As Yvonne walks into the house party at Emma’s new place, she realises she didn’t get the memo. Almost everyone is dressed in full school uniform, like the trend for the club night her and Emma went to in their first year. They had travelled all the way from Harrow to Hammersmith, spending £12 each on a ticket, only for Emma to declare it sexist and creepy.

Yet, tonight, every woman is in a pleated mini-skirt and rolled-up shirt. While men are made up like seven-year-olds wearing shorts, caps and comprehensive school ties. And then there’s Yvonne, dressed simply in jeans, and a top she deemed flashy enough for a house party. She makes her way around the ground floor looking for a familiar face until she spots Emma in a long white shirt covered in felt-tip doodles, including two smiley faces over her boobs. It’s the first time she’s seen Emma since she arrived back in London three weeks ago. Her hair is pale pink and she has that post-holiday tan which always makes her look older than she is.

‘Dude,’ she squeals, running towards Yvonne and grabbing her for a hug. ‘So happy you came.’ When she finally pulls away she says, ‘Where’s your outfit?’

‘You didn’t tell me it was school disco themed.’

‘It’s not. The theme is adolescence and I texted you about it.’

‘No, you didn’t, because I would have remembered that, because that’s a stupid theme.’

‘I’m sure I did. Let me get my make-up bag, I’ll draw freckles on you.’

Yvonne shakes her head. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I’m an idiot. I feel bad now. Here,’ Emma undoes her tie and puts it around Yvonne’s collar. ‘You look hot regardless.’

Yvonne pulls a bottle of wine from her handbag and hands it over.

‘Thanks.’

They look each other over, while thinking of what to say next.

‘Your hair looks different,’ Yvonne says, ‘the pink, it—’

‘Yeah, so dead, right? I was trying to look like Gwen Stefani. I’m going natural once this grows out. So,’ she cocks her head, ‘welcome. Can’t believe it’s taken so long for you to come up to my humble abode,’ she laughs, but there’s some scorn in it. Yvonne had been invited over several times, but between her job and internship she was putting in long hours most weeks. Plus, living back at her parents’ she was conscious of spending too much time out socialising, especially after her mum accused her of treating the family home like a hotel.

‘This is place is huge,’ Yvonne says. ‘How many people live here?’

‘What now? Like, seven. Cool building, right? It’s a deconsecrated pub.’

Yvonne laughs.

‘What’s funny?’

‘You can’t deconsecrate a pub.’