‘That’s his homework,’ Emma says as she opens Yvonne’s make-up bag. ‘Bet he’s still not done it, has he? I sat with him for over an hour the other night, trying to explain it.’

Kiama comes back into the room, smartly dressed, even his socks now match. He taps Emma on the back and says, ‘Ta-da.’

‘Well done.’ She pulls him over and kisses him on the forehead.

‘You look pretty, Mum.’

‘Do I?’ She lights up. ‘Thanks, babe.’

‘Yeah, put some stuff on your face as well.’

Yvonne lifts the homework book up, ‘Do you actually understand this?’

He climbs across the sofa and sits down next to her. ‘Nope.’

‘I thought you were getting more help at school?’

‘Yeah, so did I,’ Emma says. ‘But just because he’s got a diagnosis, it doesn’t actually mean anything.’

Yvonne counts the teacher’s frequent scrawl of the word ‘Absent’ across the book’s pages. No wonder he doesn’t understand his work, Emma blames it on his dyslexia but he’s hardly ever in school. Yvonne puts the homework book back in the rucksack along with a pair of Spiderman pyjamas, the ones Kiama wore to hers the last time he stayed over. Even then they were too short for him. Yvonne had made a joke with Emma about it the next day, about the speed at which her baby giraffe was growing, she laughed but obviously never replaced the pyjamas.

A car horn honks. ‘Right, that must be Nana. Hurry up.’

Kiama chucks a handful of pens and pencils into the bag.

The horn sounds again and Emma’s phone rings once then stops. She goes over to the window. ‘I can’t believe he’s giving me a missed call.’

‘Who?’ Yvonne hopes Emma hasn’t invited along some random friend or new man, which would be so typical of her.

‘It’s Dickhead. He always gives me a missed call so we don’t have to talk. He’s downstairs. I really thought Julie was doing the pick-up today.’

Kiama jumps. ‘Is it Dad? Yes. I’m going to the toilet first. Tell him to wait for me.’

‘Look at this arsehole,’ Emma says. ‘He tells me he’s got no money, yet he’s driving about in an Audi TT. You’ll need to take Kiama down. I’m so not in the mood to deal with Lewis right now.’

‘He’s seven years old, I’m sure he can walk down the stairs himself.’

‘He can’t. He’s terrified of that drunken guy on the second floor.’

‘So make Lewis come up and get him.’ Yvonne regrets saying this instantly, picturing herself hiding out in the bathroom while Lewis and Emma chat tersely on the doorstep.

‘No, I don’t want him up here, peering in my flat. Judging me on not having dusted or some shit like that.’