Veronica took this as a sign to continue. “I met your mother yesterday,” she said, glancing up to his flat. “Is she in now?”

“I dunno,” said the boy. “Sometimes she’s not.”

“Oh, does she work?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. Still he didn’t make to go inside.

“Is your dad home? I haven’t met him yet.”

“He’s not my dad,” the boy declared, quickly, before, as though correcting his openness, shrugging again.

“What’s your name?” Veronica asked. She was watching him closely, the frail hunch of his skinny shoulders, the sharp darting of his eyes. He gave the impression of one of those meerkats you see in zoos – small and furry, but deeply alert, likely to bite.

“Dom. Dominic, but Dom.” The boy was finally looking at her, and now that he was, there was an unnerving focus to his stare. Though she was used to talking to children, Veronica felt an odd wariness.

“And how old are you, Dom?”

“Eleven. It’s my last year in primaries.”

“I teach in a primary school,” said Veronica. “What subject do you like?”

At this, Dominic returned his eyes to his door. Again, he shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Well I like English,” Veronica continued hastily. “I love books. Don’t tell my students, but I’m awful at maths.”

Dominic looked at her again, the focus still intense. “I won’t tell,” he assured her.

She smiled at him with exaggerated gratitude.

He didn’t move. His eyes held hers.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Dom.” Veronica said this with forced breeziness. Part of her wanted to keep talking, to keep the boy outside with her, to find out what was going on in that flat, to make sure the boy’s mum was alright, and the baby; but another part of her was suddenly compelled to get away. “I’ll see you later,” she said. “Please send your mum my best.”

She trod the single step up to her own door, and he nodded. Simultaneously, they turned their keys. From inside Dominic’s house came the sound of a TV blaring. From inside Veronica’s, the beeping of the alarm.

By the time George arrived home, Veronica had already made her signature Thai green curry – one of a handful of dishes that she had learned the recipe to, didn’t require too much cooking nous, and she produced in rotation; she had enjoyed a first bath in their new freestanding tub, the water thankfully dulling the leg itch; and she had texted Sarah. It was a carefully crafted text, offering three dates over the next two weeks for dinner, and alluding gently to their friendship of old. It had only lasted a short time, during their first year at secondary school, before the move to Oman and the start of her boarding, but it had been an intense affair, all endless love and drama, and Veronica often thought of that year as one of her happiest. Perhaps it was because she’d been living at home with her parents, or because she’d liked her school, or any number of other factors, but in her mind it had always been because of Sarah. Veronica conjured her as somebody who made her feel strong, stronger than she was, and over the years there had been more than one occasion when Sarah had sprung into Veronica’s mind: her sincerity and gravity; or the ease with which she’d argued with and adored her sister and parents; or the taste of her mother’s Bolognese. So it was a genuine joy for Veronica to see her again. There was something about it that lifted her. Strengthened her. It seemed serendipitous that she had reappeared at this particular juncture.