“Are you asleep?”

George sat up. “Of course not. What the hell was that?”

Untangling herself from George’s legs, Veronica moved a little away from him, allowing them to avoid the confirmation that he had been faking sleep. The music was still blaring and the man continued to shout in accompaniment. Veronica turned on her bedside light and glanced at the clock: 3am. “I guess, that was the neighbours.”

“The neighbours doing what? Jesus, that sounded… I mean—”

“I know.”

George got out of bed and strode over to the adjoining wall, as if he would find evidence there of what had just occurred. “Do we call somebody? Is she hurt? Or is that just, I don’t know, is that what rough sex sounds like?”

For a moment, Veronica wondered if this was a dig at the current infrequency of their own sexual relations, or about the clinical, baby-optimising nature of them, but this wasn’t the moment for that argument. “I met her today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“She seemed quiet if anything. Not the type you’d expect to be, well, enjoying that.”

“What did she look like?”

“Very thin. Quite pretty but, I don’t know… bit… you know.”

George shook his head. “Of all the houses to be next to.” He nodded his head towards the wall. “Did you meet him?”

“No. But I heard a baby crying earlier.”

“A baby? Living with that?”

Next door, the song ended and another one swiftly began. The man continued to shout the words at the top of his voice. It sounded as though he was jumping too, or dancing, or using a bat to bang at the floorboards. George sat back down on the bed and put his head in his hands.

“A year looking for a place, three months planning, six months of work, all that money, and we’re next to this.”

Listening to him, Veronica felt a sudden wave of concern for her husband. It was rare to see George so defeated. He was the kind of man who controlled a room. If he had moments of despair or fear, even after all these years Veronica wasn’t immediately party to them. She tried not to reproach him for this, understanding well the importance of self-sufficiency. She may have been sent to boarding school at twelve, but he went at eight, the instructions of his father on parting – be a man – set hard and fast in his head. In any case, self-sufficiency was her hallmark too. She managed, despite change. She achieved, despite unreliability. If there was a problem, she fixed it. They were both fixers. Both good at ushering the world before them. Doubly powerful when their forces were combined. Until the doctor had told them that there was no heartbeat, and neither one of them could fix a thing.

“Do you think she’s okay?” said Veronica.

George looked up. “Maybe I should go round.”

“No, don’t.”

“She might be hurt.”

“What are you going to do? Demand to see her? Tell him we’ve just heard him pummelling his wife? You can’t do that, and I don’t want you squaring up to him.”