“Be careful!” she called after him, before moving to the window where she peeked out from behind the thick, double-lined curtain onto the street below.

Veronica’s heart pounded in her throat. It was unusual for her to feel so acutely on the cusp of danger, and despite the immediacy of it, she noticed her own distress with a strange, detached observation. There was a sepia sensation to it, as though she was in a movie-style bar brawl, or a thriller, the music low and suspenseful. Not that she really expected George to start anything physical. He was a strong, well-built man, gifted with both height and muscle, the kind of chaperone you might wish to walk you home on a dark night; but he wasn’t a fighter. George was far too sensible and pragmatic to either land himself in trouble with the law, or to endanger his, or her, safety. Still, they were yet to meet the man next door, and the irritation she’d felt with George minutes earlier dissolved into an urgent, consuming concern.

Veronica opened the window in an effort to hear the exchange below, and held her breath. The thought of George getting hurt seemed to constrict her lungs, and the longer she waited, the more she realised that it wasn’t actually like a bar brawl at all, because this fight was not in a beer-stained building somewhere, it was here, on their doorstep, where adversaries could not simply be thrown out and sent packing. Whatever the outcome, they would all have to live with it, each day, staring at each other as they left the house in the morning and as they came home at night. Why had George been so reckless? Down at the street, he had already rung the bell and somebody had come to the door. She prayed it was the woman. She could see George gesticulating up to their bedroom. She couldn’t make out his words with clarity, but thank goodness there was a conciliatory tone to his voice, and the exchange lasted only a minute. Before he turned away, George offered his hand, and somebody shook it. A few minutes later, he was back in the bedroom.

“Well?” she asked as soon as he entered, stifling a desire to throw her arms around him and squeeze him tight.

“He’s a pipsqueak,” he smiled, triumph on his tongue, the rage evaporated. “You could take him.”

Veronica smiled, lungs releasing. “What did he say? What did you say?”

“I just introduced myself, nicely, explained that the music was very loud, and asked if he could turn it down a little, and he said no problem, they’d just gotten used to living next to an empty house. Then we shook hands.”

“Wow. Okay,” said Veronica. “What a relief. Well done.”

It was a relief. A victory. A reason again for hope. Perhaps the man wasn’t as aggressive as he’d sounded. Perhaps the woman was fine. Perhaps their own clean slate wasn’t already dirty and tainted; though Veronica would not test this theory with further attempts at intimacy. George removed his tracksuit and t-shirt and climbed back into bed. He plugged his phone back in and rested it on his bedside table. Veronica switched off the lights. She pulled the covers over them. In unison, they lay down.