‘No. It’s his parents’ place. They let him rent it out to friends. You know, mate’s rates.’ Her bracelets jangle as she makes air quotes.

The house is split over three floors and while it’s a bit of a ruin, it’s beyond Yvonne’s comprehension how anyone could give such a thing to their kid.

The model girl is pleasant enough and also sober enough to make small talk with and eventually she pulls Yvonne into the living room to join more pleasant but slightly drunk people. They lie across futons and exchange stories about how they all know each other.

‘So,’ the girl asks, ‘how do you know Hugo again?’

Yvonne excuses herself and heads into the dim hallway to find Emma, who’s been gone for almost an hour. The house is a maze, each room filled with smoke, batik-covered walls and yet more futons. The Strokes ‘Last Nite’ comes on for the fifth time and a group of men dressed as Nineties TV characters mosh about, pushing Yvonne into a small but quiet marijuana-filled room.

‘Careful,’ she shouts at a tall guy wearing a cloak and full blackface. He apologises and lifts his white palms in defence.

‘Arseholes,’ Yvonne says as she sits down next to a black girl dressed as Dolly Parton. ‘Everyone here is so drunk. It’s not even late. How do they manage it?’

The girl laughs then offers Yvonne a beer from under the chair. ‘Are you a Drama graduate as well?’ she slurs.

‘Er, no. I’m a friend of Emma’s.’

‘Chinese Emma?’ the girl asks.

‘Chinese? No. Brunette Emma, well, pink-haired Emma.’

‘Oh yeah, I know her.’ Dolly recentres her wig and frowns, ‘Do you mean blonde Emma or the other one?’

Yvonne checks the time. She should leave. She didn’t travel all this way to spend time with these people. Just then the blackface comes into the room, the whites of his eyes dart about. He looks over at Yvonne and Dolly and bites his lip.

‘So,’ Yvonne says, ‘it was nice to meet you. If you see pink-haired Emma, could you let her know—’ But Dolly’s not listening, too occupied staring at Blackface. He comes over and kneels down in front of them. ‘You’re not offended by this, are you?’ he says as he waves a hand in front of his face.

‘You’re asking me because?’ Dolly says.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead, smudging paint onto the purple bandana around his head. ‘I’m not trying to be a black person,’ he stretches his arms out and proclaims, ‘I’m Papa Lazarou.’ The paint makes his teeth appear a weird colour, like he’s given them a once over with Tippex.

‘Actually, I’m offended,’ Yvonne cuts in.

Blackface’s shoulders dip and he puts his palms up again. ‘Calm down. Can’t you take a joke?’

‘Look up the definition of joke.’