It was six p.m. now—almost breakfast time for her nocturnal tyrant. Emma’s flat had begun the various clicks and hums it always made as it warmed up and settled in for the night. It felt cold for mid-March, winter still clinging on, so she’d drawn her curtains and pulled on her pajamas extra early, even by her recent standards. She was tipping sunflower seeds into Gilbert’s bowl when a voice made her freeze. It was so clear and close that it seemed to be in the cupboard with her, as if Gilbert was acting as ventriloquist.

“Where are you?” it said.

Emma straightened where she knelt, bumping the sloped ceiling. She knew the well-spoken voice—knew it better, actually, than she knew its owner. It was her upstairs neighbor, Steph Harlow. She and her family owned the top two floors of the converted Georgian house, while Emma rented the little ground-floor space, squished in next to their shared hallway. There was a basement flat underneath, too, owned by a married couple, Chris and Vicky, but it had a separate entrance and Emma didn’t hear or see much of them. She was often acutely aware of the buzz of life from above, though: the Harlows’ footsteps and the flush of their toilet; the vibrant pitch of raised voices in the morning—FREYA, time to go, love!; MUM, where have you tidied literally all of my belongings to? And now Steph’s voice felt right on top of her, as if there was no partition between them. Maybe there was something about the way sound parachuted down the staircase between their two flats, into this cubbyhole.

“Why’s your phone off?” Steph said. “I’m getting worried, Freya. Call me as soon as you get this.”

Emma’s heart kicked in sympathy, recognizing the gut twist of not being able to contact someone. She pictured Steph with her phone clamped to her ear, head dipped so her highlighted hair fell across her face, other hand absentmindedly smoothing her dove-gray suit. For that was how Emma would sometimes come across her in the hallway of their building, absorbed in checking her mail or reading a text. Steph would spring out of her trance as soon as she noticed she wasn’t alone, finding a warm smile and a compliment for Emma’s latest combination of experimental hair/handmade earrings/pimped-up secondhand shoes. Something like I could never pull that off!

Emma would babble in response: You don’t need to! You’ve got the classic-elegance thing down to a tee!