‘I don’t know about that, but he’s always been able to put away the drink and remember everything the next day. I’ve seen him spend a whole day in the pub drinking then come home and tile a bathroom. And you’re right, he never slurs, I remember once he was so drunk but holding a whole coherent conversation with you on the phone. I was sitting there listening while he explained algebra to you, but like I say, he’s had practice.’

Kiama laughs and then stops short, ‘Hang on, when was this?’

‘What?’

‘You said my dad was tiling a bathroom? At your place?’

Yvonne realises her mistake. ‘No, not my bathroom.’ How to get out of this? ‘Yours. Your mum’s.’

Kiama shakes his head, ‘But he never came up to our flat. And you were with him when I called? Was this when I lived here?’

The silence stretches long and wide. What is he thinking? Which part is he working out?

‘I can’t remember. It was ages ago.’

‘Were you and Dad friends?’ And there’s no real suspicion in his voice, his face is still open and curious.

‘No. I wouldn’t say that.’

‘But you saw him after we moved here? You met up and got drunk with him?’

‘No. Not really. Or maybe once or twice.’

‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’

Her palms sweat, she feels her heartbeat. ‘We spoke on the phone, right after I met you.’

Now, Kiama’s face changes, it hardens, he sits up. ‘You didn’t tell me that. He didn’t tell me that either.’

‘I was trying to reassure him. He was worried.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ she puts her glass down, ‘it’s Kenya. It scares him.’

‘But why did neither of you tell me?’

The music cuts off as he slams the laptop lid shut.

‘Is there something you’re keeping from me?’

‘Nothing that matters.’ When she next looks at him, his expression is unreadable.

‘I’m tired,’ he says, winding the wire around his speaker and putting it back in his bag.

She stands, ‘Okay. I’ll leave you alone. Goodnight, Kiama.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

White Pashmina

March 2010

Yvonne

Emma plucks a strand of hair from Yvonne’s head. ‘Babe, you’re going full on grey.’

‘Stop preening me,’ Yvonne whacks her away. ‘I’ve been going grey since I met you.’

It’s an old joke, but it’s true that Yvonne’s first grey hair was found after meeting Emma at the Freshers’ Week.

A short barman clears their empty glasses. ‘Would you like anything else?’

‘Same again please,’ Yvonne says, ‘she’s paying.’

He nods and turns to the wall of spirits, happy to have something to do. The hotel bar, which is dimly lit and expensive, even for Yvonne’s taste, is mostly empty at this time of the afternoon.