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But this isn’t out there. This is directly above my head.

I press a pillow over my ears and wonder how Mrs Dunlop next door is faring, then remember she takes her hearing aids out at night. She’s probably sleeping the sleep of the righteous. Lucky Mrs Dunlop.

I still haven’t met my new neighbour, the man who’s moved into not one but both flats upstairs. I don’t even know his name. What I have seen is the fancy sports car parked outside.

If I’d moved into a new place and been responsible for weeks of inconvenience to the other residents, I’d have made some effort to make amends. Honestly, a simple sorry for the racket, I’m the new neighbour, here’s a bottle of something would have fixed the whole thing. I’d have been lovely about it. I am, generally, a lovely person. Ask anyone.

But no, there’s been nothing like that. No knock, no note, no peace offering.

So he’s rude, then. Rude and entitled. My tired brain fills in the rest with great enthusiasm. Some finance type, I’m guessing. Hedge fund or private equity, that sort of thing. The kind of man who buys two flats, smashes them into one, and doesn’t even think that maybe, just maybe, the other people in the building might find it a little disruptive.

Actually, no, it’s been more than a little disruptive. It’s been affecting my livelihood: my takings are down. Only a bit—not enough to panic—but enough to make me wonder how many people have taken one look at the skip and the dust and kept on walking to the florist on Byres Road instead.

And I never did hear back from Rhona. She didn’t reply to my very bright, very professional follow-up email, and I can’t even blame her. First impressions are important, and “woman shouting over a power tool” is not, traditionally, the one I aim for.

Dun. Dun. Dun.

Oh, for flip’s sake.

Five minutes go by. Ten. Fifteen. The music does not stop.

Another roar of laughter, another wall of bass. Penny gets up and starts pacing the duvet, unsettled.

Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough of this. I throw the covers back and get to my feet, scooping Penny up under one arm as I do. She and I are going to have a word with Mr Finance Bro upstairs. If he’s not going to introduce himself to us, then we’ll just have to introduce ourselves to him.

On my way out, I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. Stripy flannel pyjamas. Bun listing off the side of my head like a sinking ship. And the eyes of a woman who’s been denied uninterrupted sleep and is, frankly, taking it personally.

It’s not how I’d normally choose to present myself to a man I’ve never met, but duck it. I’m too ducking tired to care.

I march upstairs, Penny tucked close, and with every step the music gets louder, the bass thrumming up through the banister and into my palm.

At the top there are still two doors, even though the flats behind them have been smashed into one. It’s the door on the right that’s practically vibrating. I knock on it. Nothing. I knock again, harder. Still nothing. On the third go, I put enough force behind it to make my knuckles sting.

Finally, the door opens, and on the other side is a woman—tall and athletic, with short dark hair in a pixie cut and the kind of shoulders and arms you don’t get from arranging flowers. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but not her. She looks strong enough to toss me over her shoulder and carry me back down to my flat without so much as breaking a sweat. Her gaze sweeps over me: the messy bun, the pyjamas, the dog. A corner of her mouth twitches.

“Can I speak to the owner, please?” I say.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m his neighbour.”

A beat passes. Behind the woman, the music thumps on.

“You better come in, then,” she says.

She stands back, and before I can lose my nerve, I step inside.

The noise closes over me. It’s so much worse in here, thudding off walls that still smell of fresh paint. I follow the woman past a stack of unopened boxes and into a vast living-and-kitchen space that’s full of people. Big men, mostly—broad-shouldered and loud, drinking from bottles and talking over one another. A few women are among them, perched on sofa arms and kitchen stools with drinks in their hands.

On the wall an enormous television is showing something fast and brutal—two men in a cage driving fists and knees into each other. A number of the men are watching it: they wince and jeer at the screen. Violence with an audience. Lovely.

This room doesn’t look remotely like a building site. It looks expensive. Low dark sofas, brushed-steel lamps, a marble coffee table crowded with bottles. Beside me, a glossy kitchen island that’s about the size of my bed is covered in even more bottles. The builders may not be done yet, but they’ve clearly finished this part of the flat.

Suddenly half the seated men lurch to their feet and roar, punching the air, beer slopping over their hands. I follow their eyes to the television just in time to see one of the two fighters drop and go still, flat on his back, arms flung wide. The other fighter scales the side of the cage and throws both fists overhead, mouth open in victory.

The man on the floor isn’t getting up, yet the men in this room are cheering. My stomach gives a small unpleasant twist.

The woman waits until the men’s celebration dies down, then pitches her voice over the music. “Ryan. Visitor for you.”