There was only one thing worse than waking up to find a body on your less-than-a-month old settee and that was discovering the corpse was your own. Amanda Brinkley, 21 (yesterday), a receptionist and secretary at duPoint and Waterman sat on the edge of her matching arm chair in shock and disbelief.
She'd woken as normal, somewhat stiff from sleeping fully clothed on the sofa and limped to the bathroom. The limp was due to wearing one of her diamante pumps, the other having come off sometime during the night. She tried to kick it off but it seemed stuck and she just hadn't got the energy to struggle with a shoe.
Yawning over the sink, she rubbed her eyes and by degrees raised them to look into the mirror, fearful of what she might see after a night on the town, a curry, a snog and collapsing in the early hours into sweet oblivion on the sofa.
She didn't look a sight in the mirror at all. She wasn't there. She thought at first someone was playing a cruel joke and had replaced her mirror with a photograph printed in reverse (Sidney Coulter had done that in the bathroom at work; and had driven Mrs. Jenkins, the senior adjustor, half mad thinking she'd lost her reflection) but no, everything was exactly as it should be and if she stood next to the bath she could see the shower curtain move.
Returning to the living room she passed her treasured fine art print of Klimt's 'Jedith' and was startled to find someone had fiddled with that, too. It was grey. Monochrome, like an old photograph of her grandparents before they invented colour.
She looked around her flat. The kitchen was grey. The bathroom was grey. Her bedroom, or at least the part of it she could see though the open door, was grey.
In the living room, everything was grey; even the girl sleeping on her settee. A very familiar girl with hair that fell in a very expensive cut across her cheek. A girl with a very familiar face.