They had looked for a long time to find exactly this blend of urban interest and suburban calm. A plethora of estate agents had held their hands through Chelsea, Mayfair, Islington, Marylebone, but the moment they crested the eponymous hill, they were sold on Primrose. A tiny collection of roads and crescents and pretty squares, the area was like a country village supplanted into the city, except that every café and shop had shed its parochialism and was absolutely chic. Each house was painted a different shade of pastel, and blue plaques dotted the frontages in abundance, denoting which world-famous writer, poet, diplomat or explorer once occupied the honoured abode. People greeted each other in the streets, shopkeepers knew their customers by name, and as she and George had strolled smug through the sweet squares that converged onto beautifully kept communal spaces, they had both agreed that their discovery of this place was nothing short of fate. Because together, they got it. They were Primrose Hillbillies already.

George sighed deeply. Veronica turned over and tentatively stroked his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. He smelled clean, freshly showered. He didn’t move. Perhaps he was already asleep after all, immersed in the soft folds of tranquillity. Moving closer to him, Veronica dared to wrap her body around his. As usual he was many degrees hotter than she was and she tucked her feet between his legs, noticing as she did so that the tops of her thighs had begun to itch again. Two different doctors were yet to diagnose why, but over the past few months she had developed this low-level creeping beneath her skin. Sometimes she barely noticed it, but other times it irritated like a mosquito bite stretched wide across her thighs, and then it took all of her will power to stop herself from scratching her skin to shreds. Veronica attempted to endure the itch now, so as not to bother George, but after many minutes she couldn’t resist one quick rub. Still George remained motionless, his breath steady. Until all at once, they both stiffened.

From next door had come the abrupt sound of something thumping. Or rather, of someone being thumped. There was a distinct yelp, almost like a dog crying, but clearly not a dog, a woman, and then something unintelligible in a deeper tone. Another thud hit their adjoining wall, and instinctively, Veronica froze. Despite the extra soundproofing, it seemed as though the people were right inside hers and George’s bedroom, and as the woman next door moaned again, Veronica found herself physically recoiling. There began a series of moans, and a rhythmic pounding against the wall, then a shrill, penetrating wail, as though somebody, the woman, was gasping for breath, or pleading for something, and then that wailing sound was muffled. For at least five minutes this went on, while Veronica and George lay intertwined, unmoving. At last it stopped, but then, almost immediately, it was replaced by the blaring of 90s dance music and the unpalatable tones of a man singing along. It was another full three minutes before finally, Veronica whispered to George in the dark.