It was expected, a while after that, that since she was now dating a sixth-former, she laugh along with their banter, parry it, raise the stakes. And she did.

It was expected that being the recipient of such attention was an honour, a coveted thing. And it was.

It was expected that she knew exactly what she was doing with her body and her smiles and her provocations. And it was true, kind of.

It was expected that popular, beautiful, clever, admired, she had the whole world in her hands. At her feet. And she did.

By the time she was entertained by her father’s friend in Oman, so much was expected.

It was expected too, she supposed, that she remain cowering on the sofa. And at first she had. Gradually, thuds had turned to slow, tired thumps, like a cat playing with a dead mouse, then eventually they had stopped altogether, and still Veronica had not moved from her spot behind the shutters. But perhaps it had been one thud too many, knocking the fear clean out of her. Or perhaps the confession of that fear, if only to herself, had restored an element of control. Or perhaps it was the action of the day, or the glimmer of reconnection with George, or Dr Shirazi’s bizarre suggestion of naming Rosie, or a final infuriation with doing nothing, but suddenly, Veronica stood up from the soft folds of her seat, and opened the shutters, and then the blinds, and then the window, and then her laptop.

George arrived home three hours later. She revealed nothing to him until after their takeaway had arrived – the usual assortment of sushi from the place on the high street that didn’t do spring rolls but made up for it with a broth-based soup that was the cottage-pie-comfort-food of their generation. And between slurps, she told George everything.

“We’re reporting it,” he said immediately.

“I already have.”

“Oh.” He paused, surprised. “Good. We may get him in trouble you know?”

“He should be in trouble.”

“Precisely.”

George squinted at Veronica slightly.

“We can’t just allow this idiot to harass us,” she explained plainly. “Or his family. He’s a psychopath. There’s just no knowing. I don’t feel comfortable being home alone. And that’s not okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he agreed, smiling tentatively. “Are you okay?”

Veronica put down her bowl of soup in order to answer, as though the weight of what she was about to impart needed both hands to carry it. “I was utterly terrified,” she confessed. “But I can’t let fear control me anymore. I just can’t. It’s too tiring.” And before George could answer, she pressed on. “We will manage to have a baby you know. I went to the doctor today and got tested. And I’ve just booked you an appointment to be tested too. If we need help, we’ll get help. If it turns out it’s impossible, we’ll consider other ways. If things are fine, we need to bloody well stop worrying about it, and stop hiding our worry from each other, and stop being so bloody afraid.”