Simone accepts another joint and slides her hand beneath Terry’s t-shirt. He squeezes her round the waist, and she listens as he regales the room with another story that lifts them high into the night.

Veronica

It slipped like loose thread. Time. Memory. The blurred edges of reality. Veronica had been sat at the table for over an hour, twenty accounts of favourite hobbies spread out before her, not one read or corrected. From the house next door, music was pumping even beyond the usual decibel, and voices were raised – Terry’s in its loutish tenor discernible amongst the multitude. Thank goodness the crying of the baby had stopped. Toddler, she should say, not baby. When she’d finally seen them all together on the street, Veronica had been surprised by how old the child had turned out to be. She hadn’t considered that a little girl who could most likely talk and move and climb from her crib, would have cause to cry for so long nor so loud. But she did, often, and every sob that seeped through the walls continued to feel like the universe mocking Veronica, reminding her that this disgusting couple had easily, flippantly, manifested the very thing she hadn’t, and couldn’t. Same as Sarah. Sometimes Veronica longed to break through those walls and scoop the child up, and then run with her as far away as she could manage. She didn’t know what would come after that though. It was only this one moment about which she fantasised.

She poured herself another glass of red wine. George was in bed. With earplugs. He’d arrived home just after ten and headed straight up, but Veronica had mumbled excuses about marking and lesson plans, not mentioning Sarah’s surprise, unnerving visit, and remained at the table with her papers and her wine and a new level of relentless itching. It had been three days since she’d told George there was no baby, three days since she’d slept more than an hour at a time, and the dark wakefulness of the bedroom loomed terrifying. All weekend George had tight-roped between apology and cheerfulness, an impossible attempt, she realised, to sympathise with her disappointment, yet not seem too disappointed himself. In return, she accepted sushi and alcohol, and hated him. Hated him for saying nothing, for pretending that the hole inside her and the canyon between them didn’t exist.

Like the baby that wasn’t.

The celebration that wasn’t.

The future that wasn’t.

The marriage that wasn’t.

The friendship that was, once, but no more.

The girl, herself, dancing with eternal pre-teen verve, just beyond articulation.

She could barely remember that girl. Not really. All she could recall was that during those last days at Sarah’s house, she had felt powerful. Is that what they had argued about? She had remembered recently that there was something, something that had caused a rift between them, though she was sure they’d parted happily in the end. After all, that summer was her calm time. Her content time.