When he said he needed an alibi, she agreed to provide one.

When he turned on her in the street on the way to the courthouse, throwing her against the wall and pressing hard on her throat while he demanded she promise again that she would testify, she understood that he was scared, and vulnerable. And needed her.

After that, it seemed granted that he would see away boyfriends who weren’t good enough, and instruct her on how to better keep charge of her six-year-old son, and take over the benefit money, and sort things. It was repayment. Thanks. When he moved himself into her bed one evening, it seemed inevitable. And she was glad. Glad not to have to think for a bit, not to have to decide, glad somebody else was so sure. Glad that this man who was passionate and athletic and political, and also damaged and in need, had chosen her.

As they walk home, hot, sweaty, drunk, Terry slips his hand into the back of her trousers. His fingers play at the top of her bum. She loops her own arm around his waist. Dominic holds Jasmine’s shoulders. Every now and then he steers her away from the road, letting his sister carry his prized ball in front of her. Behind them, she and Terry sing. They are loud and people on the street look at them, an old lady even sticking her head out of her kitchen window to see. But Simone throws her head back. Let them look. None of them have this kind of passion. They prance around in their fancy yoga gear and drink their organic almond milk cappuccinos, but this is what they’re all reaching for really – this, what she has: a family, and freedom, and a man erotic and besotted enough to need to feel her bum on the street.

Simone sings louder.

People judge, but they don’t know.

Terry is intelligent. He sees their weaknesses.

He sees her. And he needs her.

Using a stick, he drums against neighbours’ railings. He does this the entire length of their street. Until, as they reach their door, Veronica cycles towards them.

Her hair is shiny and perfect, despite the heat and the bike. As she dismounts, she waves to Simone, and Simone sees her visibly looking, taking in Terry, waiting for an introduction perhaps, but Terry averts his eyes. He has turned towards the door and is hastily finding his key. Not caring? Not daring? Simone follows suit. She doesn’t look back, and the next instant, Dominic has Jasmine in his arms, and they are all inside, and Veronica is left, Simone supposes, still looking, while Simone and Terry begin again to sing.

Sarah

Sarah did not tell her counsellor about Veronica. It was only their third session. Besides, what would she tell? A feeling? A sense of trepidation? Perhaps if she could have predicted the way the summer would end, she’d have spilled out everything, but instead she spent that Thursday’s session talking about pressures at work, and concerns for her parents, and only when gently, and then not so gently, pushed, Eliza. She stopped in after that at her parents’, where she talked about the children, and their upcoming summer holiday, and then slipped off into Eliza’s old room. It wasn’t therefore until the over-ground journey back to West Hampstead, that she allowed herself to think about the dinner she’d been dreading, and was now only hours away. And how she would entice Veronica to add to her collection.