Had she not been wearing red, she may have felt entirely differently, but as she walked along the row of shops, the boldness that had inspired such wardrobe choice transformed into a sense of conspicuousness. On the other side of the street, she noticed a man in tracksuit bottoms and a bare chest. Veronica’s chic midi dress and pointy pumps felt highly out of place, and she became convinced that the people around her knew what she was about to do, knew she was about to snitch on the neighbours, one of their own. As soon as this thought entered her mind, she dismissed it reproachfully; there was nothing to say that these people were anything like her vile neighbour. Still, anxiety snaked beneath her strength. Gratefully spotting a café, she located herself on her maps app and sent it via text message to George.

The social housing officer was, Veronica guessed, about a decade older than they were. Everything about him was greyed around the edges, but he possessed that earnest, vital passion that some people have about them, even if worn slightly. People used to tell Veronica that she possessed such an energy, a charisma, but in her heart she knew all the time that hers was false and born only from two sources: Either, it was counterfeit confidence, pilfered from others. Or else it was the yet more shallow thing: the good fortune of having been born blonde and slim and curvaceous.

It was amazing what she had been able to accomplish with that one power, with the simple understanding of her formidable, reductive, hazardous sexuality. Of course, it would disappear one day. She’d looked at her mother and known this. But she had never imagined the reality – that it would hit her from behind like a truck, not from a gradual creep of age, but from the instantaneous vanishing of a very specific part of her womanhood, the ability to bear a child, the one thing that all that beauty and sensuality and flesh was there for. The thing that even a stupid, abusive man and his stupid, doormat wife could do without even trying.

Inviting them into a small meeting room, the officer opened a thin folder and consolingly asked them to sit. Between the café and this office, she and George had discussed the reaction the council might have to their complaint. They had done this in engaged, united tones, boosting Veronica’s optimism and recapturing a little of the day’s thrust for action. But it wasn’t simple. The issue was sensitive and threefold: first, the noise; then the hostility; and then the most delicate matter, which was the safety of Simone and the children. About the latter, after much, much discussion, they had decided to say only what they knew for sure. Focussing on the noise had to be the main issue, for them. Besides, George had pressed, they wouldn’t be able to live with themselves if they ignited a process that ended up removing children from their parents. Both he and Veronica knew what that was like.