‘Yeah and he was his usual unsupportive self. He bombarded me with a hundred questions about logistics and how I would fund it, as if I had a business plan. I wasn’t even asking him for money, just advice on how to get some.’ Emma chucks the hairbrush into the open suitcase on the floor and sorts through a pile of T-shirts on the bed, some dirty, some clean. ‘If I had money I could start the project up myself this summer. Wish I was eligible for one of those student loans. Then I wouldn’t have to justify every penny of my allowance to my parents. Do you have any of your loan left?’

‘No, because I spent it on food and rent. Remember?’

Every argument they’ve ever had has been because Emma left on the lights, turned up the heating or spent their joint kitty on M&S mayonnaise and double-quilted toilet roll. Money, and Yvonne’s lack of it, has always been the topic they tried to steer clear of.

‘Purity said I could help out at an orphanage she knows this summer and my dad said if I commit enough to that, he’ll help out with the project. It’s something, I guess. How much is your student loan anyway?’

‘Don’t ask.’ The truth is, Yvonne doesn’t know. For each time a white envelope with that dreaded Glasgow postmark arrives on the doormat she places it unopened into a wallet marked ‘Debt’.

‘This is why we should both move abroad,’ Emma says. ‘The government will wipe all your debts clean after four years.’

‘That’s untrue and I wish people would stop saying it.’

Emma sits on her suitcase and zips it shut. ‘No one’s going to break your kneecaps for that money. Plus, when I’m someone’s trophy wife I’ll pay it off for you. Fuck. I think I’m way over baggage allowance. How are you meant to weigh your suitcase anyway?’

‘Kitchen scales,’ Yvonne says.

‘Really? Do we own kitchen scales?’

Yvonne laughs and Emma throws a T-shirt at her. ‘You’re taking the piss out of me?’

Emma comes over and lays her head on Yvonne’s shoulder. Her hair smells like the miracle shampoo they discovered in the pound shop. After three years of living with Emma, sharing everything and always having someone to talk to, Yvonne knows she’s going to struggle moving back home.

‘I’m a bit anxious, you know,’ Emma says.

‘About what?’

‘About the orphanage. I’ve never really seen that side of Kenya.’

‘You’ll be great at it.’

‘I still wish you would come with me. You do know I’m going to email you every day?’

‘Which I’ll ignore, because I’ll be working sixty hours a week at Sainsbury’s and the other sixty at my internship.’

Emma grabs Yvonne’s wrist to check the time. ‘I need to go.’

‘Where to?’