‘Come on, I’m hardly going to stick out seven years of psychology training,’ Emma says, ‘I’m talking about setting up a project that puts therapists into orphanages.’

There’s some cheering from the other side of the room as two people dressed as Bill and Ted enter, each carrying a box of Stella.

‘What do you think?’ Emma asks.

‘You told me before the kids barely eat two meals a day, is therapy really a priority out there?’

Emma’s eyes widen, ‘I can’t believe you just said that. Especially when you know how important therapy has been to me.’

‘Sorry,’ Yvonne says, ‘I didn’t mean to belittle it.’

‘Just because they’re poor, it doesn’t mean that they don’t have feelings too.’

‘Yeah, I know that. I’m sorry.’

It’s still hard for Yvonne to understand something like therapy, the idea of paying someone to listen to you talk about your problems, but then Yvonne has never been short of people to talk to.

‘Shit, Yvonne, I have so much to tell you. Can’t believe this is only the first time I’m seeing you.’

‘Sorry, but Sainsbury’s have loads of extra shifts at the moment so I’m taking advantage. I’ve almost halved my overdraft already.’

‘You’re still at Sainsbury’s? Quit already.’

‘My internship is unpaid.’

‘Oh, I didn’t know that.’

They each take a sip and wince, commenting at the same time, ‘This is horrible.’

Emma nudges Yvonne with a shoulder, ‘When you start earning those big PR bucks you can buy me a decent bottle. Still, I’m so glad you came.’

‘You know, you could come and visit me. My mum’s always asking after you.’

‘I know, I know. I will. But I’ve been busy too, you know?’

‘Yeah. With what?’

‘With Geoff and this Therapy for Kenya idea.’

‘That name needs work,’ Yvonne says and Emma laughs.

‘I’m so happy to see you again.’

‘Me too.’

‘Geoff has heard me go on about you so much. You need to meet him,’ Emma looks about the packed kitchen. ‘You’re going to love him. He’s hilarious. Hang on, let me find him.’ Emma shoves her way through the crowd, leaving Yvonne with two crap drinks and a roomful of strangers.

‘There’s some bean chilli on the hob,’ an over-accessorised-model-like girl with a plummy accent says. ‘It’s Hugo’s speciality.’

‘Oh, I don’t know Hugo,’ Yvonne says as she tips the wine down the sink. ‘I only know Emma. We went to university together.’

‘I don’t know Emma,’ the girl says as she snaps a bread-stick. ‘But Hugo always has so many people in and out of here. When I came back from travelling last year, I lived here for a month. Can’t remember a single day of it,’ she laughs.

‘Is he the landlord?’