THROUGH A LONG AND SLEEPLESS NIGHT By Nicki Benson This is an experimental piece, based in part on the song written by Neil Hannon and performed by The Divine Comedy on their 1995 album Casanova. Readers uncomfortable with the idea of identity death are advised to consult any comments the story may receive before proceeding further.

The night is warm and sultry. My skin is slick with perspiration. I close my eyes, but I know that sleep will not come.

Defeated, I reach for the bedside lamp. Its muted glow illuminates a carpet strewn with the detritus of a working day: a shirt, a pair of socks, a newspaper, an empty beer bottle, the remains of a Chinese takeaway. I begin clearing up, knowing that this time tomorrow only the details will have changed.

I crouch by the rows of CDs occupying the bottom three shelves of the bookcase. There is nothing I want to listen to. I think about reading, or watching a movie; the little enthusiam I can summon surrenders swiftly to ennui.

I reluctantly turn on my computer. The desktop icons flicker, then settle. I opt to take another look at the novel I started before the demands of project managers and team leaders sequestered so much of my mental capacity. The protagonist is a young woman, intelligent, idealistic and independent. Sophie makes a modest yet comfortable living as a freelance writer, contributing to a wide range of left-leaning magazines and journals. One day she learns that her father is deeply in debt. Her savings will help him, but not enough. At the same time she hears that the local Tory MP, a charismatic figure and a rising star, needs a new personal assistant…

I sigh at the inadequacies of the plot, its islands of cliché surrounded by a sea of implausibility. I frown at the characterless rural idyll I created as a setting. I shake my head at the stilted dialogue and lifeless prose. The story’s one saving grace is Sophie herself, who I feel sure has the potential to become an interesting, fully-rounded character. I suppress a self-satisfied grin as I recall the technique I used to develop the empathy that pervades every scene in which she appears.

My fingers hover above the keyboard. Once again I imagine them to be hers. They’re shorter and daintier than mine, and dusted with pale freckles. I put them to work on an extract from an article she might have written, concentrating on the text so that I can quickly forget how different my hands now look.

The first paragraph is complete. I picture Sophie’s wrists and forearms at the periphery of my vision. Her watch has such a thin strap and so tiny a face that for a moment it startles me, much more so than the smoothness of the skin around it or the graceful contours below my elbows.

I come to a more difficult passage. I stand and move about, gradually easing this room from my mind and replacing it with Sophie’s study. I paint in the reference books, the recently opened ream of A4 paper, the occasional table where she keeps smaller items of stationery, the potted plant on the window ledge, the photograph of her parents and the framed copy of her honours degree. I add a wall mirror, where I can paste Sophie’s features onto my own and fringe them with her bobbed carrot-coloured hair.

I return to my chair, pausing before I sit to admire the way my thighs fill my jeans. The curves stretching out the material of my T-shirt are impressive too. But I don’t dwell on them. Sophie wouldn’t.

The excerpt finished, I resume the narrative. I’m presenting it in the first person, speaking in a voice I recognise as belonging to me and only to me. The words pour from me because I mean every single one of them.

Events move rapidly. The interview will be held two days from now in London. Sophie is e-mailing her friend Tess. She fears that by taking this job she’ll be betraying her principles. The message sent, I get up to make coffee. A post-it note on the work surface next to the sink reminds me that I’m having my hair done tomorrow at Sal’s.

Before long I’m putting things down at so furious a pace that my conscious mind struggles to keep up. At one point I notice that I’ve acquired a smart dark green jacket and matching skirt. At another I narrow my eyes at the crimson lacquer covering my nails. Then I remember that I’m PA to Oliver Temple, tipped by many to be in the Cabinet after the next reshuffle. I meet important people every day, and I have standards to maintain.

I compose one final piece for a left-wing website, but refrain from posting it. Although I’m writing under a pseudonym, I can’t risk the harm it might do to my boyfriend’s career — or indeed my own — were my real identity to be discovered. I shut down my laptop just as Oliver appears at the door.

“Are you all set?” he asks me.

“Give me a moment, darling.”

“Okay, but we don’t want to be late. You know what my parents are like. It’s going to be hard enough explaining that we’re living together.”

I get to my feet, plucking a tiny wisp of loose cotton from the front of my floral summer dress. Once I’ve returned the laptop to its case, then checked my hair and make-up, I’m ready to say farewell to the study I’ll always think of with such fondness.

“That’s strange…” I murmur.

“What is?”

“I could have sworn I just saw a dirty sock on the floor. Over where the little table was.”

“Well it’s gone now,” Oliver laughs. “Hey, maybe it was a spider!”

“Don’t be horrid,” I pout.

He takes me in his arms. The ensuing kiss threatens to ruin my lipstick, but it more than makes up for his teasing.

And when I think about it, he was right to make fun of me. I’m always imagining things that aren’t there.