If someone would have asked Yvonne years ago, back when she was living in the cramped terrace house of her childhood with her three older brothers, what she imagined it would be like to live with girls, she would probably have used the word clean. But here, in this house, there is only grime. A saucepan of congealed pasta rests on the hob, surrounded by dried white froth from where it was allowed to boil over. And there, on the counter, amongst the crumbs, empty CD cases and dirty dishes sits an open takeaway box from California Chicken, a few brown thigh bones and a smear of ketchup left in it.

So, Sweetboy’s not a vegetarian then. That would be Yvonne’s deal breaker. She could never bring herself to share saliva with someone who had dead animal on his breath. She lifts the gaudy box, its slogan proclaims it to be ‘Hot and Tasty. Just the way you like it’. The smell disgusts her, but the bin is full, close to overflowing. She should take it out really, like she always does. But instead she drops the box back on the counter and grabs a whiteboard pen, scrawls a note on the board.

Clean your shit up! I’m not your slave. Y.

Yvonne dumps her notepad in her rucksack, checks for a working pen and refills a Poland Spring bottle with tap water while rereading her whiteboard message. It’s a bit strong. She drops her rucksack to wipe it off with a sleeve and rewrites.

Please can whoever cooked last night, clean it up.

Thanks. Y.

The male voice in Emma’s room says, ‘Not now.’

He doesn’t sound how she expected. But then, what did she expect? That he ‘sound black’? Her mum always says you can tell on the phone, but Yvonne doesn’t think so, or at least, she would never admit it.

Are they coming out of the bedroom? This will be awkward. She doesn’t want to meet him. Quickly, in the hallway she kicks off her slippers and grabs a battered pair of pink Dunlops from a pile by the front door. They smell. Emma’s been wearing them without socks again.

‘Dude?’ Emma whispers as she comes into the hall, a short towel wrapped around her like a toga. She grabs Yvonne’s wrist and pulls her into the kitchen. ‘Did you hear us?’ She drops open her bottom jaw and fakes a silent laugh.

‘I think I would have heard you if I was in John o’Groats.’

Emma laughs. But Yvonne doesn’t. ‘You’re ridiculous,’ she says. ‘No one likes sex that much.’

Emma pushes her black fringe from her eyes. ‘Shush, he’ll hear you.’