use it as a sort of unofficial work studio, because the light is better in there than in my flat, and because there’s no furniture in it to take up space that I can use to spread all my bits and bobs out in.

Oh, and it’s no longer a plasterboard wall dividing the two flats, but a flimsy wooden door. Because Bogdan Junior took it upon himself, one day last year, to smash his way through the plasterboard with a sledgehammer. I honestly can’t remember why: I think it was some peculiar attempt to stand up to his father. But eventually he did pop round to make good the hole in the wall, and decided it would be ‘more stylish, Libby, less Soviet-era utilitarianism’ to replace the hole with a door instead of a wall.

Either way, wall or door, there’s the sound of a television blaring out, loudly, from behind it.

I’m pretty sure I know what – or rather, who – else is on the other side of that door with it.

‘Marilyn,’ I say, a moment later, as I open the door.

She’s sprawled on the Chesterfield, this time mink-less but wearing a fluffy white bathrobe and a turban-style towel on her head, and she’s gazing at my TV.

‘Hi!’ Marilyn turns her head as she hears me come in: beneath the towelling turban, she’s still fully made-up and as glowing as ever. There’s a cocktail shaker and an empty glass perched precariously on the coffee table, and she’s holding, in one perfectly manicured hand, a glass of her own, filled with noxious-looking amber-coloured liquid. ‘You’re just in time, honey! There’s going to be a wedding!’

I glance at the TV screen in front of her. Kim Kardashian is trying on a huge white wedding dress, while all around her a selection of Kardashian sisters weeps, photogenically.

‘You’re watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians?’

‘I sure am, and you gotta sit down and watch it with me on this amazing television set! Did you notice, honey, that the picture’s in colour?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Incredible.’ Barely tearing her eyes off the screen for even a moment, she leans over to the coffee table, picks up the cocktail shaker, pours it into the empty glass and hands it to me. ‘Have some ice tea,’ she adds, ‘and tell me what you think of the guy who plays the fiancé. I think he’s kinda cute, but I think the writers made a mistake when they picked out a job for him to do. I mean, wrapping gifts in a department store? I don’t think it’ll make for a very exciting storyline. Couldn’t they have made him, like, an African prince, or something?’

I’ve absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. Until there’s a fleeting glimpse of Kanye West on the screen, and I remember that he’s a rapper, and instantly see where the confusion is coming from.

‘And isn’t it amazing, honey, how they managed to find so many actresses that looked so similar, to play the sisters?’ Marilyn takes a sip of her iced tea. ‘They coulda done a better job with the one playing Khloe, though.’

‘No, no, Marilyn, they’re not actresses.’

‘Well, they’re sure not very good actresses … I mean, don’t get me wrong, honey, it’s absolutely gripping, but I’ve seen better acting from a barn door!’

‘No, I mean, they’re not actresses in any way, shape or form. They’re real people. It’s a show about their lives.’ I sink down on to the sofa with my iced tea. ‘So, er, when – no, how, more to the point – did you manage to move my stuff through?’

‘While you were out, of course. I mean, I’d no idea, when I first got here, that there were two rooms in this apartment! It’s gonna be nice for us not to be living so much on top of each other, isn’t it? But honey, I don’t understand what you just said.’ She gestures with her glass at the TV screen, where the closing credits are showing. ‘This isn’t a serial? It’s … a documentary?’

‘It’s reality TV, that’s all.’

‘What TV?’

‘Reality. They’re a real family. Well, real-ish. They actually are all sisters, and the bride really is getting married … But Marilyn, you still haven’t told me how you got the sofa in here.’

‘Oh, this incredibly sweet homo helped me with it. At least, I think he was a homo, because when he showed up, I accidentally answered the door in my birthday suit, and he couldn’t have been less interested in, well, any of that. All he wanted to talk about was my hair.’

I stare at her. ‘You answered the door to … a gay man? Who wanted to talk about your hair?’

‘Oh, Lord, no, honey, he really wasn’t all that gay! I mean, he was sweet, and all that, but he was sort of gloomy, to be honest with you. But I guess Russians are often like that, right? Or he coulda been one of those Bulgarians, or a Polack, or—’

‘Moldovan.’

Because it was Bogdan who helped her move the Chesterfield, wasn’t it?

Magical Marilyn has met Bogdan.

And, more to the point, Bogdan has met her.

‘Ooooh, another episode!’ Marilyn suddenly shrieks with excitement as Keeping Up with the Kardashians starts up again on the TV screen. ‘I just can’t believe this is real, honey. I mean, isn’t that a clever idea? To just film people going about their everyday lives, and all?’

I’m not paying much attention; I pull out my phone and go, hastily, to my messages.

OK, so Bogdan hasn’t sent a message. There are no missed calls from him, no voicemails asking why a naked girl looking exactly like Marilyn Monroe – and, I presume, calling herself Marilyn Monroe – invited him into the flat this afternoon to help her move my sofa.

‘Did you tell him who you were?’ I ask, taking a sip from my iced-tea glass to steady my nerves, and then promptly spitting it straight back into the glass again. It’s just as revolting as the Manhattans she made yesterday. ‘Jesus! What’s in that?’

‘Just a splash or two of vodka, honey.’ Marilyn gives me a little wink, steadying her turban for a moment as she does so. ‘Iced tea is awful dull otherwise, don’t you think? And I told him my name was Marilyn, if that’s what you’re asking. Hey, what’s that you’re holding?’

‘My phone.’

‘Gee, you Canadians sure have funny-looking phones!’

‘It’s a mobile phone. It means I can take calls when I’m out.’ I shove my phone back into the pocket of my hoodie. ‘Well, I suppose I’ll just have to ask him about it the next time I see him,’ I mutter. ‘Maybe he thought you were a lookalike, or something.’

After all, it’s what I thought when I first met Audrey.

And it is – just – possible that Bogdan was so interested in Marilyn’s hair that he didn’t think twice about who she might really be.

‘Now,’ says Marilyn, ‘can we stop talking about the gloomy homo for a moment?’

‘Marilyn, just while we’re at it, you really can’t say—’

‘And you can tell me, honey –’ she turns her attention back to the TV screen – ‘how I can get myself on to a show like this one.’

‘You … want to go on Keeping Up with the Kardashians?’

Her eyes widen. ‘Oh! Do you think they’d have me?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘No, no, honey, it’s a great idea! I just need to know how I go about it. You say this is their real lives, right? So, would I have to meet them somehow? Make friends with them? Because I think I could get along real well with Khloe. I’m not too sure if Kim would like me all that much, though—’

I’m distracted, momentarily, by a ping from my phone in my pocket.

It’s Mum.

JUST HAD CALL FROM DAVE RE CASS’S INCARCERATION IN MENTAL INSTITUTION.

Oh, God. I know what’s coming next.

DID YOU NOT THINK IT REMOTELY IMPORTANT TO TELL ME, LIBBY??????!!!!!!

I begin to type a reply when a third message appears.

COMING HOME TOMORROW. MEET ME 4.45 PADDINGTON STATION.

‘… and the mother seems a little scary.’

‘She’s not scary. She’s just a massive pain in the backside,’ I say, before realizing that Marilyn is still staring at the screen, and that she’s talking about the Kardashians’ mother, and not my own. ‘But, Marilyn, trust me: you have bigger and better things in your future than trying to get a guest spot on a reality TV show. I mean, I know I put it badly when we talked about it the other day, but you mustn’t get it into your head that you’re not talented enough to become a huge movie star. One of the biggest the world has ever seen, in fact.’

‘Gee, honey.’ This gets Marilyn’s attention off the TV. So much so, in fact, that she actually picks up the remote control and deftly switches it off. She stares at me now, instead of Kim, Kourtney and Khloe. ‘You really believe in me, don’t you?’

‘Yes. I do.’

‘Well, that’s just about the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.’

Her wide-eyed gaze, not unlike the way Fritz looked at me right after I handed him a morsel of pâté, is actually making me a little bit uncomfortable. ‘I’m only telling you because it’s a fact.’

‘You’re swell, honey,’ she goes on, ‘did anyone ever tell you that?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I say, awkwardly.

‘But you are. And you know, while we’re on the subject of believing in yourself, maybe you should try it, too.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m fine.’

By which all I’m trying to say is that I’m not plagued by the sort of crippling self-doubt that afflicted Marilyn Monroe.

‘I mean,’ I go on, without quite meaning to, ‘obviously I do have the occasional wobble on the whole self-belief front. Mostly down to the fact that no matter what I do, I can’t seem to stop being a human digestive—’

‘Huh?’

‘Oh, you might call it a graham cracker, I suppose? I mean the really boring, pointless biscuits that everybody overlooks on their way to grabbing the more exciting, chocolately, delicious ones.’

‘You’re saying you feel like the cookie nobody wants?’

‘Yes!’ I stare at her. ‘You get it.’

‘Well, of course I get it, honey. I spent my entire life being the graham cracker. Mousy little Norma Jeane, with her no-good family and her no-hope future. She got overlooked by everybody, all the time. But then … well, I don’t know what happened.’ Marilyn shrugs. ‘I guess my figure got a little more womanly, and the boys seemed to like that … say, is it a boy you’re talking about?’ she adds, suddenly. ‘The one who thinks you’re a graham cracker?’

‘Amongst others.’ I take another gulp of vodka-laced iced tea. ‘His name’s Dillon.’

‘And he doesn’t know you exist?’

‘No, that’s not quite it. He knows I exist; he just knows a lot of other women exist as well.’

‘Oh, honey, I can help you with that!’ she gasps. ‘Men always seem to notice me in a crowd of other girls!’ She tilts her turbaned head slightly. ‘Though, you know, I never stopped to think exactly why …’

This is so surprisingly sweet and naïve of her that I forget to feel miserable about Dillon for a second.

‘… but maybe I could think about it right now and see if there’s anything I do that you could do, too!’ She beams at me. ‘Passing on tips, kind of like we’re sisters!’

‘That’s really, really nice of you, Marilyn, but I don’t think there’s anything you do that I could do. I mean, for starters, I don’t have your figure.’

‘Oh, just stuff your bra with pantyhose, honey.’ Marilyn waves a dismissive hand. ‘Even I do that. It never hurts to enhance what Mother Nature gave you! And you know the other thing you could do right away? Lose the black pants.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with the black pants!’ I say, defensively. ‘I used to wear nothing, absolutely nothing, for Dillon, except a cheeky smile and a pair of high heels. It still didn’t stop him ditching me for a Norwegian lingerie model the moment he met one, and forgetting I even existed.’

‘Oh, honey, that’s—’

‘Sorry, Finnish.’

‘Well, I would have, honey, but you just interrupted me.’

‘No, I meant the model was Finnish. From Finland.’

‘Oh, I get it,’ says Marilyn, in the sort of voice that implies she doesn’t get it at all, before she goes on, ‘Ooooh, and maybe you oughta think about lightening your hair. My modelling agency nagged at me to do it for ages and ages and ages, and then when I finally did …’ She snaps her fingers together. ‘Bam! It was like I was suddenly walking around with my own little spotlight above me.’

‘I don’t know. I’m quite happy with brown hair, really.’

‘And another thing! You should start wearing makeup.’

‘I do wear makeup!’

‘Then wear a lot more makeup. And wear a lot tighter clothes. A whole size smaller,’ she goes on; ‘at least, that’s what I always do. Nothing a man likes more than looking at a woman who seems as if she might fall out of her clothes any minute! Now, if you wore a nice pencil skirt, a low-cut blouse, a little belt to cinch your waist in, some cute peep-toe heels …

‘Marilyn … er, look, I’m grateful for the advice – really grateful – but it all just seems a bit … surface.’

‘Well, of course it is, honey.’ She reaches out a hand and touches me, lightly, on my shoulder for a moment. ‘You seem like a real sweet person on the inside. It’s just your outside that could do with a little work.’

I take this in the spirit in which I’m sure it was intended.

And I don’t say – because she’s been so enthusiastic about all this that I don’t want to bring her down – that, actually, sweet person or not, I’m pretty sure my inside could do with a little work, too. After all, even if blonde hair and tight clothes worked like a charm with Dillon, they wouldn’t have the slightest impact on the other significant people in my life to whom I’m usually an afterthought: my family.

‘Oh, and I just thought of one more thing I do!’

‘You shave down the heel on one of your shoes?’ I ask.

She blinks at me. ‘Why on God’s green earth would I do that, honey?’

‘I thought I read, once, that it was something you … er, I mean, that people do, to give them a sexy wiggle when they walk.’

‘That would give you a sexy wiggle when you walk?’ She frowns. ‘Wouldn’t it just put you in the hospital with acute lumbago?’

‘Probably. Look, I don’t know, OK … It was just a thought.’

‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, honey, I’m not saying I won’t try it! But that isn’t what I was about to say.’ Marilyn reaches down into the pocket of her dressing gown and pulls out a little vial of perfume. ‘Chanel Number Five,’ she breathes, holding it up as if it’s some sort of elixir of life. ‘I’m telling you, honey, no man I’ve ever met has been able to resist it. You know, one time, I told this guy it was all I wore in bed … and whaddya know,’ her eyes widen, ‘the next thing, he’s buying me that beautiful mink!’ She takes the lid off the vial, picks up my hand and spritzes a cloud of Chanel No. 5 on to my wrist. ‘Isn’t that good? Doesn’t it make you feel prettier, just wearing that alone?’

‘It does,’ I assure her, because she seems so excited. ‘And I appreciate all the suggestions, Marilyn, I really do.’

‘Oh, honey, I’m happy to help! And trust me, if you do all that stuff, this beau of yours will only have eyes for you! You’ll be his snickerdoodle.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Instead of his graham cracker … oh, maybe you don’t get snickerdoodles in Canada … they’re these little sugar cookies, honey, rolled in cinnamon. One of my foster mothers used to bake the most delicious snickerdoodles I ever tasted – warm from the oven, crisp on the outside and melting on the inside.’

‘Ah. Right. Got it. But remember, I’m not from—’

‘Good!’ She lets go of my hand, reaches for the remote control, and – rather niftily, for a woman who’s just here on loan from the early 1950s – gets the TV started again. ‘Now, let’s get on with the really important stuff, honey, and carry on with this … what did you just call it? Say Hello to the Keshishians?’

‘Keeping Up with the Kardashians.’

‘Isn’t that what I said? Anyway, it’s the big wedding coming up in this episode, and I can’t wait to see whether the brother turns up or not!’

So we settle in for a night of vodka-laced iced tea and Armenian-American high drama.

Which, I suppose, is as good a way to spend an evening with Marilyn Monroe as any.

And, if nothing else, it might stop me thinking about Dillon.