Except now they had.

From the floor, Simone picks up Jasmine who has a mouthful of chocolate. “Come on. Let’s sort that nappy.”

Terry stays in the kitchen looking with partial interest at a documentary on TV he has saved, while Simone takes Jasmine off to the bedroom. Unlike their flat on the estate, there are three bedrooms here, so Jasmine has a room of her own. She hasn’t gotten used to it yet. She screams like hell at bedtime, but at least they can shut the door, and at least Terry’s paraphernalia is no longer scattered about a few inches from the cot. Even to herself, Simone calls these items Terry’s, but she’ll still have a hit sometimes. Jasmine laughs as Simone undoes her nappy. It should have been changed ages ago.

“You need to start going potty,” Simone tells Jasmine, poking her gently in the stomach.

Jasmine laughs again, but doesn’t say anything. Simone’s sure Dominic was talking more by age two. Jasmine used to babble a lot as a baby, but these days she’s usually either crying, or quiet.

“When are you gonna start answering Mummy?” Simone says, poking her again.

Jasmine still says nothing. Nappy changed, Simone lets her play with the box of plastic princesses in her room. The carpet’s old and worn, a dark beige colour that she can’t imagine was ever fashionable but hides the dirt. Simone sits on the edge of the windowsill. The room is small, but the whole house is festooned with sweeping great windows and high ceilings, so it feels airy. Luxurious even. The style is very much akin to the flat in Kentish Town where she grew up, and she finds herself spending time looking at it, although she is not so stupid as to entertain illusions of grandeur. She’s aware that the flat isn’t even theirs. They’ve only been in it a couple of months, and the lease still names Milly – one of Terry’s ex-girlfriends who moved down South with a new man. Simone has all sorts of questions as to why Milly felt so indebted to Terry as to gift him the key – not strictly allowed, but who was going to tell – but she has resisted asking. Because Milly’s flat is not in a tower block or a sprawling concrete rabbit warren. Instead, it occupies the top two floors of a white-fronted Victorian terrace a short walk from Regent’s Park and slap bang in the middle of exclusive Primrose Hill. It is one of a spattering of council properties on the street – easily discernible in their lack of fancy doorstep tiles – so the flat isn’t even Milly’s, really. And Simone knows that the geography she happens to find herself in doesn’t manifest itself under her skin. But it almost feels as though it does. Almost. Like the walls in the estate. For the first time in years, instead of feeling trapped in, she’s looking out.

An abrupt noise of something smashing suspends Simone’s brooding. It has come from the kitchen, and, “Clever place to put a bowl!” Terry shouts.