Sunlight stretches across his face and he wakes again from the dream in which he's mute.

His naked body stirs, stretches, and images of his mouth forming futile words drift slowly to the back of his mind. He reaches for Samantha but feels a cold emptiness beside him, smells the faint trace of her body, her sweet perfume. In moments, the dream is the slight memory it always becomes, a void remembered, a truth forgotten.

Hearing her soft footsteps on the landing, he opens his eyes as Samantha walks into the bedroom, the post in one hand, a loose manuscript in the other. She's wearing the white dressing gown that he gave her last Christmas, the tie loose around her slender waist.

She smiles, shakes her head. He can tell that it's happened again, but he asks anyway, 'Was I talking in my sleep?'

She laughs, holds up her thumb and forefinger a centimetre apart. 'A little.'

Placing the manuscript on her bedside table, she switches on the radio and slides into bed beside him. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him on the lips, her skin soft against his stubble. Their tongues meet for a moment before he pulls away.

'What was I saying?'

'You always ask that,' she says, handing him an envelope, 'and I always say 'I don't know.' It's not talking, really, just mumbling.'

He nods, pushes her curly blonde hair behind her ears. 'Did I keep you awake?'

Samantha smiles, 'I'm used to it now. You're in another world when you're asleep, darling.'

The radio burbles in the background, a Saturday morning show about films, music, books. The chatter stops and a Joni Mitchell song begins.

Daniel looks down at the cream envelope in his hands, frowns on recognising the Broadoaks emblem of an oak tree. In an instant, he sees the uniform blazer he wore, the matching leather satchels his parents bought both he and Richard; he sees the dormitories, the headed report papers he took home every term. 'Daniel works hard,' teachers always wrote in scratchy handwriting, 'but he's a very quiet member of the class.'

Reading those accounts, he'd always wondered if, as at home, his performance and behaviour were being compared with Richard's; if every essay, story, poem were being judged against his brother's.

Back then, he'd wished to be an only child, a boy not sharing his own likeness, appearance, his mirror image. But back then, he hadn't known what was to happen, that in becoming one alone expectations would shift, identity would be lost.

He slides the letter from the envelope and reads it quickly, aware of Samantha beside him, her breathing slow and steady, her quick pen strokes on the paper in her hands.

When he's finished, he folds it neatly, once, twice, and places it back in the envelope.

'What was it?' Samantha asks.

'Just a letter from my old school.'

She frowns, puts the lid on her pen. 'But you're not in the alumni, are you?'

'I think it was just a circular.' He clears his throat and pulls back the duvet. 'Do you still want to go to the Tate Modern this afternoon?'

Feeling his wife's hand on his arm, he turns and their eyes meet.

She cocks her head to one side. 'What's wrong?'

He glances away, shrugs, 'Nothing, why? I've got stuff to do. It's Saturday, isn't it? I've got tennis with Tom.'

'Something has upset you.'

'It's nothing.'

'After fourteen years, Daniel, I think I know when you're upset.' She picks up the letter from the school. 'Is it this?'

He watches her read the letter and wonders what the words mean to a stranger.

She looks at him. 'Is this the teacher that got you into Pinter?'

'Yes.'

'When did you see him last?'

'A couple of years ago. Two, three maybe. He was in Finsbury Park with his wife.'

'Did you know he was ill?'

'I had no idea.'

'Will you go to the funeral?'

He shakes his head. 'It's mainly going to be family, isn't it?'

'But they sent you this.'

'They'll have sent it to everyone.'

There's a silence in the room. The sound of traffic outside washes in through the open window, the curtains wave in the breeze.

'I think you should go,' Samantha says. 'Pay your last respects. You'll regret it if you don't, I know what you're like. Besides, you might see some of the people you went to school with.'

He flinches, steps out of bed and pulls on a pair of jogging bottoms. 'Shall we meet at the Tate Modern at about three? I'll probably be going for lunch with Tom after the game.'

'I don't understand why you're not interested in seeing people from your past,' Samantha picks up the manuscript again, but her eyes flick back up on Daniel. 'I had a great time when I went to that reunion. Aren't you in the least bit curious about what happened to people?'

'Not really,' he says, looking at his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe door, 'people change. That's life, isn't it?'