She was not the woman he fell for. A long time ago, at their wedding, he had described her as indomitable.
But she had never before desired and failed. Not openly. She had desired and pretended otherwise. She had feigned contentment with things fleeting, and steered her course away from the solidity she could not have. Only now they had said it to each other, out loud: they wanted a baby. And in voicing it, as though to mock her flat stomach, the longing inside her had swollen. It had made her yearn with a deepness that churned her chest to pieces and ruffled her exterior. She felt anxious where she was once fearless. She felt weak where she should be bold. She felt needy where she had been so independent. Because for a baby, she needed George. And in needing him, she had become repulsive.
George was not asleep. They had put down their Kindles and switched off the lights, delighting in the feat of the integrated lighting system working exactly as they had planned it, and now they were lying in darkness. Both were aware that this moment was an overt First that ought to be marked with a christening – their first night in their new bed in their new home. But he was facing the wall away from her. And she was doing likewise. Besides, it was still at least four days until she would be ovulating. Veronica allowed the darkness to sink through her, heavy and enveloping. There was a sliver of light creeping through the very edges of the curtain from the lampposts outside, and every now and then there was a clip-clopping of heels, or a slow car pulling respectfully to park, but otherwise the carefully crafted tranquillity of the room was undisturbed.
Despite the acres of fields that had surrounded her boarding house, it was never as quiet as this. Aged twelve, she’d arrived late – during the autumn term of the second year when everybody else had begun a full three terms earlier. The decision had not been hers. Due to the demands of her father’s job, her parents were relocating to Oman, and her options, if they could be described as such, were to attend the international school there, which itself was weekly boarding, or to board full-time in the UK. She chose the latter, though even as she was doing so she was aware that it was not really from want. Mainly, it was because of her parents’ indifference to the outcome, an indifference that drove her to the much further afield, screw-you-if-that’s-how-little-you-care option, and passed unnoticed.
At night, four to a dorm, she would listen to the sounds of pattering footsteps transgressing between rooms, the bell from the great clock three floors below them, the clattering about in the kitchens an hour before they had to rise, the owls, the crickets, the rumbling of distant trains, and the constant flushing of toilets. Compared to this, rowdy university halls had been nothing. City living had been a doddle. And now, the gentle noises of their new abode were positively serene.
They had looked for a long time to find exactly this blend of urban interest and suburban calm. A plethora of estate agents had held their hands through Chelsea, Mayfair, Islington, Marylebone, but the moment they crested the eponymous hill, they were sold on Primrose. A tiny collection of roads and crescents and pretty squares, the area was like a country village supplanted into the city, except that every café and shop had shed its parochialism and was absolutely chic. Each house was painted a different shade of pastel, and blue plaques dotted the frontages in abundance, denoting which world-famous writer, poet, diplomat or explorer once occupied the honoured abode. People greeted each other in the streets, shopkeepers knew their customers by name, and as she and George had strolled smug through the sweet squares that converged onto beautifully kept communal spaces, they had both agreed that their discovery of this place was nothing short of fate. Because together, they got it. They were Primrose Hillbillies already.
George sighed deeply. Veronica turned over and tentatively stroked his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. He smelled clean, freshly showered. He didn’t move. Perhaps he was already asleep after all, immersed in the soft folds of tranquillity. Moving closer to him, Veronica dared to wrap her body around his. As usual he was many degrees hotter than she was and she tucked her feet between his legs, noticing as she did so that the tops of her thighs had begun to itch again. Two different doctors were yet to diagnose why, but over the past few months she had developed this low-level creeping beneath her skin. Sometimes she barely noticed it, but other times it irritated like a mosquito bite stretched wide across her thighs, and then it took all of her will power to stop herself from scratching her skin to shreds. Veronica attempted to endure the itch now, so as not to bother George, but after many minutes she couldn’t resist one quick rub. Still George remained motionless, his breath steady. Until all at once, they both stiffened.
From next door had come the abrupt sound of something thumping. Or rather, of someone being thumped. There was a distinct yelp, almost like a dog crying, but clearly not a dog, a woman, and then something unintelligible in a deeper tone. Another thud hit their adjoining wall, and instinctively, Veronica froze. Despite the extra soundproofing, it seemed as though the people were right inside hers and George’s bedroom, and as the woman next door moaned again, Veronica found herself physically recoiling. There began a series of moans, and a rhythmic pounding against the wall, then a shrill, penetrating wail, as though somebody, the woman, was gasping for breath, or pleading for something, and then that wailing sound was muffled. For at least five minutes this went on, while Veronica and George lay intertwined, unmoving. At last it stopped, but then, almost immediately, it was replaced by the blaring of 90s dance music and the unpalatable tones of a man singing along. It was another full three minutes before finally, Veronica whispered to George in the dark.
“Are you asleep?”
George sat up. “Of course not. What the hell was that?”
Untangling herself from George’s legs, Veronica moved a little away from him, allowing them to avoid the confirmation that he had been faking sleep. The music was still blaring and the man continued to shout in accompaniment. Veronica turned on her bedside light and glanced at the clock: 3am. “I guess, that was the neighbours.”
“The neighbours doing what? Jesus, that sounded… I mean—”
“I know.”
George got out of bed and strode over to the adjoining wall, as if he would find evidence there of what had just occurred. “Do we call somebody? Is she hurt? Or is that just, I don’t know, is that what rough sex sounds like?”
For a moment, Veronica wondered if this was a dig at the current infrequency of their own sexual relations, or about the clinical, baby-optimising nature of them, but this wasn’t the moment for that argument. “I met her today.”
“Oh yeah?”
“She seemed quiet if anything. Not the type you’d expect to be, well, enjoying that.”
“What did she look like?”
“Very thin. Quite pretty but, I don’t know… bit… you know.”
George shook his head. “Of all the houses to be next to.” He nodded his head towards the wall. “Did you meet him?”
“No. But I heard a baby crying earlier.”
“A baby? Living with that?”
Next door, the song ended and another one swiftly began. The man continued to shout the words at the top of his voice. It sounded as though he was jumping too, or dancing, or using a bat to bang at the floorboards. George sat back down on the bed and put his head in his hands.